The day started with chaos—as usual. If there was an award for "Noble with Too Much Energy Before Breakfast," I would definitely win it outright. Even the sun looked reluctant to appear, as if saying, "Liliane, could you at least wait until I finish my coffee?"
The sun was barely starting to rise, the chickens were just about to take a breath to crow, but I was already standing in front of the mirror with an aura that could light up the entire city.
Just imagine—my usually neat blonde hair looked like a battlefield, my eyes twinkling like a new inventor who discovered electricity, and enough enthusiasm to make three soldiers surrender.
"Mary! Clara! Battle stations!!" I shouted, dragging a pile of sketch papers, ribbons, and various pastel fabric samples into the living room. I was like a general preparing for an invasion, except the enemy was boring fashion taste.
