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The Attico designers had us schlepping on a rainy Friday night all the way to a warehouse on Milan’s no-man’s-land—traffic nightmare included—only to unveil a giant white cube dressed up as a labyrinthine apartment, with stark white walls and a single row of chairs lined up against them.

The idea apparently was to stage a ‘sliding doors’ effect, but the déjà vu was hard to miss. One of their very first presentations took place in a fabulous Milanese apartment, exquisitely decorated by none other than Renzo Mongiardino. Compared to that, this felt like a dressed-down copy of the original—and the original is always better than the copy.

Gilda Ambrosio and Giorgia Tordini remain the ultimate poster girls for their own brand, and true to form they sent out a cast of models who looked like near-clones: long, artfully disheveled hair, perfectly honed bodies, taut, sun-kissed skin on confident display. Their vision of femininity thrives on contradictions—fierce independence laced with seduction, instinct battling control. “She opens doors unafraid of what’s behind,” they declared. If only the fantasy matched the reality.

Their avatars teetered on cork wedges balanced on stiletto heels, clad in masculine tailoring with the kind of entrance-making swagger that works even if your daily runway is the supermarket aisle—sliding doors included. Strong-shouldered trench coats slouched at the hips, and intimidating black leather bikers loomed over midriff-baring pencil skirts, while powerfully loose pantsuits strutted in with blazers closed by a single suggestive button, just enough to spotlight the waist.

Naturally, that button was destined to pop, revealing the inevitable Attico calling card: lingerie so lacy and racy it left nothing to the imagination—“indomitable insouciance,” as Gilda and Giorgia put it, though it read more like narcissism with a spritz of je ne sais quoi. After all, inside every Attico girl lurks a diva-in-waiting, an attitude underlined by the finale’s showstopper: a see-through gown engulfed in spiraling black feathers. Timid wallflowers, don’t even bother.