Chapter 10
The room erupted.
Hundreds of heads snapped toward the stage as flashes burst in rapid succession, shutters clicking so quickly they blended into a single rippling sound.
Isabella stood at the center of the stage, lowering her laser pointer with a calm, almost detached composure as she looked toward the woman who had barged in.
She recognized her immediately.
Cynthia Rodriguez—partner at Vera Design Studio, famous in the industry not for talent but for her sharp tongue and a string of borderline projects that kept her name circulating. She wasn't known for real skill, but she excelled at stirring up trouble.
Cynthia strode forward on ten‑centimeter red‑bottom stilettos, planting herself front and center. Three reporters followed tight behind her, their cameras thrust up toward Isabella's face without the slightest hesitation.
"What's wrong? Cat got your tongue?" Cynthia crossed her arms, chin lifted high. "Feeling guilty already?"
She took a dramatic breath and addressed the room. "Everyone, I'm not here to make a scene. I'm here to expose a massive lie."
Her assistant handed her a file envelope. Cynthia pulled out a stack of printed design drafts and held them up triumphantly.
"Take a look! This is Vera Design Studio's proposal from two years ago for the Silverlight City Harborfront Mall Complex bid."
She flicked her wrist, scattering the pages like confetti.
"The sunken outdoor plaza, the breathable vertical greenery, the natural airflow guidance system—every so‑called 'innovation' in her design was something we pitched two years ago."
She spun back around, jabbing a finger at Isabella, a vicious glint in her eyes.
"Isabella, your design overlaps with ours by more than seventy percent. Did you really think tweaking a few parameters and changing the facade would fool anyone? You're a washed‑up designer who vanished from the field for six years and crawled back only because you got cozy with your boss. Then you steal someone else's work to shine yourself up."
Her voice rose, sharp and triumphant.
"You're a plagiarist."
The audience broke into a storm of whispers. Even a few industry veterans who had praised Isabella minutes earlier now wore complicated, uneasy expressions.
In the front row, Joseph straightened, ready to stand—until Isabella shot him a subtle look.
A small shake of her head.
She remained onstage without interrupting a single word Cynthia said. She even angled her body slightly, giving Cynthia space to perform her outrage to its full extent.
Only when Cynthia finally ran out of steam—breathing hard and basking in her imagined victory—did Isabella speak, "Are you finished?"
Cynthia froze for a beat.
Isabella walked to the lectern, picked up the remote, and clicked a button.
The massive screen behind her shifted.
It did not show the renderings from the presentation. Instead, a yellowed hand‑drawn sketch appeared—dated and signed clearly at the bottom right: Isabella Tudor, Sketch No. 0037, eight years ago.
"This drawing," Isabella said, her voice steady and resonant across the hall, "is a concept sketch I created eight years ago, during my junior year, for the International Youth Architectural Design Competition."
She clicked again.
A second drawing appeared—more refined, more technical, stamped with the archival seal of her university's architecture . The date read seven years ago.
"This is a derivative draft from my senior thesis project. It later became part of the collection permanently archived by the National Museum of Architecture."
She continued switching slides.
One after another, her early drafts appeared—every design element matching the so‑called original concepts Cynthia had flaunted. But Isabella's timestamps predated Vera Design Studio's proposal by six full years.
Cynthia's voice cracked. "No… no, that's impossible. You've been out of the field for six years—how could you possibly—"
"Why not?" Isabella looked at her, her tone quiet but edged with something almost pitying.
"Ms. Rodriguez, I suggest you go back and check where the lead designer on that proposal actually found their 'inspiration.'"
Her gaze drifted to the crushed papers in Cynthia's hand, her voice cooling.
"My entire thesis set—sketches, drafts, and finals—was digitally archived and copyrighted eight years ago at the National Museum of Architecture, complete with third‑party verification."
She paused, letting her words settle.
"So between us, Ms. Rodriguez, you know exactly who copied whom."
"Lies!" Cynthia snapped, losing whatever composure she had left. She grabbed a water bottle from the lectern and hurled it at Isabella. "You—"
A large, steady hand intercepted it midair.
The bottle hit the floor with a loud clatter and rolled away.
A tall figure stepped between them.
Slate‑gray tailored suit. Chiseled profile. A presence sharp enough to cut through steel.
James.
Isabella had no idea when he'd come up on stage, but he stood squarely in front of her now, his stance completely shielding her. His dark eyes locked on Cynthia, heavy with warning.
His voice dropped to a cold, low register. "Watch your mouth."
The force in his words made Cynthia stumble back two full steps, all color draining from her face. She clearly knew who he was—the head of The Sinclair Group, a man no one in the Amber District business circle dared to provoke.
"Mr. Sinclair?" She whispered, horrified.
James didn't spare her another glance. He shifted slightly, eyes flicking back toward Isabella.
Isabella stared at the broad line of his shoulders, her heartbeat hitching before she forced her gaze down, pushing away the ripple of emotion.
She wasn't the same fragile Isabella she used to be.
At last, the host snapped out of his shock and hurried onstage, planting himself in front of Cynthia.
"Ms. Rodriguez, that's enough. This is Northstar Architecture's official press event, not a place for you to cause a scene. Security, please remove her immediately."
Two guards rushed forward, each grabbing one of Cynthia's arms. She kicked and shouted as they dragged her away, but her voice was drowned out by the renewed buzz of the audience.
Once the order was returned, the host handed the microphone back to Isabella.
She took it, stepping around James to reclaim her place at the center of the stage.
She didn't look at him.
"My apologies for letting you all witness that spectacle," she said. "But since Ms. Rodriguez chose to bring this up, I'd like to take this opportunity to formally introduce myself—eight years overdue."