Chapter 45
Ryan and Dennis went bloodless and blotchy at the same time, their faces turning a dark, ugly shade like old bruises.
They had, in fact, only gotten the data around midnight. To make it in time for today's presentation, all they managed to do was toss a glamorous visual shell over it. They never even touched the deeper safety testing.
"You're out of line!" Dennis snarled, stabbing a finger toward Isabella onstage. His voice cracked with rage. "This is slander! You're jealous, that's all this is—you're spewing nonsense because you can't stand our talent! Security! Get this lying lunatic out of here!"
"Whether it's nonsense," Isabella said, her voice cold and steady, "you know better than anyone." She didn't bother lifting her lashes. Her gaze—cool, distant, merciless—skimmed over him as if he were already a lost cause.
"The backstage hub has direct access to a Tier-1 supercomputer. Mr. Gonzalez, if you feel wronged, why don't we have the committee plug the control data from your demo into the system right now? Five minutes of maximum stress testing. Let the global press watch. Do you dare?"
Her words trapped The Genesis Group with surgical precision.
If they refused, they admitted guilt. If they agreed…
Dennis clung to the belief that Isabella couldn't possibly have spotted a flaw that even machines struggled to detect, especially with just a quick glance at raw data.
"Fine! Run it! And when it passes, Isabella, I'll make sure Northstar Architecture disappears from this industry for good!" Dennis roared with red eyes, like a gambler driven frantic by defeat.
The head judge gave a grave nod and gestured for the technicians to proceed.
The colossal holographic screen flickered back to life, switching to the sterile, clinical interface of the supercomputer.
A green progress bar shot forward under the overwhelming processing power.
Ten percent… fifty… eighty…
The hall went unnervingly quiet. Even Sophia—who had been smugly lounging in the corner moments earlier—was now rigid, her fingers twisting the hem of her dress, nails digging into her palm as cold sweat crawled down her spine.
Ninety-five percent…
A twisted and arrogant smile had appeared on Dennis's face. Once the progress bar was fully filled, Isabella would be completely finished!
At ninety-nine percent, an ear-splitting alarm tore through the convention center, shrill enough to rattle the metal beams overhead. It felt like a death knell.
The once-stable data chain imploded.
The magnificent holographic model of the 'Wings of the Oasis' didn't even wait for the final result. In the simulated high-wind environment, it began to tear apart at the C-4 anchor point with a sound that made everyone's teeth ache.
The screen washed into a blinding, violent red.
Dennis collapsed onto his knees, legs giving out completely. Ryan looked like he'd seen a ghost, trembling so hard his teeth chattered as panic hollowed his face.
It was over. Not just lost—but ruined. And possibly criminally liable.
After a heartbeat of stunned silence, the hall exploded—shouts, gasps, applause so intense it shook the rafters.
Everyone who had dismissed Isabella was now on their feet, staring at her with a reverence usually reserved for monarchs or miracles.
Then came a single, heavy thump—a wooden cane striking the floor. The sound cut through the uproar like a blade.
The entire convention center froze. Silence rippled outward in an instant.
Every camera, every reporter, every power broker turned toward the front row.
There, slowly rising, was the man who had been resting with his eyes closed this entire time.
He wore an old, faded mandarin-collar jacket—something so plain it clashed almost comically with the sea of impeccably tailored suits around him. His hair was thin and white, his posture slightly hunched.
Albert Windsor.
In the Amber District—and across the global architectural world—he was the only living figure included in academic textbooks.
A legend. A gatekeeper. A man whose scoring pen could make or break any firm on the planet.
James froze mid-step.
A dry swallow echoed through the room as every person braced themselves.
Dennis, desperate for salvation, scrambled forward, nearly tripping over his own feet.
"Mr. Windsor! You have to stand up for us!" He cried, voice shrill with panic. "This woman didn't submit any digital data. She dared to draw her model by hand on a whiteboard in the final round! She's violating summit regulations and insulting you—and every judge on this panel!"
He jabbed a shaking finger at Isabella. "Even if we made mistakes, at least we're not pulling cheap stunts like she is! She doesn't deserve to stand on this stage. Please disqualify Northstar Architecture immediately and throw her out!"
The room went dead silent again.
Everyone waited for Albert's famously explosive temper to erupt. He hated nothing more than young designers who flaunted their cleverness while ignoring foundational data.
After all, what Mr. Albert Windsor hated the most are those young people who looked down on underlying data and indulge in mystification just because they were a little clever.
Sophia felt her pulse hammer at her throat.
Isabella was finished—she had to be.
Faced with Dennis's accusations and the piercing stares from the entire audience, Isabella still stood tall in the center of the stage, just like a plum blossom blooming proudly against the bitter snow.
Her lashes lowered. Her pale, slender fingers idly rolled the black marker between them.
She didn't defend herself. Didn't hurry. Didn't look at Dennis even once. Her gaze rested only on Albert as he approached the stage.
Albert ascended slowly, leaning on his worn cane. He did not acknowledge Dennis at all, as if the shouting man didn't exist. Instead, his attention swept past Isabella.
He stopped before the two whiteboards.
For a full minute, he said nothing.
His chest rose sharply, as if he were struggling for breath. His thin fingers trembled. He inched closer to the dense lattice of numbers and lines, studying them like a priceless artifact he'd spent a lifetime searching for.
"Mr. Windsor…" A staff member approached cautiously, offering a red scoring pen.
"This hand-drawn piece didn't pass our initial digital screening. Should we mark it as invalid?"
"Bullshit!"