Chapter 27
Ten minutes later, Charlotte's high‑profile social media account lit up with a new post.
It was a photo of a blindingly white, handwritten apology letter, paired with a long, groveling confession admitting every fabricated and illegal move she had made.
She pinned it to the very top of her page.
Within minutes, the comment section was swallowed by thousands of furious insults and contemptuous remarks.
Charlotte stared at the screen so hard her nails nearly broke the skin of her own palm.
She couldn't let herself suffer a full social death in her circle. Not like this.
Grinding her teeth, she wiped her tears with the back of her hand, grabbed her backup phone, and immediately called another underground PR team.
"Buy me a swarm of die‑hard fans. The most realistic ones you can get."
"Flood my comments. Say I was tricked by that PR agency who posted everything. Say I was just too kind and got used. Now go!"
Money worked miracles.
In barely half an hour, her once‑hostile comment section was suddenly overrun by waves of neatly synchronized fan messages.
[Our Charlotte must've been deceived! She can't even bring herself to kill a bug, why would she smear someone?]
[That agency is disgusting. They used Charlotte's name to hurt people. Charlotte's a victim too!]
[Even if she made mistakes, she already had handwritten and pinned her apology. What more does Isabella want? Give people a break—stop being so vicious.]
[Supporting Charlotte forever! Everyone slips up. Admitting it and fixing it makes her a good girl!]
Watching the tide slowly bend under her money's weight, Charlotte felt a twisted sense of relief unwind inside her. A warped smile tugged at her lips.
'Isabella, did you think a single apology letter could end me? I have money. I have ways to clean myself up. As long as someone out there defends me, I'm not finished.'
At that same moment, in the president's office of Northstar Architecture at Tech Harbor.
Isabella held a cup of hot tea, her expression calm as she scrolled through the circus of comments under Charlotte's pinned apology.
"Unbelievable how some people refuse to learn," Joseph muttered beside her, frowning at the obviously paid‑for comments. Disgust flickered in his eyes.
"She's still playing these pathetic games. Want me to have the tech team trace all those IPs and make them public?"
"No need." Isabella let out a soft, almost amused breath. She lifted her tea to her lips, and the rising steam softened her cool features.
There was no anger in her eyes—only the detached amusement of someone watching a street clown flail.
Watching Charlotte struggle like that struck her as nothing but pitiful.
She set down her cup and tapped a few keys, switching to the verified official account of Northstar Architecture's Chief Design Director—an account with millions of followers. Then she went straight to the top of Charlotte's page.
She didn't argue. Didn't rant. Didn't mud‑wrestle with the paid fans.
She simply left one short comment: [Owning up to your mistakes is good. I hope Ms. Johnson keeps a firm grip on the legal bottom line from now on. As for a moral bottom line, you don't have one, so I won't demand it. Take care of yourself.]
The internet erupted instantly.
[Ms. Tudor is savage! Absolute annihilation!]
[Did she just call out Charlotte for having zero morals? I love her!]
[Look at those paid fans twisting themselves into knots. The woman herself doesn't even bother arguing with trash. The law is the only baseline!]
After posting, Isabella closed the app and silenced her phone.
The online storm was over for her.
She turned away from the screen, pulled out a fresh sheet of architectural paper, flattened it with a paperweight, and picked up her drafting pen.
For her, creating the most breathtaking design possible was the best retaliation against people who lived in the shadows and reveled in filth.
The next morning.
Sunlight pushed through the light coastal fog around Tech Harbor, and the offices of Northstar Architecture were already buzzing with early activity.
Isabella had just finished her first cup of black coffee and was about to start her morning meeting with the structural team when someone knocked lightly on her door.
The HR supervisor stepped in with a young woman beside her.
"Ms. Tudor, sorry to interrupt."
"This is Joanna Jordan, one of our new interns."
"Her father, Mr. Jordan, is the third‑largest investor in the West Coast Project. Ms. Jordan just graduated from a top university and wants to train with our core Design Division One. Mr. Miller approved it. She'll be under your team."
At that, Isabella lifted her gaze to the young woman.
Joanna looked barely twenty, dressed head‑to‑toe in this season's couture. She carried a limited‑edition Birkin and wore heels sharp enough to qualify as weapons.
She didn't look like someone ready for long nights drafting blueprints. She looked like someone who had wandered in hoping for a modeling audition.
"Welcome, Ms. Jordan," Isabella said in a calm, businesslike tone. She gestured to a stack of foundational site‑survey documents. "Since you're joining Division One, start with the basic data review. Your desk is in the second row outside."
But Joanna didn't reach for the papers.
She crossed her arms, took a step forward in her heels, and looked Isabella up and down. "So you're Isabella?"
Joanna let out a sneer, "I thought the Chief Director that Mr. Miller has always admired and doted on was some extraordinary genius with unmatched abilities. Turns out you're nothing special."
The HR supervisor paled instantly. Sweat broke out on his forehead. "Ms. Jordan, please watch your tone. Ms. Tudor is a core leader of Northstar—"
"And what about it?" Joanna lifted her chin, every inch the spoiled princess.
"People hype her like she's untouchable. She's just a divorcée. Who knows if her awards were even deserved?"
She shot Isabella a disdainful look. "I came to Northstar for Mr. Miller. I'm not staying under this woman and watching her mood swings every day."
Joanna was known for being a pampered heiress—and one of Joseph's more obsessive admirers.
She had begged and pouted until her family pushed her into Northstar, all for the chance to get close to him. And the moment she entered the company, she'd overheard everyone buzzing about Joseph's fierce public defense of Isabella.
Her jealousy had already flared hot enough to incinerate her common sense. Seeing Isabella in person only made her want to lash out.
Through all of it, Isabella didn't flinch. She didn't frown. She didn't let even a shadow of irritation show.
She had dealt with Charlotte's polished two‑faced tricks, and Joseph's high‑society mother's icy brand of arrogance.
Compared to them, Joanna's childish tantrum wasn't even worth registering.
She was too busy for petty soap‑opera jealousy.