Clara’s pencil moved with surgical precision, each line slashing across the sketchpad like a blade. Her workstation was chaos—torn pages, coffee rings staining fabric swatches, pins scattered like shrapnel across the desk. Yet within the mess, there was a method. It was how she survived. How she stayed sane.
Outside the glass walls, Manhattan was sinking into twilight—buildings glowing like embers, the hum of traffic pulsing below. But inside Wolfe Enterprises’ design studio, Clara Hart sat motionless, a single lamp casting a small halo of light around her. The world outside could burn; she just needed her pencil, her paper, and the illusion of control.
She pressed harder, the tip of the pencil snapping under her hand. “Damn it,” she muttered, breath catching. Her reflection in the windo
