Veronica Bennett's story is one of those tragic arcs that sticks with you long after the credits roll. In the narrative, she starts off as this vibrant, ambitious woman—think 'Mad Men' meets 'The Devil Wears Prada'—but life throws her curveball after curveball. First, there’s the betrayal by her business partner, which costs her the fashion empire she built from scratch. Then, her personal life unravels when she discovers her husband’s affair with her younger sister. The final blow comes when a car accident leaves her with permanent injuries, forcing her into early retirement. What I find haunting is how the story doesn’t give her a tidy redemption. Instead, it ends with her sitting alone in her penthouse, watching the city lights, a symbol of all she’s lost. It’s raw, unvarnished, and oddly beautiful in its melancholy.
I couldn’t help but draw parallels to real-life figures like Elizabeth Holmes or even fictional ones like 'Succession’s' Shiv Roy. There’s this recurring theme of women in power being undone by the very systems they tried to conquer. The writer doesn’t villainize Veronica, though—she’s flawed but sympathetic, which makes her downfall hit even harder. I reread her final monologue often, where she admits she’d do it all again, mistakes and all. That stubborn pride? Chef’s kiss.