Chapter 15
The email was signed by Mason Young, the regional director of the West Coast Tourism & Culture Group, Amber District.
Isabella stared at the screen for a few seconds, her fingertips tightening almost imperceptibly.
This project was the first big contract she had secured after returning to the firm. She had poured an enormous amount of labor and design resources into it, and the team was already deep into the development phase.
If the client pulled the plug now, the damage to Northstar Architecture wouldn't just be financial. It would hit their reputation hard.
If word got out that Northstar Architecture's design director had an academic scandal and the client withdrew because of it, the company's carefully rebuilt reputation would topple like a line of dominoes.
And that was exactly what the person behind all this wanted.
Isabella closed her eyes for a moment, then called Mason.
"Mr. Young, this is Isabella. I received your email. Those posts online were fabricated, and I have a complete chain of evidence to prove it. Could you give me a chance to explain in person?"
There was a brief stretch of silence.
"Ms. Tudor," Mason said, smooth and practiced like someone who had spent years in boardrooms, "it's not that I won't hear you out. The pressure from the board is just considerable. Tell you what—I've got a private dinner tonight at Tech Harbor. If you're sincere, come by. We'll talk face-to-face."
He gave her an address.
Isabella noted it and glanced at the location—a high‑end private club in downtown Tech Harbor.
"All right. I'll be there tonight."
"Great. See you then."
When the call ended, Isabella leaned back in her chair, her brows drawing together slightly.
A private club. At night. A private dinner.
The combination left a faint coil of unease in her chest.
But she didn't have many options.
She couldn't lose this project.
Not for herself, but for Northstar Architecture—for Joseph's trust in her, and for the designers who had been staying late night after night to get the project ready.
She took a recorder from her drawer, switched it on to test the battery, then slipped it into the inner pocket of her blazer.
She pulled out her phone and texted Chloe: [Heading out to meet a client tonight. Sending you my location. If you don't hear from me by eleven, call the cops.]
Chloe replied instantly: [Isabella! What's going on? Do you want me to come with you?]
[No. I've got it handled.]
Isabella was about to pack up when someone knocked on her office door.
Joseph stepped inside. His gaze immediately went to her coat. "Where are you headed?"
"Mason from West Coast Hospitality & Tourism Group wants to meet tonight about the project." She buttoned her coat while she spoke. "They sent an email suspending the collaboration. I need to explain."
Joseph's frown appeared instantly.
"Mason? I've dealt with him. Slick guy. Not exactly the honorable type." His voice carried a sharp note of caution. "Where does he want to meet?"
"A private club."
Joseph's expression shifted at once. "I'm going with you."
"No." Isabella shook her head, steady and calm. "He asked for me. If you come along, he'll think Northstar Architecture lacks sincerity—that the design director can't even speak for herself and needs her boss to show up."
She held his gaze, her eyes clear and level. "Joseph, I know what you're worried about. But I'm not some fragile greenhouse flower. I can handle this."
She tapped the pocket of her blazer. The recorder inside made a faint, dense thump. "Besides, I'm prepared."
Joseph studied her for several long seconds before relenting.
He pulled out his car keys and handed them to her. "Take my car. It has a dashcam. Park right in front of the club's entrance where the building cameras can see you. If anything feels off, call me immediately."
Isabella accepted the keys with a small nod. "Thank you."
At eight‑thirty that night, she arrived at the private club in downtown Tech Harbor.
After parking, she straightened her collar, checked that the recorder was running, and stepped out of the car.
The place was extravagant—polished marble, warm lighting, understated wealth everywhere. Two attendants in black suits stood by the entrance.
"Good evening. May we have your name?"
"Isabella. Mason Young invited me."
They checked the list, then escorted her into an elevator that took her straight to the top floor.
At the end of the hallway sat a large private suite. Warm yellow light glowed behind frosted glass, and soft music murmured from inside.
Isabella pushed the door open.
The suite was luxurious, with floor‑to‑ceiling windows overlooking Tech Harbor's glittering night skyline.
A round redwood table sat at the center, already covered with food and bottles of liquor.
Mason sat at the head of the table. He looked to be in his early fifties, stocky, wearing a deep‑blue casual suit with two buttons undone at the collar, a thick gold chain visible against his skin.
There was no one else in the room.
Isabella's eyes narrowed slightly.
A private dinner—and he was alone.
"Ms. Tudor!" Mason stood up with exaggerated enthusiasm, gesturing to the seat beside him. "There you are! Smooth trip, I hope?"
Isabella didn't take the offered seat. Instead, she walked around the table and sat directly across from him.
"Thank you for making time, Mr. Young." Her tone was steady, polite but cool. "I'm here mainly to discuss the project. About those rumors online—"
"Hold on." Mason waved a broad hand, cutting her off. "Let's have a drink first. Can't talk business without a drink."
He grabbed a bottle of opened whiskey and filled a glass to the brim, sliding it toward her. "Come on, Ms. Tudor. Have one with me. Give me a little face, huh?"
Isabella looked at the drink for a beat.
She knew the truth: if she refused now, the deal was finished tonight.
Men like Mason pushed harder the more distance you kept. If you stayed rigid, they doubled down.
So she picked up the glass and drank it in one long swallow.
The liquor seared down her throat, a hot line settling heavy and fiery in her stomach.
When she set the glass down, Mason's expression flickered—surprise, greed, maybe both—before he grinned wider.
"Ms. Tudor's got guts! Another!"
She didn't refuse. She lifted the second glass, then the third, then the fourth.
By the fourth, a faint flush warmed her cheeks, but her eyes remained focused and controlled.
She set the empty glass down hard enough to make a sharp sound. "Mr. Young, I've had the drinks. Can we discuss the project now?"
She pulled several documents from her briefcase and laid them neatly on the table.
"This is the university's official investigation report regarding the anonymous accusation from years ago. The conclusion states clearly that the allegations were fabricated and that my competition work was independently created. It's signed by the head of the committee and stamped by the university."
She opened the second document.
"This is the National Architecture Museum's digital archive certificate and copyright registration for my thesis project. The timestamp predates the so‑called 'copied design' by six years."
Then the third.
"And this is the data analysis report my attorney obtained this afternoon. It shows that the accounts spreading the rumors were newly registered bots, with clear signs of artificially manipulated engagement."