I push in one of the other doors that line the hall, not sure where it leads. The “room” is comically huge, literally bigger than my entire apartment. It’s more of a suite, because there’s a small hallway lined with a mirror and console table that leads into a bigger space, maybe two thousand square feet. It’s set up like a loft—most of the main area has been converted into a closet and a bed is set on the top level, but I’m sure it was originally designed to be the other way around. No doubt this is Taylor’s suite. On one side of the lower level is a velveteen, chartreuse couch strewn in a cavalcade of patterned pillows and a fur throw. A vintage, gold-trimmed mirror leans against the wall next to a clothing rack stuffed with glittering dresses, vintage furs and a few basketball jerseys. There’s a hot-pink neon sign plugged into the wall next to the mirror that reads Need Money for Birkin.

For a moment her whiteness is insufferable. I know the sign is meant to be funny, but it still feels like a slap in the face. I think of all the times I went to bed hungry when I was little, had to ask strangers on the street for money just so I wouldn’t pass out in class, and something inside me is on the verge of detonating.

Floor-to-ceiling windows with high arches line the back wall. There’s an incredible view of the water, the city a distant glow in the background. I turn away and notice the twelve-foot ladder leading up to her bed. I don’t know what possesses me, but I find myself climbing the ladder, sitting on the soft, silky sheets.

From my vantage point, I scan the room again. Aside from a few crystals, flowers and a stack of spiritual books, everything is tucked away, perfectly organized to the point of absurdity. The bedroom-size walk-in is filled with custom-made racks that stretch from wall to wall. I stand there for a moment, taking it all in. Vintage Chanel hangs alongside Tom Ford–era Gucci, Saint Laurent, limited-edition Adidas and impossible-to-find designer pieces that must date back to the late ’80s and early ’90s. I quickly sift through racks of men’s-style blazers, leather fringe jackets, vintage kaftan dresses, delicately embroidered blouses, beaded evening gowns and the occasional tutu. Because of course. And rows and rows of shoes. Clearly, she has a thing for sneakers—she has at least fifty pairs, every color, every style. And the bags. They span from floor to ceiling across two walls lined with glass shelves. Her collection of Olympia Le-Tan clutches, all designed with the covers of classic literature, is truly amazing.