Chapter 70 Battle of Proof

Chapter 70 Battle of Proof

Emma Johnson's POV

Cameras were stationed throughout the backstage area, broadcasting to the main screens to ensure total transparency. Meanwhile, contestants waited in the green room, unable to see the judging process directly—only summoned when called to the judges' chamber.

During this downtime, we were free to move around as we pleased.

I finally got my phone back from the staff and saw Louis had already texted me.

[How's the competition going?]

I slipped into a quiet corner and called him instead.

A few days apart, and I actually missed him.

Thankfully, he picked up quickly.

"How'd it go today? Competition going smoothly?" His voice came through low and raspy.

But I caught the off note immediately.

"Are you sick?" I frowned. "How bad is it? Have you seen a doctor?"

Louis coughed softly, clearly trying to downplay it.

"I'm fine. Probably just caught a little chill."

His voice sounded even more hoarse when ill—strangely appealing, in a way.

"Don't worry, just focus on your—"

Another low cough interrupted him.

"What do you mean 'fine'?!" My tone turned sharp. "Go see a doctor. Now."

He chuckled helplessly on the other end. "Alright, alright. I will."

I was about to say something else when a staff member suddenly appeared at the door, clipboard in hand, calling my name.

"Emma!"

I turned around as she hurried over.

"Ms. Johnson, you need to come to the judges' chamber immediately."

"Right now?" I held up my phone, quickly telling Louis I had to go before hanging up.

"What's going on?"

The staff member's eyes darted around nervously. She lowered her voice. "The situation is... complicated. All the judges and the organizing committee are there. You'll understand when you arrive. Please, quickly."

A cold prickle ran down my spine. Something was wrong.

I glanced across the room at Emily. A staff member was standing beside her as well.

"Alright." I nodded and followed the woman to the judges' office.

Emily trailed close behind.

"Please, come in." The door swung open.

Inside sat not just Everett and the other senior judges, but several organizing committee officials as well.

In the center of the room, two paintings lay side by side on a table.

Though covered with velvet cloths, I recognized the exposed edges and general contours immediately. One of them was mine.

"Ms. Emma Johnson, as our special challenger, I'm sure you possess unique talents. However, this competition has always prized originality. We have zero tolerance for plagiarism."

Every eye in the room fixed on me like a crushing weight.

Despite the oppressive atmosphere, I couldn't help but laugh.

"And?"

At a signal from the committee, a staff member stepped forward and simultaneously pulled back both cloths.

The paintings were identical.

"Please explain why your work bears such striking similarity to Ms. Emily Johnson's submission."

One of the judges frowned deeply. "This is unprecedented in the history of our competition. The matter is serious. We need an answer now."

I turned to look at Emily, who stood with her head bowed, a smirk barely hidden on her lips.

I understood instantly.

"You're saying I plagiarized Emily?"

I let out a cold laugh. "As if she's worth copying."

The entire room fell silent.

After a full five seconds, Everett was the first to slam his hand on the table and rise to his feet.

"What exactly are you implying?" His frown deepened, contempt dripping from every word.

"Emily is my top pick to win this competition. Since she entered, her talent and design skills have been undeniable. You, on the other hand, Ms. Emma Johnson—as a special challenger—have resorted to these filthy tactics to tarnish the integrity of this competition. The judging panel is deeply disappointed."

He put on an expression of mock regret, swaying the opinions of several others in the room.

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the judges, all of them turning their suspicion toward me.

"Emma, I never thought you'd stoop this low. How could you steal my creative vision?" Emily suddenly burst into tears, her performance captured by the cameras and broadcast to the audience screens outside, drawing waves of sympathy.

"So Emma's a plagiarist! Of all people to rip off, she goes after the frontrunner. Talk about a death wish."

"Can't believe she's that kind of person. You really never know."

"A disgrace to the design world. Pathetic."

Amid the torrent of abuse, I raised my hand, my voice calm and steady.

"Mr. Stevens, I'd like to clarify something. Before the competition began, you assured us that plagiarism would be impossible. So under full scrutiny, how exactly did I manage to secretly copy Emily's work?"

"Furthermore, I was the first of all eleven contestants to submit. My piece was immediately sealed by staff and transported directly to the judges' chamber. The entire process was handled by competition officials. Logically, I had no opportunity to see her work."

"Before jumping to conclusions, did you consider any of this?"

The lead official stammered, glancing toward a nearby assistant.

The assistant flipped through the records and nodded hesitantly.

"The footage confirms that Emma did finish first."

"Well—" Everett's expression flickered, but he quickly recovered, doubling down. "Timing doesn't absolve you! Perhaps you saw Emily's sketches beforehand. That would explain how you finished so quickly."

"Besides, Emily's painting aligns perfectly with her established style. A designer's signature aesthetic is nearly impossible to replicate. Are you really going to keep lying to our faces?"

"Mr. Stevens, I think this matter requires further discussion..." A few other judges began to waver.

Logically speaking, I'd had no opportunity to plagiarize.

"There's nothing to discuss! Emily is a student I've personally mentored. She would never stoop to plagiarism!" Everett glared at me. "As long as I'm here, I won't let you get away with this."

"Perfect," I said suddenly, clapping my hands lightly, a faint smile curling my lips. "You're even more protective of Emily than I imagined. But since you brought up sketches, I happen to have a sketchbook with me."

I pulled my sketchbook from my bag and handed it to a staff member.

"You'll find all the answers in there."

The judges eagerly took the book and began flipping through it.

Page after page of clear, detailed sketches—a complete record of my creative work spanning over twenty years.

Then they froze.