Dimitra Petsa has been deep in the trenches of love. Not just the saccharine, rom-com kind, but the all-consuming, boundary-blurring, body-worshipping kind—the stuff of erotic literature, Venus in Furs, divine sexuality, and feminist sexual theory. She’s been reading, obsessing, and writing—because of course, she’s writing a book. A whole book, coming out this year, dedicated to the very concept behind this collection: reclaiming female sexuality and desire, stripped of shame, on its own terms.

Which, honestly, feels radical. Fashion is so personal, so charged with desire, and yet—Petsa sees a void. A kind of aesthetic amnesia, where the female gaze—sensual, self-possessed, carnal—has been muted, diluted, reduced to soft-focus palatability. “We don’t really see our desire or carnal feminine sexuality,” she said before the show. “There are so many elements of visual language in fashion and art that signal a monoculture—I want to enrich our vocabulary with a woman’s perspective.”

And so, for Fall 2025, Petsa staged a reclamation. Reflections of Desire wasn’t just a collection; it was a casting call for archetypes—women as introspective writers and tortured artists, muses articulating our most deviant wants, historical and mythical figures reimagined with their agency intact. The show was thick with symbolism: Ayra Starr and Mia Khalifa walked. A model accepted a flower from the audience and gave a kiss in return. A literal archangel of love descended with draped, heart-shaped wings. There were knights in shining armor—male and female—wearing chainmail and hand-carved silver torso sculptures, crafted by Petsa herself, their jeweled swords gleaming under the lights.

Bridalwear, always one of Petsa’s fascinations, was turned inside out. “Women are told not to be narcissists, socialized to avoid self-pleasure, to shrink themselves,” she said. “The wedding is the one time she’s allowed to be the center of attention—but only through the act of marrying a man. I wanted to twist that psyche.” And twist she did—sending out brides in body-sculpting dresses, studded with pearls and silver chains, flanked not by blushing flower girls, but by a troupe of men in lace-trimmed underwear.

Petsa wove her own heartbreak into the collection, embedding pieces with personal mythology. There were low-rise trousers with an open book placed exactly at the crotch (an invitation to be read in the most literal sense). A bra with script as nipple pasties. And, in a deeply unhinged and poetic move, an entire print composed of lipstick kisses—Petsa spent hours kissing paper, smudging her favorite lipstick down to nothing. “I was heartbroken when making that print,” she admitted. “I think you can feel the intensity of it. I was stepping into a new version of myself—they’re kisses of hope.”

Menswear continued its evolution—thigh-sliced black suiting, deep oxblood knits leaving the chest bare. James Corbin, a longtime muse, walked in a clerical-like cloak, because why not invoke the aesthetics of religion while rewriting the mythology of desire? Tailoring took on new depth: wool coats fused with jet-black velvet, leather outerwear trimmed with lush vegan fur that all but begged to be touched. And, of course, her signature wet-look dresses—this time in gradient reds, blacks, and earthy browns. Details were decadently filthy: sheer lace teasing over nipples, body jewelry trailing from the pelvis to the throat, a whisper of kink in every stitch.

The show was more intimate than in past seasons—fewer looks, more intention. Petsa, now officially a NewGen graduate, wanted time to breathe with each character in her evolving mythos. This was an ode to women who refuse to be quiet, who take up space, who claim their desires as divine. Unapologetic. Untamed.