Upper East Side, Manhattan.
A silver Chevrolet pulled up outside a light-gray apartment building at the corner of Fifth Avenue and East 68th Street. A woman in a black Gucci trench coat stepped out, double-checked the address, and entered the lobby.
A stylish young woman in her early twenties was already waiting. Security still verified the visitor's identity before allowing them to the elevator.
On the twelfth floor, the girl who introduced herself as Megan led the way into a duplex apartment.
It was a minimalist luxury space, dominated by black and white. Though spare in style, every detail furniture, wall pieces, staircase, radiated meticulous artistry.
Standing at the threshold, gazing at a level of opulence she had never dared dream of, the woman froze for a moment. Only when she sensed the faint pride and condescension in the girl's eyes did she pull herself together. Then she noticed the apartment was being cleaned.
And like Megan, every cleaner was a young woman in her twenties, easily an eight or higher in looks.
Megan exchanged a few quiet words with one of them, then turned. "Ms. Fache is in the wine cellar. Ms. Ahrendts, this way please."
Wine cellar?
Downstairs?
Following Megan's gesture, she hurried after her down a hallway off the living room.
The living room alone was larger than the apartment she rented in Greenwich. The single floor, she realized, must exceed four thousand square feet.
The wine cellar was at the hallway's end, not underground after all.
Yet its enclosed, vintage brick walls gave the distinct feel of a basement.
Inside, Megan's earlier haughtiness vanished. "Ms. Fache, Ms. Ahrendts is here."
Sophia was placing a case of wine on a rack. She finished positioning a bottle of white, then came over and embraced the visitor. "Good afternoon, Angie. That trench looks stunning on you."
The woman, Angela Ahrendts, twenty-eight, newly confirmed president of Gucci America, returned the hug. "Thank you, Sophie."
"We may need to wait a bit," Sophia said, dismissing Megan with a glance. She returned to the case, carefully lifting another bottle. Caressing the label, she said, "Heger's Dr. Heger Ihringen Winklerberg Sonnenstück 1971 Riesling. 1971 was the only year in decades that the Mosel scored a 98 for overall conditions. The finest Winklerberg parcel is just three hectares. I bid on this case for Simon at Sotheby's last night. Angie, how much do you think it cost?"
Angela, eyes blank, ventured, "A hundred thousand?"
Sophia smiled without revealing the answer. She finished shelving the last two bottles and led Angela out.
The girls had nearly finished cleaning. Sophia inspected personally, approved, and sent the seven away. Then she and Angela left the apartment.
It was already noon.
They chose a nearby restaurant. After ordering, Sophia explained, "Simon and Jenny are out of the country, so they asked me to oversee the housekeeping. I'm basically Simon's housekeeper."
Angela hesitated, then gave in to curiosity. "The girls?"
Sophia answered, "Simon is a perfectionist. He says he can't picture a middle-aged, heavyset Mexican maid cleaning his rooms. Those girls are Columbia or NYU students. The part-time gig pays five hundred dollars for three hours a week."
Angela did quick math: seven girls, five hundred each, thirty-five hundred per cleaning. Weekly meant over $180,000 a year just for housekeeping.
Her last job had paid $120,000 annually.
Just give me the whole gig.
Sophia watched patiently, then asked, "What do you think?"
Angela looked up. "Our boss…"
She trailed off, unwilling to finish.
Sophia supplied lightly, "Bastard? Or villain?"
Angela laughed. "I didn't say that."
In recent years, New York's minimum wage was still under five dollars an hour. Normal part-time jobs earned college students maybe one or two hundred a week.
Yet one man offered pretty young women an easy three-hour weekly shift for five hundred and constant exposure to the pinnacle of luxury.
Hard to imagine what psychological fallout awaited when those girls left the ivory tower and faced reality.
"They're good girls," Sophia said. "Beautiful, excellent students. Even for part-time, they underwent background checks, no blemishes on them or their families and rigorous domestic training. Simon has no ulterior motive; he never lacks women. He simply likes beautiful things. But for the girls, once they've tasted a world that isn't theirs, staying content will be hard."
Angela recalled her own momentary daze upon entering and Megan's unprovoked superiority, and asked, "Sophie, what kind of person is he, really?"
"You'll know when you meet him," Sophia said, struggling for words. "But you got this job partly because of him. Among the candidates, your résumé was the lightest."
Angela's curiosity flared. "Westeros saw my CV?"
Sophia nodded. "Yes."
"What did he say about me?"
