1962.

It was a breakthrough. Not just a success - a real, loud, almost deafening success. His new collection was greeted with admiration, with the kind of rapturous awe that only happens when fashion becomes art. Magazine headlines screamed his name, as if everyone suddenly remembered who he was - or maybe only now really recognized. He stood at a table in the backstage area, illuminated by the soft light of a lamp, and tapped his finger lazily on his chin, scrutinizing the stack of magazines with his face, his dresses, his silhouettes spread across the glossy. A smile slid across his lips-not a smug smile, but a slightly mocking one. As if he knew it was all fame, yes, but built on sleepless nights, sore fingers from endless sketches and rags turned into masterpieces.

“Chéri, fix your hat.” - He said without taking his eyes off his thoughts.

His voice sounded soft, but with that characteristic severity. He raised his eyes and looked at them-his close friend, his muse, his companion in those evening passages under the spotlight. He pointed a finger at the slightly bunched-up headdress, and the corners of his lips twitched in an almost invisible, feigned austerity.

“Come on. You don't want to look sloppy in front of all those sharks in the front row.”

They laughed, as they always did - quick, easy. He stepped closer, leaned in a little, adjusted the fabric on their shoulder, deftly, almost imperceptibly. Everything was important to him.

“You're coming out in a minute.”

He glanced at the curtain, behind which the audience was already sitting - whispering, camera flashes, waiting. This was much, much better than working for Dior. There, he was the shadow. Here, he was the sun.

“Come on, your presentation of my collection will make us millionaires.”