Chapter 100

Chapter 100:

The next morning, Milly sank onto the sofa in Colin’s office, her posture stiff, her thumb absently skimming the glassy surface of her phone.

On the screen, the complaint portal on the bidding conference website glowed like a silent temptation.

Though sunlight poured through the tall windows in dazzling sheets, an icy shiver threaded down Milly’s spine, settling into her bones.

A few minutes earlier, she had caught sight of Brinley’s team’s newest design update on the project bulletin board. The designs were so intricate—and so flawless—that they gnawed at her insides, stoking a jealousy so fierce it bordered on rage.

𝖲𝘢𝘃e 𝗒𝗼u𝗿 𝘧𝗮𝗏𝗼ri𝗍𝖾 ո𝗈v𝘦𝗅s 𝗈𝘯

Milly thrust the phone into Colin’s hands, her voice quivering despite her effort to sound firm. “Colin, just look at this proposal… it’s practically lifted straight from that foreign racing park. Even the track layout is a carbon copy p>

Colin studied Brinley’s designs in silence, his brows knitting slightly as he scanned the details. The overall concept did echo that foreign project, yet Brinley’s draft contained flourishes and innovative touches the other lacked.

“This doesn’t strike me as plagiarism,” he said at last, setting the phone aside, his voice even and composed. “Brinley isn’t the type to pull something like that p>

Milly’s tone sharpened, frustration cutting through as her composure faltered. “She’s desperate for a comeback, and this project is her golden ticket. Colin, are you really willing to stand by while she beats us with those stolen designs p>

Colin’s brows drew together, but he held his tongue.

No one understood Brinley like he did, and he knew she would never stoop to plagiarism. Her pride wouldn’t allow it.

If anything, it was Milly who had been unraveling lately, her actions growing stranger by the day.

“Enough,” he said, slicing through the tension with a clipped voice. His hand came down on the table, steady but controlled. “Whether she copied or not has nothing to do with us. What matters is getting ready for the defense two days from now p>

He forced himself to turn back to the proposal, though his shoulders remained tight with unease.

Even surrounded by a team of professionals, he couldn’t shake the memory of Brinley at the banquet. Her incisive comments about the project had unsettled him.

So deeply that it still kept his nerves taut, refusing to let him rest. Brinley’s knowledge of racing was uncanny, her insights rivaling those of the seasoned professionals he paid to advise him.

The sting of his previous miscalculation lingered—he had dismissed her then, and she had snatched the project out from under him. This time, he swore he wouldn’t repeat the same fatal error.

Determination burned through him. He would show everyone what he was truly capable of.

“All right,” Milly muttered, her lashes lowering to mask her frustration, though the document in her hands bore deep creases from her clenched grip.

That very afternoon, Brinley stepped into the conference room, her notes spread neatly before her as she prepared for the upcoming defense.

Corbin burst in, his face drained of color, clutching a letter. “Brinley, bad news! Someone filed an anonymous report claiming our proposal plagiarized a case from Flonga p>

The room went still. A heavy silence dropped over the table, and every gaze locked on Brinley.

She accepted the letter without haste, her slender fingers skimming the stark words: suspected plagiarism of a racing park in Flonga. Her brows drew together, then smoothed as quickly as they had furrowed.

“Is this worth losing composure over?” she murmured, laying the letter flat on the table. Her voice carried a cold steadiness. “A single complaint doesn’t define plagiarism p>

“They said they’ll re-evaluate our proposal. What if…” Corbin’s voice cracked, his eyes glassy with the threat of tears. “There are only two days before the bidding conference. What if the review falls apart p>

“There is no ‘what if.’” Brinley cut him off. Her tone was firm as she uncapped a marker and wrote “Proof of Originality” across the whiteboard. “Gather every detail and highlight the heart of our proposal,” she instructed, tapping the marker against the board for emphasis. “That racing park doesn’t have these features. That’s what sets us apart p>

Her gaze swept over the anxious faces in the room before she added with quiet authority, “Our proposal is unique. Pull the materials together—I’ll be the one to present them this afternoon p>

The steadiness in her voice worked like a balm. The tension in the room eased, and one by one her teammates bent back over their work with renewed focus.

Corbin leaned back in his chair, watching Brinley sketch crisp lines and precise annotations across the whiteboard. Admiration swelled in his chest—a leader who remained unshaken in a crisis was a rare gem.

Later that afternoon, Brinley entered the client’s company, her demeanor steady and composed.

In the conference room, she was received by Elisha Holden, the secretary-general overseeing the event—a dignified older man whose gold-rimmed glasses caught the light with every movement.

In his hands, he carried Milly’s formal complaint letter along with a thick folder of documents tied to the Flonga racing park project.

“Mrs. Moore,” Elisha said, sliding the folder across the polished table toward her. “Here are the complaint materials. Please review them.” He adjusted his glasses before adding in a measured tone, “The opposing party alleges that both your track layout and the spectator area design bear a striking resemblance to the Flonga project p>

Brinley flipped open the document, her brows knitting as she scanned the neatly formatted complaint. The letter dripped with forced professionalism, complete with two supposedly damning comparison sketches highlighted for emphasis.

Anyone with an ounce of discernment could see the truth—the concept might share a faint resemblance, but the execution was in an entirely different league.

“Mr. Holden.” Brinley set the file back on the table with calm precision, then slid her own stack of materials forward. Her gaze was steady, her tone unwavering. “First of all, Flonga did not invent the track concept. At least five international circuits have incorporated similar layouts. Second, my proposal introduces three distinctive features that Flonga’s design does not even touch p>

Every syllable landed with crisp authority. Supported by her intricate schematics and data, her case was ironclad, leaving no room for argument.

Elisha’s head bobbed faster and faster as he listened, until at last he couldn’t restrain himself. His voice burst with admiration. “This isn’t plagiarism at all. You’ve elevated the work—you’ve outshone the original! Brilliant p>

Brinley gathered the documents into a neat stack and closed them with quiet finality. Her tone remained steady, almost detached. “Thank you for acknowledging that, Mr. Holden. I trust you’ll prepare a clarification letter soon, so the review process isn’t disrupted p>

“Of course!” Elisha answered without hesitation, leaning forward with earnest urgency. “We’ll release a statement on the official site and set your reputation straight p>