finalcameo

[finalcameo]

louis vuitton x takashi murakami cherry blossom totes

[finalcameo]

[finalcameo]

[finalcameo]

Devyn Lian Xia was born to dazzle, but never in a way that begged for attention—it was just in her nature. The kind of girl who sashayed instead of walked, who was always five steps ahead of the trend cycle, and yet blissfully unaware of the spell she cast in every room she stepped into.

Born in Calabasas to Chinese immigrant parents, Devyn grew up surrounded by textures, velvet from her grandmother's boutique stash, brocade curtains in the hallway, vinyl records spinning jazz in the background, and soft cantonese murmurs over evening tea. Her grandmother, Amà, once ran her own boutique in Chengdu, threading glamour into post cultural revolution style. Amà dressed women like they were sacred paintings, often using salvaged textiles and reimagined scraps no one else could make sense of. Devyn was not too far away—always watching, always absorbing. In Devyn’s mind, her grandmother wasn’t just a seamstress. She was an artist. A magician. The blueprint. And by age nine, Devyn was pinning fabrics to a mannequin in the living room like it was second nature.

She’d try on her grandmother’s vintage cheongsams with western twists and practiced her twirls in mirrors by age six. But her real taste bloomed when she turned thirteen—when she started selling flipped vintage on a locked Depop page under a pseudonym only her best friend Siena had access to. Siena would buy things just to support her, sending Devyn long paragraphs gushing over a tattered Dior saddlebag Devyn had hand patched with blush pink suede and rhinestones. Even then, Devyn wasn’t just selling clothes. She was curating identity.

When she moved to New York City at fifteen, it felt like fate finally handed her the main stage. Her family settled into the Upper East Side, gleaming brownstones, white hydrangeas, polished doormen; but Devyn found herself floating between the gloss of uptown luxury and the mettle of SoHo's fashion underground. She’d sneak into vintage warehouse sales, flirt her way into exclusive archived auctions, and cry—actual tears—at the feel of a 1990 Vivienne Westwood corset from the ‘portrait’ collection because fashion, to her, wasn’t just fabric. It was emotion. It was history.

Now twenty-five, she is a fixture in the NYC scene—; petite, tattooed, and often caught in kitten heels with her cherry gloss lips parted in a story mid laugh. Her signature dolly makeup is as intentional as her perfume: light, flirty, & a bit expensive. And that jet-black bob, snipped sharp above her collarbone, has become its own kind of calling card.

When she isn’t flipping through old Vogue Paris at the Met’s Costume Institute, she’s people watching from a café in Nolita, sketchbook open beside her matcha. She knows every underground showroom, every seller, every doorman on Madison who can sneak her in five minutes before closing. She's bubbly. She hugs strangers. She drinks lemon drops at noon and makes you feel like you’ve known her since childhood within five minutes of meeting her. Devyn is a collector: early Dior Homme jackets she has no business pulling off (but still does), rare Cavalli & Galliano, Moschino that still smells like the ‘90s. Her wardrobe is a museum. She’s got archived editorial clippings stacked beside polaroids and pressed flowers, and she still wears the hand-me-down gold charm bracelet from her grandmother layered with Vivienne Westwood pearls. But don’t mistake softness for simplicity—Devyn knows how to move. Her DMs are always lit with celebrity stylists, archive dealers, and lowkey celebs/influencers trying to pull a piece before anyone else can touch it.

And those stories are at the heart of her dream: Her boutique—set to open this fall—isn’t some quiet, sterile atelier. No, it’s a fashion playground, a maximalist daydream, a little bit of chaos wrapped in gold trimmed walls. The floor plan moves like a maze of aesthetic corners, vintage Cavalli here, custom reworked denim there, and a section called The Girls Room, where pink reigns supreme. Devyn designed every inch herself: from the velvet couches for customers to collapse on, to the gold racks that resemble her grandmother’s old sewing needles.

Named after her grandmother, the boutique will serve as a haven for both vintage lovers and the style-curious. She envisions a place where women—and men—can drift through racks of Versace, Margiela, Gaultier, or even a perfectly tailored pair of trousers no one else has. It’s not just retail, it’s curation. An experience. The boutique’s motto? “Come as you are, leave like art.” It’s a boutique made for women and men who live loudly. For the ones who know that fashion isn’t about impressing, it's about expressing. Whether you’re androgynous, ultra-femme, punk-coded or stuck between aesthetics, Devyn’s shop is a space for you to try something on and walk out feeling like the best version of yourself. It’s her answer to every person who’s ever stood in a dressing room and thought, “This doesn’t feel like me.”

And guess who still shops there? Siena. Her bestie since they were kids sharing hello kitty stickers and dissecting fashion week like it was football. Siena models new drops before they hit the floor and is known to facetime Devyn during pop ups with dramatic, “Babe… this one??” type moments.

In short: Devyn Lian Xia is everything at once. She’s phabulous and glamorous. An Upper East princess with Chinatown roots. And as she steps into this next chapter; her own phab lane—curating beauty, rewriting what it means to be a boutique owner, she was born for this.