Susan's POV: Once Candice left, I pulled out the design draft and studied Rosaline's style carefully. I had to admit—the technique was clever. She had a way of surprising people with the details. But so what? Didn't I get my hands on it anyway? After working on it for an entire day, I finally finished modifying the draft. I kept Rosaline's foundation but added my flair to it. Now all I had to do was wait for the competition to start. Two days later, the design contest began right on schedule. Following two rounds—the model presentation and the design submission—the head judge rose from his seat and announced, just as I'd expected, "The winner of this year's design competition is Loe, the head designer of Loe Studio!" "Hold it right there!" I had been standing in the crowd all along, waiting for that exact moment. As soon as the announcement was made, I stepped forward confidently, sweeping my gaze across the room. "I would like to report," I said clearly. "That design is a copy of mine!" Gasps and murmurs rippled through the audience—designers and spectators, all equally shocked. A low buzz of conversation rose from the stands. The judges exchanged confused looks and began flipping through the design portfolios on the table. Then, the head judge's hand paused mid-page, his expression turning strangely complicated. I couldn't help but curl my lips into a smile. Let's see how you get out of this one. "Ms. Susan, please return to your place for now," the head judge finally said after a long pause. I'm still smiling. I turned and walked back to the lineup of contestants. As I passed Rosaline, I gave her a knowing look. But then, nothing happened after I returned to my seat. No reaction from the judges, no questions, no follow-up. I waited. And waited. And nothing. What was going on? The design was obviously plagiarized—how could they not see it? Then came the exhibit, and my confusion only deepened. All the pieces were displayed anonymously. First, models would showcase the outfits on the runway. Then, the garments would be hung on racks for viewing. But when the ushers rolled out the racks, I didn't see anything resembling that red vintage gown. What the hell? I frowned, clenching my fists as I glanced over at Rosaline. She didn't even spare me a look. Her eyes were locked on the stage. Then I looked down, scanning the nameplates engraved beneath each display. When I reached the one labeled Loe Studio, my breath caught. Inside the case was a light blue mermaid gown, its hem fading into deeper shades of blue, sprinkled with shimmering sequins. I froze. When the model had walked the runway in that dress, the entire room had gone dark, and the skirt—over three feet long—had shimmered like a galaxy scattered across the floor. Even I couldn't deny it was absolutely stunning. What's going on? Something wasn't right. As the moments pieced together in my head, it all looked reasonable on the surface—but deep down, it didn't add up. Was Candice tricked? I pressed my lips together. The more I thought about it, the more ridiculous my accusation seemed. Looking at my team's design beside Loe's galactic masterpiece, even the other designers were glancing over with strange expressions, some even shaking their heads. My face burned with embarrassment. I felt humiliated—furious and ashamed all at once. Finally, the head judge addressed me. "Ms. Susan, your gown and Loe's are clearly not the same." Awkward, I wanted to disappear. I forced a weak smile, then quietly slipped off to the side, pulling out my phone to call Candice. She answered cheerily, "Hey, how'd it go? Did Rosaline totally embarrass herself?" "Embarrass herself?!" I nearly exploded. I had no idea what kind of mess Candice got into. Did she just hand me a random sketch and pretend it was Rosaline's? I lowered my voice so no one would hear. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the other designers still focused on the displays. Relieved, I hissed into the phone, "What is going on? Did you grab the wrong design? Loe's final piece doesn't match the draft you gave me at all! It's not even vintage—it's completely different!""What? That's impossible!" Candice's voice jumped an octave. "I saw Camilla put the design on the table with my own eyes. That's the one I took!" "You're sure?" I asked sharply. "I'm sure," she insisted. "Ms. Susan." Before I could say another word, a voice rang out behind me. Shocked, I immediately hung up and spun around—only to find the head judge looking straight at me.