Chapter 65
Chapter 65
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 screen where her life was unraveling in high definition.
“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 have come forward with evidence that Lewis engaged in multiple affairs during her European apprenticeship, including relationships with married industry leaders who later promoted her work.”
Rose’s fingers dug into her silk comforter until her knuckles turned white. This wasn’t happening. Not now. Not when everything was finally coming together.
The reporter continued, her voice dripping with false sympathy. “Most damaging are claims from British fashion executive Jonathan Hayes, who alleges Lewis used their affair to gain industry access while simultaneously pursuing a relationship with his business partner.”
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 relationship to The waiting cameras.
“She was calculating 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 glass, the reporter’s voice continuing uninterrupted.
“These allegations come at a particularly sensitive time for Lewis, whose fashion line has been struggling with production delays and canceled orders from major retailers.
The doorbell rang, its cheerful chime a jarring contrast to the destruction playing out on the screen, Rose ignored it, pulling her knees to her chest as more evidence of her past appeared in professionally edited segments.
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 relationships 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 investigating Mr. Bessonov’s finances, she disappeared overnight.”
Photos flashed 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 the last, each time–stamped to create a comprehensive timeline of calculated 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 years? She’d been so careful, had paid for silence when necessary, had created a narrative of dedicated apprenticeship that everyone had accepted without question.
Until now.
Her phone buzzed with messages from her publicist, her lawyer, her business manager, all demanding to speak with her, all wanting direction on how to handle the crisis, Rose ignored them all, her eyes returning to the
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Chapter 65
television where her carefully constructed life continued to disintegrate.
“Former classmates from Lewis’s fashion program have also come forward,” the reporter was saying, clearly enjoying each new revelation. “They allege systematic theft of design concepts that later appeared in Lewis’s breakthrough collection.”
A photo appeared, Rose’s award–winning graduation piece juxtaposed with a nearly identical sketch from a classmate’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 glass 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 accounts during her time with Bessonov,” the woman explained as graphics appeared on screen. “These deposits moved through several shell companies before reaching her, a pattern financial experts describe as consistent with money laundering 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… it’s unprecedented.”
“Make it stop!” Rose demanded, pacing her bedroom like a caged animal. “That’s what I pay you for!”
“It’s too late 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 jealous competitors.”
“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 want to know who!”
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 feature completely. Neiman Marcus is invoking the morality clause in their contract. Your main fabric supplier in Italy just canceled all pending orders.”
Rose yanked the door open, pulling Michael inside before slamming it shut again. “Tell me something I don’t
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CHUMÍN 15
know!”
He flinched at her tone but continued. “Your investors are calling an emergency meeting this afternoon. The bank froze your business accounts pending review of the money laundering 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 access to funds, without fabric suppliers, without retail partners, the collection was effectively dead.
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 this comprehensive?”
“I don’t know, but there’s something else.” Michael held out his tablet, displaying 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, displayed side by side, were sketches from her most celebrated collections alongside nearly identical drawings from other designers‘ portfolios, designers who had worked with her, mentored her, trusted her with their creative process.
“These are lies,” she hissed, throwing the tablet onto the sofa. “Distortions. Similar 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 this takedown with surgical precision, timing each revelation for maximum impact.
“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 impeccable doing it.
“Tell him to focus on the coordinated nature of the attacks. Make it clear this is a deliberate takedown by unnamed competitors threatened by my success. Deny any financial impropriety completely. For the affairs, say my private life is my business 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. “Similar aesthetic sensibilities are common in creative industries. I was influenced by many designers, as they were by me. Icategorically deny stealing anyone’s work.”
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 days? Who had the connections to access banking records from a decade ago? Who had the patience to compile this evidence slowly, methodically, waiting for the perfect moment to destroy her?
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The answer remained elusive, but the question burned with obsessive intensity. Someone had declared war on Rose Lewis. Someone with resources and motivation she couldn’t identify. Someone who knew exactly where to find her weakest points, her buried secrets, her carefully hidden past.
“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 your lawyer’s office?
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 earlier. She looked composed, confident, defiant.
It was the greatest performance of her career.
“No statement yet,” she decided. “Let them speculate. 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 Deception, Manipulation.
Her mentor. Eliza Winterbourne. The woman who had taught her not just design but strategy. The woman who had trusted her completely. The woman whose private collection of vintage couture Rose had carefully photographed and replicated without permission.
“I want a full report on who’s talking by this afternoon,” Rose instructed Michael, her voice glacial with suppressed fury. “Every name. Every allegation. Every connection between them. Someone orchestrated this, and I will find out who.”
In the elevator descending to the service level, Rose caught her reflection in the polished metal doors. The perfect image of success 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 so completely? Who had compiled evidence buried for years, coordinated revelations from people across continents, timed everything for maximum damage?
The answer waited somewhere beyond the flashbulbs 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.
Chapter 60
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Chapter 66
