“Of course, darling, I’m not suggesting otherwise,” Joyce purred, her gaze lingering on the charred remains. “But accidents happen. And when they do, one must consider the implications. This is a significant setback, isn’t it? Weeks before the gala. A custom piece like this… it can’t simply be replaced overnight. The financial strain alone must be immense for a small, independent studio like yours.”

The words hit Cheryl like a physical blow. Joyce knew. She knew the cost, the time, the impossibility. 

This wasn’t just about derailing the project; it was about crushing Cheryl’s business, her livelihood. The bespoke atomizer array had been a significant investment, a testament to her commitment to the observatory project. 

Replacing it, even if she could find a manufacturer willing to rush an order, would drain her reserves, potentially bankrupting her. The thought of having to explain this to Dr. Thorne, to Dennis, to Louis, filled her with a profound sense of shame and failure.

“I’ll find a way,” Cheryl said, her voice barely a whisper, but laced with a defiant edge.

Joyce offered a sympathetic, almost pitying smile. “I’m sure you’ll try, dear. But sometimes, one must recognize when a project has become… untenable. Perhaps it’s a sign. A cosmic intervention, if you will, suggesting a different path. Louis, bless his artistic soul, can be so demanding. He expects perfection, you know. And when things go wrong, he tends to retreat. It’s his way.”

The implication was clear: Louis would abandon her, just as he had retreated from Joyce after their own betrayal. 

Joyce was not just sabotaging the project; she was trying to sever the fragile, nascent connection between Cheryl and Louis, to exploit his trauma and push him back into his shell, away from Cheryl.

Cheryl’s heart ached with a mix of anger and despair. She looked at the ruined equipment, then at Joyce’s perfectly composed face. 

The woman was a master manipulator, leaving no fingerprints, only a trail of insidious suggestions and psychological warfare. How could she fight against something so intangible, so cleverly executed?

“I should go,” Joyce said, her voice tinged with false regret. “I wouldn’t want to intrude on your… recovery efforts. Do let me know if there’s anything I can do, though I fear this is beyond simple assistance. Perhaps a good night’s rest will bring clarity. And do be careful, darling. These things can be so unpredictable.”

With a final, lingering look that held a mixture of triumph and feigned concern, Joyce swept out of the studio, leaving Cheryl alone amidst the acrid smell of burnt dreams and shattered hopes.

Cheryl sank onto a stool, the cold metal doing little to ground her. The silence in the studio was deafening, broken only by the frantic thrumming of her own pulse. She was devastated, her artistic vision now a charred ruin, her financial stability hanging by a thread. 

And she knew, with every fiber of her being, that Joyce was responsible. But knowing wasn’t enough. 

Without irrefutable proof, she was powerless, trapped in a cosmic dance of sabotage and suspicion, watching her world unravel, piece by agonizing piece. The grand show, the multi-sensory experience, the connection with Louis – all felt impossibly far away, swallowed by a looming, luminous void.