A low growl escaped her throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated fury. The despair was still there, a heavy cloak, but beneath it, a fire ignited. 

Joyce had crossed a line. This wasn’t just about the project anymore; it was about her integrity, her reputation, her very identity as an artist.

Just then, the lab door swung open. Louis stood there, his dark eyes scanning the room, his brow furrowed in concern. 

He had come to check on her before the run-through. His gaze landed on Cheryl, then on the open, ruined cabinet. The air, thick with the stench of chemical death, told its own story.

His face, usually a mask of guarded intensity, contorted with a mix of shock and dawning horror. He rushed to her side, his hand reaching out, then pulling back, as if afraid to touch the devastation. 

“Cheryl? What… what happened?” His voice was a raw whisper.

Cheryl could only point, her finger trembling, towards the note. Louis’s eyes followed, reading the damning words. 

For a split second, a flicker of something unreadable crossed his face – doubt? Confusion? – and Cheryl’s heart clenched. 

Had Joyce succeeded? Had she managed to sow the seeds of suspicion even in him?

But then, his gaze met hers, and whatever fleeting uncertainty had been there vanished, replaced by an unwavering, fierce protectiveness. He saw the fire in her eyes, the devastation, the raw anger, and he knew. 

He knew her. He knew this wasn’t her.

“This… this is a lie,” Louis said, his voice low and dangerous, his hand finding hers, squeezing it tight. “You would never. This isn’t you.” 

The simple words were a balm, a reaffirmation of his trust, a silent promise that he saw through the deception.

Before they could fully process the enormity of the destruction, the lab door opened again, and Dennis walked in, a clipboard in hand, his usual calm demeanor radiating efficiency. He stopped dead, his eyes widening as he took in the scene: the ruined cabinet, the noxious fumes, Cheryl’s distraught face, Louis’s protective stance.

“Cheryl? Louis? What in the cosmos…?” Dennis moved quickly, his gaze sweeping over the wreckage with a practiced, analytical eye. 

He saw the note, the hatpin, the deliberate chaos. His jaw tightened. “Joyce,” he breathed, the name a curse.

He knelt, examining the spilled liquids. “This isn’t just perfume,” he muttered, his nose wrinkling. 

“There’s something else in here… a strong fixative, but also something acrid, almost like a solvent. And this… this isn’t a typical perfumer’s tool.” 

He picked up a small, ornate glass stirring rod, encrusted with a tiny, distinctive silver star – a signature piece Joyce often used in her own artistic presentations, a detail Cheryl had noticed during their earlier encounters. It was too specific, too Joyce.