Chapter 91
She rushed toward the man, and before he could react, she slammed her hand hard down on his wrist — the one holding the bottle.
The big guy let out a sharp, agonizing scream. The sound of cracking bone made everyone's skin crawl.
His partners watched in shock, their faces going pale.
But Charlotte didn't slow down for a second. She followed through with a flying kick, driving her foot hard into the shoulder of the guy who was holding the young man.
There was a loud crack, and the man's arm went limp, dangling uselessly at his side — clearly dislocated.
The young man seized the moment and kicked out hard.
The big guy flew backward, crashed into a metal trash can, and hit the ground with a loud bang. He didn't get up for a long time.
The last one standing looked at his two fallen partners, his face draining of color. His body started shaking on its own.
The moment he met Charlotte's sharp, cold gaze, he swallowed hard. He didn't dare stick around. He grabbed his injured partners and scrambled out of the alley as fast as he could.
Quiet settled back over the alley. The young man swayed, then slid down the wall and sat on the ground, breathing hard.
Even so, he kept his eyes locked on Charlotte, watching her with clear suspicion.
Charlotte turned around. She could see him pressing a hand tightly against his stomach — he was hurt. She raised an eyebrow slightly but walked over anyway.
"You okay?"
He gritted his teeth, wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, and shook his head.
"Don't worry, I'm not dying."
"But... thanks for helping me."
Charlotte pressed her lips together at that. She didn't say anything, just reached into her bag and pulled out a pack of wet wipes, holding them out to him.
"Clean yourself up."
He stared at her hand for a long moment before finally reaching out to take them.
Just then, a black notebook slipped out of the torn pocket of his vest and hit the ground, falling open.
Charlotte looked at it for a second, then bent down and picked it up.
In the faint glow of the streetlight, she could make out what it was — a sketchbook. The pages had yellowed with age, which made it obvious it had been flipped through many times and was something its owner took good care of.
She started leafing through it, and her expression slowly grew serious.
It was full of design drawings — rough sketches, finished renderings, detailed breakdowns of individual elements.
They were done in pencil, but the lines were confident and fluid, and the compositions were strikingly bold.
What caught Charlotte's eye most was a series of jewelry designs built around the theme of "ruins" — shattered rubble combined with glittering gemstones. There was something alive about the images, something that felt entirely its own.
Charlotte's gaze sharpened.
"You drew these?"
The young man noticed the notebook in her hands. A flash of panic crossed his face, and he reached out to grab it back.
"Give it back."
Charlotte didn't make it difficult for him. She closed the notebook and handed it over.
"These are good."
"What's your name?"
He straightened his back, pushed himself up along the wall, and hugged the notebook tightly to his chest like it was something precious.
He glanced at Charlotte, seemed to decide she wasn't a threat, and answered.
"Frederick Wycliffe."
"Frederick..."
Charlotte murmured the name under her breath, her mind turning it over quickly — and then it clicked.
"You're the Frederick who won the excellence award at the National Youth Jewelry Design Competition last month?"
His body stiffened the moment she said it.
Then a bitter, self-mocking look crossed his face.
"Yeah. That's me."
If Charlotte remembered correctly, that competition had been jointly sponsored by several of the country's biggest legacy jewelry houses — and the Johnson family had been one of the sponsors.
She had seen the results.
The gold and silver winners' work had been completely unremarkable. No spark, no originality whatsoever.
Even someone outside the industry could tell at a glance that work like that had no business winning a competition like that.
It was obviously the result of money calling the shots.
The pieces with real creativity had all been buried, with no chance of ever rising to the top.
Thinking about it, a cold smile tugged at the corner of Charlotte's mouth.
She also remembered clearly that Frederick's collection had been her favorite — the concept was way ahead of its time, and the execution was exceptional.
But during the second round, the judges had accused him of plagiarism. The evidence wasn't strong enough to make it stick, but the damage was already done. By the time he was cleared, it was too late. They handed him an excellence award as a consolation prize and called it a day.
Of course, those judges were probably afraid Frederick might cause trouble, so they worked with the major companies to quietly blacklist him across the industry.
"How did you end up working as a waiter here?" Charlotte asked after a moment.
"Because I need to eat." Frederick's voice was flat and cold. "Those companies blacklisted me. I can't sell my designs. So this is what I've got."
"I still have tuition to pay. I still have to live."
Charlotte caught something he wasn't saying. She raised an eyebrow. "Is that the only reason?"
He went quiet.
He stared hard at the ground, fingers digging into the cover of the sketchbook.
After a long silence, he spoke.
"My sister has kidney failure. She's waiting for a donor."
"The dialysis and medication cost a lot every day. The scholarship from school doesn't come close to covering it. I have to make money."
Charlotte looked at this young man — battered, bleeding, but still standing — and felt something stir inside her.
After a long moment, she let out a quiet sigh.
"Have you heard of the Langley Group?"
He looked up, a flicker of confusion in his eyes, but nodded.
"Yeah. They've been making a lot of moves in the jewelry world lately."
"My name is Charlotte."
She pulled a business card from her bag and held it out to him. "I'm the current sales manager at the Langley Group."
Frederick stared at the card — clean, well-made — and froze completely.
"You..."
"The Langley Group is launching a new project. We need people."
Charlotte cut him off, her tone calm and even. "You have real talent. You shouldn't be buried in a place like this."
"Tomorrow morning at nine, bring every design you have and come find me at the Langley Group."
Frederick stared at the card without reaching for it.
After a long pause, he took a slow breath, his expression complicated.
"Ms. Johnson, you probably already know I've been blacklisted by some heavy hitters in this industry."
"If you bring me on, it could cause unnecessary trouble for the Langley Group."
Charlotte let out a short, cool laugh, her eyes full of quiet confidence.
"Trouble? The Langley Group already has plenty of it. One more won't matter."
"And those so-called heavy hitters?" She gave a dismissive sound. "They're not in any position to tell the Langley Group what to do."