Chapter 61
Though Isabella Sinclair merely inquired if Sophia Kensington wished to see the proof, she’d already motioned to a staff member nearby.
“Activate the projection system,” she commanded, her tone measured yet carrying undeniable authority. “Upload the files from my private drive.”
Sophia stiffened, her thoughts spiraling.
This couldn’t be happening. Isabella couldn’t possibly have evidence. It was impossible. If she did, Sophia’s carefully constructed façade would crumble. Yet as she studied Isabella’s unshaken composure, doubt slithered into her mind, eroding her certainty.
Even Ethan Blackwood, typically impassive, arched a brow, visibly startled by Isabella’s confidence.
Within seconds, the massive screen illuminated.
The footage revealed a younger Isabella in a competition hall. Her features were softer then, her poise not yet honed to its current razor’s edge, but the focused crease between her brows and that detached, calculating gaze—they were unmistakable.
Ethan’s breath hitched. This was a side of Isabella he’d never witnessed. The rawness of her youth contrasted sharply with the sharp intellect blazing in her eyes, as if she could dissect the world’s flaws with a glance. His pulse thrummed erratically, a traitorous reaction he couldn’t suppress.
But the crowd wasn’t mesmerized by her appearance.
It was her staggering skill that left them breathless.
“Gods,” someone murmured, awestruck. “She’s gauging ratios by scent alone—no measurements, no calculations.”
“Precision like that?” another whispered. “One miscalculation ruins the entire composition. This isn’t just talent—it’s witchcraft.”
The video continued, Isabella’s hands moving with methodical grace as she blended cedarwood, musk, violet, and a whisper of rosemary. A pause. A testing inhale. Then—perfection.
“You’re all connoisseurs,” Isabella’s voice sliced through the murmurs. “You recognize this stage of the process.”
Her gaze never wavered, indifferent to the stunned silence.
“This footage is from my first international competition. Per the rules, judges are sworn to secrecy unless the contestant discloses their identity. Aside from Reginald Kingsley, no one knew Scarlet Snake’s true face—until today.”
Reginald gave a solemn nod. “The technique you witnessed is identical to the championship-winning formula. Any rational person can now see the truth. Isabella Sinclair is Scarlet Snake. Denying it would be delusional.”
The evidence was irrefutable.
The room erupted.
“Sophia wore Scarlet Snake’s signature scent while accusing the creator of plagiarism? The audacity!”
“That teenager in the video revolutionized modern perfumery. And now she’s standing here, ten times more brilliant—this is historic!”
Sophia withered under the scornful glares, her skin crawling as if ants marched beneath it. But Isabella wasn’t finished.
“Earlier,” Isabella began, her voice a scalpel peeling back layers of deceit, “you claimed shared base notes constitute theft. You impersonated Scarlet Snake’s protégé.” A glacial smile. “Funny. I’d never mentor someone so…” Her eyes raked over Sophia’s ashen face. “…exceptionally untalented.”
