I perched on the edge of the plush leather chair in Hellen's office—or ours now, truly—our shared command centre of blueprints, fabric swatches, and relentless ambition sprawled across the vast expanse like a general's war map.
Sunlight poured molten through the floor-to-ceiling windows, gilding every surface in honeyed warmth—the expanded polished oak table gleamed like a battleship's deck.
Stacks of Helly Paws prototypes cluttered one end—tiny knit sweaters embroidered with pawprints for pampered cats, waterproof raincoats tailored for rowdy dogs, even prototype blankets for farm cows folded neat beside pattern drafts—while our laptops hummed open mid-spreadsheet, screens glowing with order projections and factory timelines.
