“Mrs. Rosemary! Come look at this now!”
Mila’s panicked voice shattered the hush of the boutique. Rosemary, still slumped in her chair, jolted upright—her tears not yet dry.
“What is it, Mila?” she rasped.
Mila ran in carrying a laptop, her hand trembling as she tapped the keys. “I just checked the CCTV footage, like you asked… and—”
The screen showed a clear image: Cassandra entering the design room, glancing left and right, then unrolling a bolt of rare silk. Minutes later she lifts a can of paint from the corner—and splash! Paint splatters across the multimillion-dollar fabric.
Rosemary covered her mouth, her heart pounding. “My God…” she whispered.
Mila looked at her, grave. “This is proof, Ma’am. Cassandra did this. We can’t stay silent.”
---
Across town, Adrian sat in his off