Sophia's lips curved. "He said, 'This woman's gorgeous, let her try.'"
Angela stared, incredulous. "And that's how I got the job?"
"Yes. As his subordinate, I'm very good at reading the room."
Back in Melbourne, Sophia had shown Simon the shortlisted candidates for creative director and Gucci USA president. Simon, still under Janet's strict work limits, had flipped through quickly, offering no opinion on the top designers but lingering over Angela's file.
Then the less-than-professional comment.
Sophia wouldn't have hired her solely on that, of course.
Angela's interviews had revealed exactly the operational mindset Gucci needed, and extensive checks confirmed exceptional ability. Simon's casual favoritism was merely a bonus.
Angela still seemed stunned. "Sophie, you're joking, right?"
Sophia didn't want to seem frivolous. She smiled and nodded. "I liked your focus on improving the in-store customer experience. Long ago, as an outsider, I often heard how rude and arrogant Gucci staff were and management encouraged it. That arrogance contributed to Gucci's decline. A luxury brand should be proud inwardly, not rude outwardly. Angie, your first task is to change that."
Angela nodded vigorously.
From the day she submitted her résumé, though doubting her chances, she had prepared thoroughly. The Gucci trench she wore was the result of repeated visits to the New York flagship.
Compared to other luxury houses, Gucci's service was abysmal.
Staff didn't just ignore customers; they acted as if purchases were optional, sometimes openly critiquing shoppers or assigning crude nicknames.
Angela had heard an old story: in the seventies, a New York magazine ran a piece titled "New York's Rudest Luxury Store," slamming Gucci's attitude. Then-U.S. head Aldo Gucci not only ignored the damage but sent the writer flowers, thanking him for the "free advertising."
"Sophie, there's something I need to discuss first," Angela said after Sophia finished. "Once I start, my first move will be to fire every employee in the New York stores. I've built contacts over the years; I can replace them immediately. For other regions, I'll visit and decide case by case."
Hiring and firing were within her authority once contracted.
Sophia understood the caution.
Many New York Gucci staff were Italian elite kids studying in the U.S., treating the job as temporary pocket money.
Gucci's roots were Italian; future operations couldn't escape the country. Mass firings risked offending local power players.
Yet Sophia knew it had to be done.
Not just New York--globally, stores were staffed by connected insiders, the root of poor service.
Sophia nodded seriously. "While here, I audited L.A. and New York flagships myself. This afternoon I'll give you the files, they should help."
After lunch they headed to Gucci USA headquarters in Midtown.
A busy afternoon later, Angela Ahrendts officially signed as president, overseeing fifty-two company stores and numerous licensed counters across North America.
Sophia immediately tipped fashion media about the hire.
Maximizing exposure was a lesson she'd learned from Dior and LVMH before taking Gucci.
Angela's prior record was stellar, but media preferred controversy: her mere twenty-eight years, her only six in fashion.
Could such a young woman really manage a legacy luxury brand's vital North American business?
Sophia publicly backed her, but Angela would bear the skepticism herself.
Opportunity and pressure always came together.
Many Westeros executives were young, Amy Pascal had been twenty-eight when she joined two years ago. But as a founding member beside Simon's towering presence, media rarely dwelled on her age.
While hiring Angela, Sophia also interviewed the two remaining creative-director finalists.
Both were rising American stars: Tom Ford and Marc Jacobs.
When Sophia showed Simon the shortlist in Melbourne, he recalled from memory that Tom Ford had been Gucci's creative director in the nineties original timeline, staying until 2004.
Beyond Ford, Marc Jacobs and Britain's John Galliano would become dazzling names in fashion for years.
Simon believed luxury brands shouldn't seek mass approval but impose a style.
Like Apple phones years later: Apple introduced curved antennas, everyone copied. Notch screens, everyone followed.
Ugliness didn't matter.
It's Apple.
Luxury worked the same: top brands dictated; second- and third-tier followed.
Simon didn't insist on Gucci's original path. With the right operational model, any of these talented designers could revive it.
Individual styles would simply become Gucci's style.
Sophia had favored John Galliano, the twenty-nine-year-old Central Saint Martins graduate with a brilliant early record.
But while she was in America, Gucci Europe failed to close with Galliano, his asking price too high. She dropped him.
Between Ford and Jacobs, though Jacobs was the more gifted designer, Sophia chose Ford.
Both Parsons graduates, both seasoned and acclaimed.
Language tipped the scale: Ford had European experience and spoke fluent French and Italian; Jacobs did not.