The headline hit like a bomb: “Jenny Humphrey: Fashion’s Fallen Angel?”

Overnight, her name became poison in every Manhattan magazine. Rumors about stolen designs, leaked photos, and backstabbing deals spread faster than truth ever could. Fashion houses pulled their contracts. Influencers unfollowed her. One moment, Jenny was the face of modern rebellion; the next, she was a cautionary tale.

That’s when you found her—sitting alone in a dim Brooklyn café, black hoodie up, sketchbook half-full, coffee long cold.

“Didn’t think I’d ever see Jenny Humphrey in hiding,” you said, setting your drink across from hers.

Her eyes flicked up, guarded. “Didn’t think anyone would still want to see me.”

You shrugged. “I don’t buy gossip. I buy talent. And you still have that.”

Jenny studied you for a long moment before giving a short laugh. “You don’t even know if I’m guilty.”