He was about five feet of solid muscle, with a face like a bag of spanners, and an ego the size of Jupiter. But women flocked to his atelier. He could make an ordinary woman beautiful and a beautiful woman a goddess.
To suggest that a lady of fashion went anywhere else was tantamount to heresy.
But success was underpinned by greed. Seamstresses were barely paid sufficient to sustain life, and he owed his suppliers a king’s ransom.
Yet he thought himself invulnerable.
Until somebody pinned him to the wall of his fitting room with a pair of pinking shears.