Chapter 2

The entire hall fell dead silent.

Maya Ross, the judge sitting next to me, leaned over and nudged my elbow.

She kept her voice incredibly low. "Elena, are you sure you didn't make a mistake? Her work just got the highest scores of the night. She got a 9.8 for technique and a 9.7 for creativity. Your instant veto..."

She didn't finish her sentence, but the warning was clear.

I laid down my grading sheet and tapped my finger on the design descriptions. "I saw it very clearly."

The girl on stage was Summer Sterling, twenty-three years old, who had just graduated from Parsons School of Design.

She wore a sharply tailored black blazer dress, her hair pulled back into a low ponytail. Under the spotlights, she stood tall and sharp, like an unsheathed sword.

When she was presenting her work just now, her pace was perfect, and she nailed every single technical term.

As the slides of her design drafts flipped by—showing fabric swatches, technical details, and inspiration boards—everything looked flawless.

The crowd had applauded several times.

But as I stared at those sketches, my hand gripped my pen so hard my knuckles turned white.

They were too familiar.

The way she handled the pleats, the specific angle of the neckline cut, and even the proportions in the color palette—they were all drawn by my mother.

Years ago, my mom used to crouch on the floor of our cramped apartment, working under a dim desk lamp, drawing sheet after sheet.

Her fingers were deformed from holding pens for too long, leaving a thick callus on the joint of her middle finger.

Every time she finished a sketch, she would hold it up and look at it for a long time. Sometimes she smiled, and sometimes she sighed.

Those sketches disappeared later.

Along with my mother's so-called friend, every penny in the workshop’s bank account vanished, along with three registered brand patents.

My mom didn't call the police.

It wasn't that she didn't want to. She couldn't.

That woman’s name was never on any legal documents. My mom had trusted her so blindly that they never even signed a formal partnership agreement.

As a result, the workshop went bankrupt. Suppliers blocked our door, and workers demanded their wages.

My mom cleaned toilets during the day and drove Uber until two in the morning.

On the night she died, before she walked out the door, she turned and smiled at me. She said, "Elena, after I finish this last ride, I'll come back and make you something delicious."

By the time I rushed to the hospital, she was already in the ICU.

Intubated, pale, and completely unrecognizable.

I held her hand, but she could no longer speak. The last message she managed to pass to me through a nurse was: "Don't be like me. I was too foolish."

And indeed, I didn't follow in her footsteps.

I was not foolish enough to trust anyone.

And I certainly wasn't foolish enough to let my enemy’s daughter win a championship on my stage.

"Elena, may I ask for a reason?"

Summer stood on the stage, holding the microphone close to her lips.

Her voice was steady, but her fingers gripping the mic were tight, her knuckles turning white.

I looked up at her.

Her face was a carbon copy of her mother, Vivian Sterling, in her youth.

"Your work," I said coldly, "is suspected of plagiarism."

Summer’s face froze.

The crowd gasped, and the sound of camera shutters filled the room.

"That's impossible!"

Summer’s voice pitched higher.

"Every single one of my designs is original. From the mood board to the final drape, I did it all by myself. I have the entire process documented!"

Maya nudged me again, harder this time. "Elena, that’s a very serious accusation. Do you want to reconsider?"

Ignoring her, I pulled a few sheets of paper from my folder and spread them across the table.