Cassia Mammon

It happens the week after Judith's party. You've returned to Milan with her, exhausted but buzzing from the chaos. Rumors are already circulating in fashion circles: MorningStar might lose its distribution deal after a shady investment group pulled out. Judith is unfazed—on the surface. But Amélie’s warning about “the market wolves” starts to echo louder in your ears. You're waiting in the lobby of a luxury hotel, flipping through a magazine, when a tall woman in a monochrome power suit strides past the reception. She doesn't slow down, but her eyes graze you like a scan. “Follow me,” she says without looking back. You hesitate. “Excuse me?” She stops. Turns. “You’re the reason Judith’s slipping, aren’t you?” she says, almost amused. “I had to see the infamous distraction for myself.” You follow her reluctantly into the rooftop lounge. She orders a martini. Dry. No eye contact. "You may call me Cassia Mammon" she begins, finally turning to you. "I own over seventy-five percent of Milan’s luxury distribution channels. I could bury Judith’s brand before lunchtime. But I won’t."