I went to collect the wedding dress I spent two years hand-sewing in memory of my late mother, only to see it on a live broadcast. My husband Julian was walking the red carpet with influencer Mia, proudly introducing her to the media as the brand's genius chief designer. When I confronted them, Julian publicly labeled me a delusional shadow assistant. Mia then viciously stomped her stiletto into my right hand, shattering my bones. I chose right then to ruthlessly reclaim my fashion empire, even if the permanent tremors in my fingers meant I could never perform high-intensity sewing again. Julian thought smashing my tablet wiped out my proof, completely forgetting I was the studio's sole network administrator. As I pushed open the doors to his crucial funding arbitration, he had no idea what was waiting for him.