The breakfast tray sat untouched on Rose''s nightstand, fresh fruit and pastries growing stale in the morning air. She hadn''t moved from the edge of her bed for nearly an hour, eyes fixed on the television screer "Fashion designer Rose Lewis faces new allegations today, the entertainment reporter said, her expression a mask of professional concern that barely concealed her delight in the scandal "Former associates h Rose''s fingers dug into her silkforter until her knuckles turned white. This wasn''t happening. Not now. Not when everything was finallying together.


    The reporter continued, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "Most damaging are ims from British fashion executive Jonathan Hayes, who alleges Lewis used their affair to gain industry ess while simul The screen filled with Jonathan''s face, older now, silver threading through the dark hair she remembered running her fingers through in London hotel rooms. His expression held no remorse as he detailed their "She was calcting even then," he said, eyes meeting the camera directly. "Everything was transactional. An affair for introductions. Intimacy for opportunities." Rose grabbed the remote, hurling it at the screen with a scream of frustration. It bounced harmlessly off the ss, the reporter''s voice continuing uninterrupted.


    "These allegationse at a particrly sensitive time for Lewis, whose fashion line has been struggling with production dys and canceled orders from major retailers.


    The doorbell rang, its cheerful chime a jarring contrast to the destruction ying out on the screen, Rose ignored it, pulling her knees to her chest as more evidence of her past appeared in professionally edited Lord Hartley, silver-haired and aristocratic, seated in his


    country estate library: "She made me believe I was special, that our connection was unique. Later I


    discovered he was seeing my colleague simultaneously, leveraging both rtionships for fashion world introductions."


    The former assistant to Anton Bessonov, her eyes hard with old resentment: "She lived on his yacht while his wife believed she was attending design conferences. When international authorities began investiga Photos shed across the screen, Rose entering hotels with different men, Rose


    boarding the infamous yacht in Monaco, Rose at industry events on the arm of designers three times her age. Each image more damning than thest, each time- stamped to create aprehensive timeline of calcted ambition.


    The doorbell rang again, more insistent this time. Rose buried her face in her hands, tears streaming between her fingers. How had they found these people? Who had convinced them to speak after all these y Until now.


    Her phone buzzed with messages from her publicist, herwyer, her business manager, all demanding to speak with her, all wanting direction on how to handle the crisis, Rose ignored them all, her eyes returni


    television where her carefully constructed life continued to disintegrate.


    "Former ssmates from Lewis''s fashion program have alsoe forward," the reporter was saying, clearly enjoying each new revtion. "They allege systematic theft of design concepts thatter appeared in A photo appeared, Rose''s award-


    winning graduation piece juxtaposed with a nearly identical sketch from a ssmate''s portfolio, dated months earlier. Side by side, the theft was unmistakable, the minor alterations insufficient to hide the original source.


    "No, no, No!" Rose screamed, grabbing a crystal vase from her nightstand and hurling it against the wall. The ss shattered, water and


    flowers spraying across imported wallpaper. The destruction wasn''t enough to ease the panic rising in her chest.


    The reporter was


    now discussing financial connections between Rose and Anton Bessonov, suggesting that her early design


    collections had been funded through questionable sources.


    “Banking records obtained exclusively by our investigative team show substantial deposits to Lewis''s ounts during her time with Bessonov," the woman exined as graphics appeared on screen. “These de experts describe as consistent with moneyundering techniques."


    The doorbell rang a third time, followed by heavy knocking. Rose pulled herself from the bed on unsteady legs, moving to the window to peer through the blinds. Reporters. At least


    a dozen of them crowded her building''s entrance, cameras ready, faces eager for a glimpse of the fallen fashion darling.


    Her phone rang again, her publicist for the fifth time. Rose finally answered, her voice tight


    with barely controlled fury.


    "What the hell is happening, Melissa? How did they get all this? Who''s behind it?"


    "I don''t know," her publicist replied, professional calm cracking under


    pressure. "It''s coordinated, that''s all I can tell you. Multiple outlets receiving the same evidence simultaneously. Former associates contacted by someone offering significant money for exclusive interviews. It''s.. "Make it stop!" Rose demanded, pacing her bedroom like a caged animal. "That''s what I pay you for!"


    "It''s toote for containment. We need to issue a statement immediately. Something addressing


    the allegations directly while...."


    "No! Absolutely not!" Rose cut her off. "We deny everything. Every single thing. Call it a smear campaign by jealouspetitors."


    "Rose, there are photos. Time-


    stamped, authenticated photos. There are bank records. There are multiple credible witnesses all


    telling consistent stories. Denial will make this worse."


