Cheryl found herself spending precious hours meticulously re-checking everything, triple-checking her formulas, locking away every single ingredient, scrutinizing her equipment for any sign of tampering. The creative flow that had once been so effortless was now a constant battle against an unseen adversary. 

She felt a growing paranoia, a sense of being watched, manipulated.

She wanted to confront Joyce, to demand an explanation, but what proof did she have? “My formula was slightly off, and then my lamp broke, and then my labels got smudged, and you were around.” 

It sounded like the ramblings of an overwrought artist. Joyce would simply bat her eyelashes and claim innocence, perhaps even express concern for Cheryl’s mental state.

The insidious nature of the sabotage was its most potent weapon. It wasn’t just delaying her work; it was eroding her trust, her focus, her very belief in her own competence. 

The beautiful, exhilarating connection she had forged with Louis, the shared artistic language they were building, felt increasingly fragile, threatened by this unseen, unprovable enemy. Cheryl knew, deep in her gut, that this wasn’t just bad luck. 

This was deliberate. This was Joyce. And she was just getting started.