The air in the Griffith Observatory, usually a vibrant hum of discovery and quiet contemplation, had begun to shift for Cheryl. It wasn’t a change in temperature or light, but a subtle, insidious alteration in the way people looked at her, the way conversations paused when she approached, the way smiles felt just a fraction too tight. 

She first noticed it in the cafeteria, a hushed exchange between two technicians that ceased abruptly as she reached for her coffee. Later, a junior intern, usually effusive in their admiration for her work, offered only a curt nod and averted gaze.

Cheryl, with her finely tuned senses, picked up on the discordant notes immediately. It was like a perfume gone slightly off, a beautiful composition marred by an unexpected, unpleasant undertone. 

Whispers, light as stardust, began to coalesce into something more substantial. “Did you hear about the delays in the scent project?” she overheard one morning, the words floating from an open office door. 

“Apparently, the perfumer is struggling with the scale. Not as organized as Louis needs, perhaps.” Another time, a hushed voice in the hallway, “Such a complex undertaking. Maybe she’s bitten off more than she can chew. Missed a few deadlines already, I hear.”

The words, though indirect, struck at the core of her professional pride. Cheryl prided herself on her meticulous process, her ability to translate abstract concepts into tangible olfactory experiences. 

The recent “accidents” and sabotage in her studio had already chipped away at her efficiency, forcing her to re-do batches, re-calibrate equipment, and re-source rare ingredients. Dennis had been a godsend, helping her implement new security measures and digital backups, but even his efficiency couldn’t conjure time out of thin air. 

The delays were real, but the narrative surrounding them was twisting into something ugly and unfair.

The pressure intensified when Dr. Thorne, the observatory director, requested a meeting. 

Dr. Thorne, a woman of formidable intellect and unwavering professionalism, usually exuded calm authority. Today, her expression was etched with concern.

“Cheryl,” Dr. Thorne began, her voice measured, “I’ve been hearing some disquieting reports regarding the gala project timeline. The multi-sensory experience is a cornerstone of our fundraising efforts this year, and any significant delays could have considerable repercussions.”

Cheryl felt a knot tighten in her stomach. “Dr. Thorne, I assure you, I am working tirelessly. There have been some… unforeseen complications in my studio, which have unfortunately impacted my production schedule. However, I’ve implemented new protocols, and I’m confident we can still meet our revised targets.” 

She chose her words carefully, not wanting to air her suspicions of sabotage without concrete proof, yet needing to explain the delays.

Dr. Thorne steepled her fingers. “Unforeseen complications? I understand the artistic process can be unpredictable, but we’re operating on a very tight schedule, Cheryl. I’ve heard whispers of organizational issues, of formulas being misplaced, of a general lack of preparedness for a project of this magnitude.” 

Her gaze was direct, unwavering. “I need to know, unequivocally, that you have this under control. Louis’s reputation, and indeed the observatory’s, is riding on this.”

The implication hung heavy in the air: her reputation was being questioned, and Louis’s was being protected. Cheryl felt a flush creep up her neck. “I understand, Dr. Thorne. I am taking every measure to ensure the project’s success. My commitment is absolute.”

Leaving Dr. Thorne’s office, Cheryl felt a cold dread seep into her bones. The director’s words echoed the whispers, giving them official weight. 

It was clear someone was actively disseminating these damaging narratives. And she knew exactly who.

Joyce.

Cheryl began to notice Joyce’s presence more acutely in the observatory’s administrative corridors. She would see her chatting with various department heads, her laughter light and melodious, her gestures animated. Joyce always seemed to be in the right place at the right time to drop a seemingly innocuous comment.

One afternoon, Cheryl was passing the office of the Head of Public Relations when she heard Joyce’s voice, laced with a practiced concern. “Oh, it’s such a shame about the scent installation, isn’t it? Louis has such a clear vision, but I worry the current perfumer might be… struggling to keep up with his pace. It’s a very different dynamic from our collaborations, where everything was always so seamless, so perfectly synchronized.” 

A pause, then a sigh. “I just hope it doesn’t reflect poorly on Louis. He deserves the best.”

The words were a poison dart, wrapped in velvet. Joyce never directly accused Cheryl, never explicitly stated a negative. 

Instead, she used insinuation, comparison, and feigned concern to paint a picture of Cheryl as incompetent and out of her depth, subtly elevating her own past partnership with Louis as the gold standard. She was leveraging her established connections, her history with Louis, to undermine Cheryl’s professional standing, piece by insidious piece.