Chapter 3

On the left was Summer’s design shown today; on the right were the sketches my mom had drawn years ago.

The paper of the sketches had yellowed, and the pencil lines were slightly smudged, but the skeleton of the design was crystal clear.

"Your collection is called "Refraction", and your inspiration is listed as a fusion of origami art and modern structure," I said, staring at Summer.

"But I noticed that the diagonal cut of the collar, the three-piece structure of the sleeves, and the vertical darting on the back are identical to my mother's designs from ten years ago."

Summer’s face went pale.

She parted her lips, but no sound came out.

I held up the comparison sheets toward the nearest camera. "These designs were fully prototyped by my mother twenty years ago. The person she was partnering with back then was named Vivian Sterling."

Hearing that name, Summer stumbled back a step.

She gripped the edge of the podium, her nails digging into the wood.

"Do you know Vivian Sterling?" I asked.

Summer’s lips trembled.

She lowered her head, then looked up again, the confidence in her eyes completely shattered. "She... she is my mother."

"What a coincidence."

I let out a cold laugh and tossed the papers back onto the table. "Your mother and mine started a garment workshop together back then. My mother was in charge of design and production, while yours handled marketing and sales."

"Just as the business started to thrive, your mother stole all the patent documents, design sketches, and cash overnight, and disappeared."

"That's a lie," Summer stammered, her voice shaking. "My mom isn't that kind of person... She told me that your mother’s poor management ruined the workshop, and she was forced to leave..."

"Then tell me, how does a poorly managed workshop manage to secure three registered trademarks and seventeen design patents in just three months?"

My voice wasn't loud, but every word echoed clearly in the quiet room.

Summer had no answer.

The media in the audience went wild.

Reporters began typing furiously on their phones, while photographers pushed forward to get a better shot.

On the live-stream platform, the comments were flying across the screen.

Summer’s mentor, a middle-aged man with black-rimmed glasses named Professor Harrison, stood up.

He cleared his throat. "Elena, could there be some misunderstanding here? Summer has been an outstanding student. Her talent is undeniable. She wouldn't..."

"Professor Harrison," I interrupted him. "You say her talent is undeniable. But have you actually seen her complete creative process for her graduation project? Is the documentation for every step—from research to sketches, to muslins, to the final garment—complete?"

Professor Harrison hesitated. "Well... most students just submit the final pieces. The process files are..."

"Which is why I have the complete process files right here."

I pulled a thick stack of papers from my folder. "These are the original manuscripts left by my mother. Every single page is dated and contains revision logs. Miss Sterling’s work shares a seventy-percent similarity with the designs her mother stole from mine."

I slammed the stack of manuscripts onto the table. It wasn't loud, but it carried immense weight.

The air froze.

Summer stood on the stage, her lips trembling, her eyes red. But she bit her lip, refusing to let herself cry.

"I will say it one more time." I sat back up, my gaze sweeping over the room. "Summer Sterling is eliminated. Next."

Nobody moved.

The host stood frozen on stage, holding the microphone halfway up, completely forgetting to speak.

Maya whispered something next to me, but I didn't care to listen.

Suddenly, Summer spoke up. "Elena."