The morning sun rose cold and gray, casting pale light over the city skyline.

In Rosemary’s small studio, the air smelled of coffee and exhaustion. Stacks of fabric, sketches, and unfinished garments filled every inch of space — symbols of a woman still fighting to rebuild her name.

Rosemary stood by the window, arms crossed, staring out blankly at the street below. Her assistant, Mira, entered quietly, holding a folder.

“Miss Rosemary… you might want to see this,” Mira said softly.

Rosemary turned, her eyes weary. “What now?”

Mira placed the folder on the table, biting her lip. “Two more investors just pulled out. That makes five in total.”

The...