Whisper Networks & Designer Wolves

Fashion’s favorite predators don’t hide. They host parties.

I got two cease and desists this weekend.

Cute, right?

That’s the kind of industry fashion is. Say the quiet part out loud, and suddenly you’re the villain. Not the abusers. Not the enablers. You. You’re the problem for… doing journalism?

Fashion has always had a flair for drama, but lately it’s giving less “theater” and more “high-budget cult.” Kool-Aid with a Balenciaga aftertaste. The vibes are off. The NDAs are on.

There was a time when fashion felt like a religion to me. I wanted to be baptized in the front row. I worshipped the spreadsheets of sample sizes, the sacred order of seating charts, the communion of backstage chaos. I thought the nonstop partying was glamorous. I thought exhaustion meant I was doing it right.

Now? It’s giving Scientology with set production by Etienne Russo.

The more I report on this industry, like actually report, not just “Who Wore It Better” or red carpet reviews, the more I realize how much of it runs on strategic silence. Everyone knows. Everyone looks away. A designer gets accused of something horrifying, a few receipts surface, Twitter gets cryptic, and by next week? It’s like it never happened. The group chat moves on. The show goes on. Trauma gets archived like old lookbooks. Case in point, Riccardo Tisci has been accused of drugging and sexually assaulting a man and yet the PR agencies are still out here promoting his latest sneaker collab.

I’ve seen it up close. When I worked with Vogue France, their then-head-of-editorial content Eugénie Trochu scolded me — scolded — for saying the quiet part out loud: that Pierpaolo Piccioli promised body diversity in Valentino menswear and… didn’t deliver. You know what she said to me?

“At Vogue, if we don’t like something, we don’t talk about it.”

Imagine hearing that and not immediately doing a spit-take into your spritz. That sentence lives rent-free in my head because it explains everything.

Right now, I’m digging into abuse allegations around Charaf Tajer, the founder of Casablanca. Multiple sources. Multiple patterns. Everyone in Paris is whispering. No one’s publishing. I say his name and people suddenly need to check their phones like they just got an SSENSE Sale email

Same with the Villa Noailles scandal, crickets. It’s like everyone who ever got a luxurious free trip to Hyeres got a “do not engage” memo and signed it in blood and Dior Lip Oil.

And here’s where it gets grosser: while researching Charaf, I stumbled on something else, he recently threw a party in Monaco with Carl Hirschmann. If you don’t know who that is, congrats on having peace. Carl is a Swiss nightlife heir and the founder of Heavensake, who was convicted of sex with a minor, sexual coercion, and bodily harm.

Not rumored. Not whispered. Convicted. Documented. Sentenced. JAILED.

And yet? Fashion’s still showing up to his beachside soirées like it’s the Met Gala. Models. Influencers. Editors. Designers. The same people who were posting “BELIEVE SURVIVORS” in 2020 during the Weinstein saga are now sipping sake with a documented predator like like nothing happened. Like nothing matters.

So I wrote about it. Connected the dots. Did the thing I’m allegedly here to do.

And boom — two cease and desists. Within hours.

More legal threats on the way, apparently. That’s the game. If you say too much, they’ll try to bury you under paperwork and PR statements until you either shut up or go broke.

This is the part where I’m supposed to say I’m scared. I’m not. I’m pissed. And honestly? Kind of energized. Because if telling the truth about fashion makes people this panicked? Then clearly the truth still hits.

Also, this isn’t my first rodeo. During fashion week, designer Mowalola literally tried to have me jumped for reporting on her brand’s connection to Ian Connor, who’s been accused of sexual assault by at least 20 women. All of this was documented on social media.

And no, I’m not done. I’m currently working on a piece for a major publication about the Me Too reckoning that fashion never really had. The one that got quietly memory-holed while everyone moved on to the next collab. Yes, I’m revisiting the Alexander Wang saga. Because no matter how many it-girls he throws branded panties on, the receipts still exist.

If I sound bitter, I’m not.

I’m bored.

Bored of the hypocrisy.

Bored of influencers who post about “accountability” and then do tequila shots with abusers.

Bored of fashion’s whisper networks and invisible handshakes.

Bored of the same girlies who posted black squares in 2020 now acting like DEI was just a TikTok trend.

Fashion has become a very expensive group project run by nepotism babies, powered by unpaid interns, funded by alleged criminals, and protected by NDAs.

And weirdly? I feel amazing. The spell is broken.

I used to spiral if I didn’t get invited to the “right” party. Now? If your party is sponsored by someone credibly accused of abuse and I’m not on the list? Slay. That’s self-care. That’s freedom. I’ll be at home exfoliating my conscience.

And yeah, I still love fashion. Or maybe I just love what fashion could be. I screamed when Dior finally announced Jonathan Anderson. I wept for old Céline. I still pray at the alter of vintage Mugler. But I don’t love it blindly anymore. I’m not trying to be chosen. I’m choosing.

Because once you stop begging fashion to pick you, you can actually see it for what it is.

You can write sharper.

You can name names.

You can finally call a wolf a wolf, even if it’s wearing Rick Owens.

So yeah, I’ll keep covering fashion. But I’m not protecting its feelings anymore.

And if you’re mad about it?

Lawyer up, babes.

Because I’m just getting started.