Chapter 8

A few days later.

Cordelia sat in Yvaine's living room, design sketches spread out before her.

The papers had yellowed slightly, their edges curling.

Some were from three years ago. Others dated back to her college days.

She flipped through them one by one, her fingers tracing familiar lines, her eyes gradually brightening.

Yvaine brought over a cup of coffee and sat beside her. "How's it going? Feeling inspired?"

Cordelia smiled. "These are all old. I'll need to rework them."

"But the deadline's the day after tomorrow."

"I'll make it." She picked up her pen and began sketching on one of the drafts.

The moment the pen touched paper, the whole world went quiet.

Yvaine watched her friend's focused profile, smiled, and said nothing more.

Two days later.

The International Design Competition venue.

The exhibition hall blazed with lights. A long registration desk was mobbed with people. Camera flashes popped constantly in the media section.

Cordelia wore a simple beige suit, carrying a portfolio with her sketches, standing among the crowd.

She looked up at the enormous screen in the center of the hall, scrolling through the names of shortlisted entries.

"Cordelia."

A familiar voice came from behind her.

She turned to see Griffin approaching with a smile, wearing a deep blue suit that enhanced his distinguished bearing.

"You're here too?" Cordelia was somewhat surprised.

Was Griffin a judge?

Griffin nodded. "I was invited as a juror. Have you submitted your work?"

"I'm about to."

"Good luck." He looked at her, his gaze gentle. "I'm looking forward to seeing your design."

Cordelia smiled. "Thank you."

As they were talking, a commotion erupted at the entrance.

Cordelia instinctively turned to look.

Camera flashes went wild. The crowd automatically parted.

Ellington walked in, wearing a black suit, his sharp features as striking as ever.

And beside him was Ondine.

In a champagne-colored gown, her smile polished, she held his arm.

Apparently, Ondine was also participating in this competition.

Cordelia took one glance and looked away.

"Let's go."

She said to Griffin, "I need to submit my entry."

Submission was quick.

Next came the preliminary judging. All contestants waited in the exhibition hall.

Cordelia found a corner to stand in, pulling out her phone to review photos of her designs.

Time crawled by.

Suddenly, the noise in the hall gradually quieted.

Cordelia looked up to see several judges emerging from the review room.

Leading them was an elderly designer with white hair, his expression grave, holding two files.

Every eye turned toward them.

"Everyone."

The elderly designer spoke, his voice stern. "This competition upholds principles of fairness and integrity. We will not tolerate any form of plagiarism."

The hall fell completely silent.

Cordelia's heart plummeted, her fingers tightening around her phone.

The elderly designer's gaze swept across the crowd and finally settled in one direction.

"Ms. Ondine Lawson, Ms. Cordelia Sinclair, please come forward."

All eyes turned toward them.

Cordelia froze for a moment, then stepped toward the stage.

Ondine approached from another direction, her expression shifting.

The two women stood before the judges.

The elderly designer laid both files open on the table. "These two designs have highly similar concepts and nearly identical use of core elements. We need an explanation."

Whispers rippled through the hall.

Cordelia looked down—

One was her work.

The design she'd drawn three years ago and revised countless nights afterward.

The other was Ondine's. The line structure, even the treatment of details, were virtually identical to hers.

In that instant, something detonated in Cordelia's mind.

She stared at those familiar lines, her heart clenched in a vise.

She'd spent countless nights painstakingly creating these, stroke by stroke. During those cold, lonely days at the Carnegie house, this had been the only thing she had to hold onto.

And now it was in Ondine's hands?

"I didn't plagiarize." Ondine spoke first, her tone carrying a hint of injury. "This is my original work. I spent a month developing it from concept to completion."

The elderly designer looked at Cordelia. "Ms. Sinclair, what do you have to say?"

Cordelia said nothing.

She stared at the two sets of sketches as images flashed rapidly through her mind.

These sketches—she'd kept them in the desk drawer of the Carnegie Villa study.

After she married in, they were the only things she'd brought with her.

Occasionally she'd take them out, look at them, revise them—a small hope she'd kept for herself.

And Ondine had visited the Carnegie Villa after returning to the country.

So that was it.

Ondine lifted her head, her gaze traveling through the crowd to land on Ellington.

He stood there, brow furrowed, his expression frighteningly dark.

Cordelia suddenly felt like laughing.

Three years of marriage. She'd given everything, and this was what she got—him handing over her life's work to someone else?

"Plagiarism?"

"How could Ondine plagiarize? She's an internationally renowned designer."

"Who's this Cordelia? Never heard of her."

Whispers kept coming, each one more cutting than the last.

Cordelia stood there, listening to those words, her fingertips ice-cold.

Ondine kept her eyes lowered, her lashes trembling slightly, the picture of wounded innocence.

But no one saw the flash of triumph deep in her eyes.

She'd already cleaned up all trace of that original sketch.

Ondine lifted her eyes slightly, looking at Cordelia's pale face across from her, satisfaction surging through her chest.

"Ms. Sinclair." Someone from the judging panel spoke, their tone already impatient. "If you cannot provide solid evidence, we can only determine that your work is suspected of plagiarism. According to competition rules, we will disqualify you and issue an industry-wide notice."

Cordelia's hands trembled slightly.

If she was really reported here, she'd carry the stain of plagiarism in this industry forever.

She'd never be able to hold her head up again.

Ondine stood there, the corner of her eye catching Cordelia's trembling fingers, her satisfaction nearly overflowing.

"Wait."

Just then, another voice rang out.

Griffin stood up from the judging panel and walked to the stage.

"Mr. Mitchell." Ondine's expression shifted, her triumph dimming slightly. "You're a judge. Shouldn't you recuse yourself?"

Griffin glanced at her coolly. "Precisely because I'm a judge, I must ensure fairness."

He turned to the audience, his voice steady. "Ms. Sinclair's work, in both style and technique, is consistent with the design that won her the international emerging designer award in college. The veteran judges here should be able to see that."

Several older judges exchanged glances and nodded slightly.

"Furthermore." Griffin continued. "Plagiarism accusations require evidence. Currently, both parties maintain their positions. Without concrete proof, we cannot reach a conclusion based solely on name recognition."

Ondine bit her lip, laughing coldly inside.

She'd already photographed those sketches and put them back. The originals didn't even have a fingerprint on them. Who could prove they were Cordelia's?

So what if Griffin spoke up?

Without evidence, it was all empty talk.

Cordelia looked at Griffin's back, her eyes stinging slightly.

At her most helpless moment, at least one person was willing to stand up for her.

But she knew it wasn't enough.

As she listened to the whispers below, her thoughts suddenly returned to when she was eighteen.

That year she'd stood on the award stage, lights shining on her, thinking the whole world was hers.

These past three years, for the sake of one man, she'd made herself smaller and smaller, so small she'd pretended those dreams had never existed.

And the result? The moment Ondine returned, Cordelia became nothing.

Now Ondine wanted to steal even this last thing from her.

She couldn't let this continue.

Whatever the outcome, she couldn't let Ondine destroy her like this.

She took a deep breath, swallowing the sourness in her throat.

The pain of her nails digging into her palm snapped her fully awake.

When she lifted her head, the turbulence in her eyes was gone.

Her gaze swept over Ondine's injured expression, over the whispering crowd below, and finally landed on the judging panel.

She spoke, her voice carrying clearly throughout the hall: "I have evidence."