“And the note,” Dennis continued, his voice hardening. “The handwriting is a good imitation, but the phrasing… ‘diluted vision’? ‘Louis deserves better’? 

That’s Joyce’s voice, not yours, Cheryl. She’s projecting her own insecurities onto you.” He looked up, his eyes meeting Cheryl’s. “And the hatpin. We know whose that is.”

The undeniable evidence, the clear, undeniable evidence. Dennis, with his meticulous eye, had found the flaws in Joyce’s carefully constructed frame. 

The stirring rod, the specific chemical signature, the tell-tale hatpin – it all screamed Joyce.

A wave of relief, cold and sharp, washed over Cheryl. She wasn’t alone. 

They saw it. They believed her. 

But the relief was quickly overshadowed by the crushing weight of the situation. The gala was days away. 

The scents were gone. The project, their shared vision, was on the brink of complete failure.

“She knew,” Cheryl whispered, her voice raw. “She knew we were close to the run-through. She knew this was the last chance to stop us.”

Louis pulled her into a fierce embrace, his arms wrapping around her, holding her tight. “She won’t win,” he murmured into her hair, his voice vibrating with a newfound resolve. “We won’t let her.”

Dennis stood, his expression grim but determined. “This is a catastrophe, Cheryl. Without these scents, the entire multi-sensory experience is… compromised. But we have proof now. Undeniable proof. We can expose her.” 

He looked between Cheryl and Louis, his gaze steady. “But first, we need a plan. Because right now, the Scent of the Cosmos is just… the scent of ruin.”

The weight of Joyce’s final, desperate act settled heavily in the room, a suffocating blanket of despair. But in Louis’s embrace, and Dennis’s unwavering gaze, Cheryl felt a flicker of defiance. 

The project might be on the brink, but she wasn’t. And neither were they. 

The battle, she realized, had just begun.