The rain had been falling since dawn, washing away the city’s noise but not its poison.

Rosemary sat alone in her darkened apartment, the only light coming from the muted television screen — flashing her face, her name, her humiliation on every channel.

“…designer Rosemary Lane seen confronting hospital staff…”

“…mental instability suspected after years of conflict with model Casandra Hale…”

Her phone buzzed again, but she didn’t move. The calls came from everyone — Adrian, Markus, journalists, even her own staff.

She had nothing left to say.

When the knock came, it was soft but steady.

“Rose?” Markus’s voice filtered through the door. “Please open up.”

She hesitated, then...