Chapter 37
"Yes, Ms. Tudor."
With Isabella's command, the blinds on Northstar Architecture's eighteenth‑floor office dropped shut all at once, sealing the room off from the world.
For the next thirty hours, the kind of complex data that normally took a full team half a month to run was rebuilt in her mind with brutal, relentless speed.
She didn't think about The Sinclair Group's quiet deal with The Genesis Group to take her down.
She didn't think about whether James was standing beside Charlotte right now, waiting to watch her fall.
Summit day arrived.
On the screen, a three‑dimensional breathing‑structure model—so much more elegant and flawless than anything Ryan's team had ever produced—completed the final force‑testing loop.
"It worked." Nora's eyes were red as she stared at the miraculous building spinning on the display. Her whole body trembled, and tears fell onto the keyboard without warning.
Around her, the entire design floor, eyes bloodshot from the all‑nighter, erupted in a roar of pure triumph.
Isabella leaned back in her chair and let out one long breath. She lifted her cup of completely cold black coffee and drained it in one go.
The shadows of sabotage were gone from her gaze. In their place was the quiet, unshakable composure of a ruler right before she ascended her throne.
"Pack up," Isabella said as she stood. She locked the classified data files into an encrypted drive and slipped it into her briefcase. "It's time to meet the most demanding judges in the country—and time to greet a few old friends who couldn't wait to watch us fail."
Hours later, the Golden Arch Summit.
Tech Harbor's most extravagant convention center shimmered beneath its massive dome. The world's top architects, investment powerhouses, and media outlets crowded the space. Camera flashes popped like fireworks.
Northstar Architecture's corporate car rolled to a stop at the end of the red carpet.
The door opened, and Isabella stepped out first, her twelve‑centimeter black stilettos striking the pavement with ruthless precision.
A deep‑navy tailored suit hugged her tall frame. Her hair was pinned high in a sleek twist, no jewelry except a single silver geometric brooch glinting at her collarbone.
With Nora—transformed and confident—and the steady, stone‑faced Joseph at her side, Isabella entered the hall under a barrage of cameras, her presence dominating the space without effort.
Inside the check‑in lobby, the crowd buzzed with motion.
Just as Isabella's team received their event badges, a loud, grating voice cut across the hall.
"Well, well. Isn't this our Ms. Tudor? I honestly thought Northstar Architecture would've been on the first red‑eye out of the country last night."
The greasy, mocking tone echoed behind them.
Isabella turned, her expression turning to ice.
Dennis Gonzalez, President of Genesis Architects for the Amber District, strutted toward them. His beer belly strained against his expensive suit, and behind him stood Ryan and Tyler.
Both men now wore custom dark suits with bright red Genesis Group partner rose pins on their lapels. They carried themselves with the inflated pride of men who believed they had won.
Yet when Isabella's cold eyes settled on them, both flinched.
Dennis stopped directly in front of her. He made a show of turning his wrist so the light hit the limited‑edition watch worth several hundred thousand dollars.
"Ms. Tudor, I heard your office lights were on all night. Funny. Losing all your core staff… what'd you do, throw a bunch of interns at the problem and pray they didn't crash your entire model?"
His laugh was loud enough to draw other firms' attention.
"Well, what can I say? When you've got a pretty face, you can scribble a couple sketches and find a clueless boss to bankroll you. No wonder you think you're some kind of design queen."
He glanced back at Ryan and Tyler, smirking wider.
"But don't worry. If Northstar Architecture chokes today and you can't present anything decent, The Genesis Group will be generous enough to cover for you. After all, your best work is in our hands now."
He said it like he wasn't bragging about outright stealing intellectual property.
Joseph's hands curled into fists at his sides. His jaw clenched as he stepped forward.
But Isabella raised a hand, stopping him with the smallest gesture.
She understood exactly how ugly these people could be. And precisely because of that, she refused to show even a hint of fear.
In the face of real strength, their dirty games weren't even worth laughing at.
She tilted her head and looked Ryan and Tyler over—slow, deliberate, merciless—before landing her gaze on Dennis's shiny, overconfident face.
A cold smile crept across her lips. "Your best work? You mean the pile of mistakes I threw in the trash?"
Dennis's grin twitched. Ryan and Tyler went pale.
"Tripling their salaries to steal two men who can't even calculate a basic wind‑resistance coefficient or polymer stretch tolerance."
Isabella stepped forward, her heels striking the marble in a sharp, ringing echo.
"And waving around the defective scraps I already scrapped as if you bought treasure? The Genesis Group's standards are… enlightening."
She didn't spare them another glance. She simply turned.
"Open your eyes. Watch closely. Watch how the garbage you paid so much for gets crushed on the summit stage."
Around them, designers from other top firms burst into quiet, incredulous snickers.
Dennis's face froze, as if someone had clamped a hand around his throat.
He jabbed a shaking finger at her, his faux gentleman act shattering completely. "Isabella! You think your empty shell of a proposal is going to survive? I can't wait to watch it burn!"
Isabella didn't bother looking back. She lifted her chin and walked deeper into the hall with Nora and Joseph, moving like a queen reclaiming her throne.
All they saw was her silhouette—slim, composed, untouchably strong.
From the shadowed glass balcony on the mezzanine above, someone else watched her.
James stood with both hands braced on the marble railing, eyes locked on the woman below.
He had seen everything—her brutal dismantling of The Genesis Group, her unwavering confidence, her refusal to bow even when cornered.
The deep navy suit traced every sharp and elegant line of her body. Her high-pinned hair exposed the pale curve of her neck—cool, regal, impossibly graceful.
She stood under the lights, radiant and fierce, so bright he couldn't look away.
Not for a single second.