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I held their stares. "I don't care what you think of me. But I earned my place here. If you have a problem, file it with HR. Otherwise, keep my name out of your mouth."

I turned. Walked back to my desk. Spine straight. Eyes forward.

Their stares burned into my back. My ears rang with their venom. But I kept moving.

Then it got worse.

I'd barely set down my logs when a shadow fell over my desk.

Brenda stood there in seven-inch heels. She slammed a thick stack of files onto my keyboard with a loud thwack.

Dust puffed up. I coughed.

"Caldwell." She crossed her arms, crimson nails tapping her elbow. "Problem with the fabric supplier. The fit allowances and waist curves on this batch are completely wrong. Everything needs to be deconstructed and redone. Repattern, recut, hand-stitch. I need it done by Friday."

I stared at the pile. My stomach dropped. I flipped through.

Thirty-two garment samples. Each one needed remeasuring, seam-ripping, resewing, recalculating. This was a full week's work for three people.

I looked up. "Brenda, one person can't finish this."

"What?" She arched a perfectly drawn brow. "Are you too busy now? Think you're special enough to refuse assignments?"

I opened my mouth. She smiled first.

"If you can't handle it, I'll give it to Emily. Some people got into IS·MA on actual merit. Not... other methods."

She dragged out the last words. Her eyes swept over me.

Snickers rippled through nearby desks. Eyes stabbed at me from every direction.

Humiliation twisted in my chest. I was close to breaking.

They wanted me to cry. To run to Marcelo. I wouldn't give them that.

I dug my nails into my palms. Met Brenda's smirk head-on.

"I can do it." Each word came out sharp. "But if I finish on time, you score my evaluation honestly."

Surprise flickered in her eyes. Then she sneered. "If you pull it off, I'll give you what you earn. But if you screw this up, Ms. Caldwell, the Group doesn't keep parasites on payroll."

She clicked away on her heels.

I sank into my chair. Stared at the mountain of work. My heart clenched like someone had wrapped a fist around it.

I couldn't go to Marcelo.

If I ran upstairs now, if the rumors kept spreading like wildfire through the company, I wouldn't just destroy what I'd fought for—I'd damage him. He ran a billion-dollar empire. The DeLucas were circling. He couldn't afford to become a punchline over some intern's scandal.

I'd prove myself. Prove everything I had, I'd earned.

To get through this mess, I moved everything into the garment workshop in the basement.

The next three days, I practically lived at the office.

Seven a.m. to eleven p.m. Lunch was shoving down a sandwich, then back to checking data, making calls, revising patterns.

My phone kept lighting up. Marcelo's messages piling up.