    Rose swept her arm across her vanity, sending perfume bottles and makeup crashing to the floor. "I don''t care! Find out who''s behind this. Someone orchestrated it. Someone with resources and connections. I The knocking on her door grew louder. Rose ended the call, moving to the entry and peering through the peephole. Her assistant, Michael, stood there looking terrified.


    "Ms. Lewis, please, I need to speak with you." His voice carried through the door, high with arcxiety. "Vogue just pulled your featurepletely. Neiman Marcus is invoking the morality use in their contract. Y Rose yanked the door open, pulling Michael inside before mming it shut again. "Tell me something I don''t


    CHUMíN 15


    know!"


    He flinched at her tone but continued. "Your investors are calling an emergency meeting this afternoon. The bank froze your business ounts pending review of the moneyundering allegations." "They can''t do that!" Rose grabbed his arm, fingers digging in hard enough to make him wince. "That''s my money! My business!"


    "The freeze is temporary, but... with the production timeline for your fall collection..." Michael trailed off, not needing to finish the thought. Without ess to funds, without fabric suppliers, without retail partners, Rose released him, moving back to the window where the crowd of reporters had grown. Someone must have tipped them off that she was home. The thought sent fresh rage coursing through her. "Who did this?” she whispered, more to herself than Michael. "Who has enough power to coordinate something thisprehensive?"


    "I don''t know, but there''s something else." Michael held out his tablet, disying another news site. "They''re reporting that an anonymous source provided evidence that some of your early designs weren''t original. That you appropriated them from other designers who never received credit."


    Rose snatched the tablet, scanning the article with growing horror. There, disyed side by side, were sketches from her most celebrated collections alongside nearly identical drawings from other designers'' p process.


    "These are lies," she hissed, throwing the tablet onto the sofa. "Distortions. Simr designs happen in fashion all the time. It''s called inspiration!"


    Michael looked unconvinced but knew better than to contradict her directly. "What do you want me to do? The press is demanding a statement."


    Rose paced the length of her penthouse, mind racing through options, through damage control scenarios, through ways to salvage what remained of her reputation and business. Someone had orchestrated thi "Find me a list of enemies," she said suddenly, turning to face her assistant. "Everyone I''ve crossed in the Industry. Everyone who might have resources to do this. Everyone who might want to destroy me." "That... might be a long list," Michael said carefully.


    Rose moved to her dressing room, scanning her


    clothing options with frantic energy. If she had to face this storm, she would at least look impable doing it.


    “Tell him to focus on the coordinated nature of the attacks. Make it clear this is a deliberate takedown by unnamedpetitors threatened by my sess. Deny any financial improprietypletely. For the affai and has no bearing on my professional contributions."


    "And the design theft allegations?"


    Rose yanked a crimson dress from its


    hanger, the color perfect for projecting confidence and defiance. "Simr aesthetic sensibilities aremon in creative industries. I was influenced by many designers, as they were by me. Icategorically deny st As she dressed, applied fresh makeup, and prepared to face the media circus outside her building, Rose''s mind continued turning over possibilities. Who had the reach to find people from her London and Paris The answer remained elusive, but the question burned with obsessive intensity. Someone had dered war on Rose Lewis. Someone with resources and motivation she couldn''t identify. Someone who knew ex "Your car is waiting at the service entrance,” Michael reported, ending a call with building security. "They''ve cleared a path, but there are still reporters. Do you want to make a statement or go straight to yourv Rose checked her reflection one final time, smoothing her hair and straightening her shoulders. The woman in the mirror looked nothing like the panicked, raging figure who had been throwing objects minutes e It was the greatest performance of her career.


    "No statement yet," she decided. "Let them specte. Let them wonder. I won''t give them the satisfaction of seeing me break"


    As she gathered her purse and phone, another alert appeared on Michael''s tablet. He tried to shield the screen, but Rose caught the headline: "EXCLUSIVE: Rose Lewis''s Former Mentor Reveals Pattern of De Her mentor. Eliza Winterbourne. The woman who had taught her not just design but strategy. The woman who had trusted herpletely. The woman whose private collection of vintage couture Rose had care "I want a full report on who''s talking by this afternoon," Rose instructed Michael, her voice cial with suppressed fury. "Every name. Every allegation. Every connection between them. Someone orchestrated th In the elevator descending to the service level, Rose caught her reflection in the polished metal doors. The perfect image of sess she''d cultivated so carefully, showing nothing of the ruins beneath. As the doors opened and she prepared to face the waiting cameras, a single question burned through the shock and rage: who had the power and motivation to destroy her sopletely? Who hadpiled e The answer waited somewhere beyond the shbulbs and shouted questions. And Rose Lewis would find it, even if she had to burn what remained of her world to the ground in the process.