SCORNED EX WIFE Queen Of Ashes (Camille and Stefan)

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 screer "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 h 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 simul 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 "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 cat a particularly sensitive tfor Lewis, whose fashion line has been struggling with

production delays and canceled orders from major retailers.

The doorbell rang, its cheerful cha 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 Lord Hartley,

silver-haired and aristocratic, seated in his

country estate library: "She madebelieve | was special, that our connection was unique. Later |

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 investiga 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 y 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 returni

Chapter 65

television where her carefully constructed life continued to disintegrate.

"Former classmates from Lewis's fashion program have also cforward," the reporter was saying, clearly

enjoying each new revelation. "They allege systematic theft of design concepts that later appeared in 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 twith Bessonov," the woman explained as graphics appeared on screen. “These de 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 | can tell you. Multiple outlets receiving the sevidence simultaneously.

Former associates contacted by someone offering significant money for exclusive interviews. It's.. "Make it stop!"

Rose demanded, pacing her bedroom like a caged animal. "That's what | 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 perfbottles and makeup crashing to the floor. "I don't care!

Find out who's behind this. Someone orchestrated it. Someone with resources and connections. | 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, | 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. Y Rose yanked

the door open, pulling Michael inside before slamming it shut again. "Tellsomething | don't

CHUMIN 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, 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 sof 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’ p 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 wantto 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 thi "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 affai 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. | was influenced by many designers, as they were by me. Icategorically deny st 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 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 ex "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 lav 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 e It was the greatest performance of her career.

"No statement yet," she decided. "Let them speculate. Let them wonder. | won't give them the satisfaction of

seeingbreak"

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 De 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 care "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 th 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 e 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.