A week crawled by without fresh disasters. For Diana, that almost felt like good news.
The days blurred into a cautious routine: mornings spent scrolling job listings she wasn't qualified for, afternoons dodging calls from creditors, evenings forcing herself to eat something cheap and nourishing from the groceries she'd finally restocked.
Ryan hadn't called again—not yet—and the label remained silent, which was its own kind of mercy.
No new scandals, no paparazzi ambushes, no viral clips of her looking broken at the gala.
Just quiet decay.
She'd even managed a covert trip to the grocery store two days ago—baseball cap pulled low, oversized sunglasses, a scarf wrapped around her neck like some low-budget spy in a thriller no one would watch.
The cashier had glanced at her twice but said nothing, and Diana had walked out with two bags of essentials: fresh fruit, eggs, iced coffee from the deli counter.
Simple things.
Normal things.
Normalcy. She missed it desperately—the anonymity of blending in, the small victories of a day without collapse.
That hope died though the moment she stepped into her flagship Lumière boutique.
The automatic doors slid open with their familiar soft whoosh, but the sound felt wrong today—too loud in the unnatural stillness.
The store was a tomb.
Polished Italian marble floors, once gleaming under strategic spotlights to highlight every crystal accent and gold fixture, now reflected the harsh fluorescent overheads like a sterile hospital ward.
The air smelled faintly of dust settling on leather and the ghost of expensive perfume—notes of oud and jasmine that had once lured customers in from the sidewalk but now lingered like a memory no one wanted to revisit.
Empty racks lined the walls where limited-edition silk scarves and cashmere wraps should have hung in artful cascades.
Display pedestals stood bare, save for a single forgotten clutch gathering a thin layer of neglect.
The elegant chandeliers—custom-blown glass imported from Murano—hung dimmed, their light switches flipped to energy-saving mode weeks ago.
Sarah, her only remaining sales associate, sat hunched behind the sleek white counter near the register, scrolling idly on her tablet as if movement might shatter the fragile quiet.
She was young—mid-twenties, with a sharp bob and the kind of effortless style that had made her perfect for the brand—but today her shoulders slumped, and dark circles shadowed her eyes.
"Diana," Sarah startled, nearly dropping the tablet as she stood too quickly.
She forced a smile that didn't reach her eyes, the kind Diana recognized from her own mirror lately. "I… wasn't expecting you."
Diana's heels echoed too loudly on the marble as she crossed the threshold, each click a reminder of how empty the space had become.
"Clearly," Diana said, her voice softer than intended. She set her iced coffee on the counter, condensation pooling immediately on the pristine surface. "Where is everyone? Where's the new collection?"
Sarah swallowed hard, glancing toward the back stockroom as if hoping reinforcements might appear. "Suppliers won't ship until we settle three months of invoices. The leather goods house in Florence sent a final demand last week. The silk printers in Como… they've gone radio silent."
Diana felt the floor tilt beneath her, a wave of nausea rising.
"How much?" Diana asked, bracing her hands on the counter.
Sarah hesitated, pulling up a spreadsheet on her tablet. "Enough that we're done if we don't pay soon. Over two hundred grand outstanding, plus the accrued interest. And the smaller vendors—the jewelry artisans, the packaging company—they're threatening legal action."
Diana closed her eyes for a moment, the numbers pounding like a migraine.
Two hundred thousand. More than she had in liquid assets, more than the trickle of online sales could cover in a year at this rate.
"And… there's this," Sarah added quietly, sliding a thick cream envelope across the counter.
The paper was heavy, embossed with the building management's gold logo—a symbol of prestige that now felt mocking.
Diana opened it with shaking fingers, the wax seal cracking under her thumbnail.
The letterhead was formal, the language colder than the marble underfoot.
Lease termination notice.
Due to sustained non-performance and market revaluation, new monthly rent: $75,000.
Payment of arrears required within fifteen days.
Effective in thirty days, or vacate premises.
The paper trembled in her grip, the words blurring as her vision swam.
Seventy-five thousand a month. For a space that had once been negotiated at half that, back when her name still drew crowds.
The landlords—some faceless investment group out of New York—knew the market: they didn't need a struggling indie label; they could lease it tomorrow to a conglomerate willing to pay triple for the visibility.
"Gosh" Diana whispered, the word escaping like a plea.
Sarah's eyes filled with tears, her composure cracking. "We're out of moves, Dee. Foot traffic's down, online's barely covering payroll—mine, at least—and without new inventory…" She trailed off, gesturing helplessly at the empty displays.
Diana stared at the beautiful handbags gathering dust in the front window cases—the last remnants of the fall line, quilted totes in soft sage and ivory, embellished with her signature luminous hardware that caught the light like stars.
Once symbols of freedom, of a future she'd built with her own hands. Now gravestones, marking the slow death of everything she'd poured herself into.
Her chest tightened, a familiar panic clawing up her throat.
She couldn't let Sarah see her break—not here, not when the girl had stayed loyal through missed paychecks and endless excuses.
She pulled out her phone hurriedly, fingers flying across the screen.
"Send everyone who comes to the back office," she told Sarah.