Chapter 26

At The Grand Mariner.

It was only 9:30 in the morning, but the venue was already packed. The high-stakes wager between Isabella Montgomery and Alexander Whitmore had drawn an unprecedented crowd. Everyone was desperate to witness the showdown. Ticket prices had skyrocketed from a few thousand to twenty thousand dollars apiece due to the frenzy. Even top executives, who were rarely seen in Westchester, had secured front-row seats. They were all there to support Alexander, eager to see what kind of woman would dare to challenge him so publicly.

A sleek black Hypersport pulled up to the service entrance. Dominic Sterling turned to Isabella. "Miss Montgomery, a message from Mr. Blackwood. He said to inform him immediately if you require any assistance. He will handle everything."

"That won't be necessary," she stated flatly. "This is a trivial matter. I don't need his help." Isabella stepped out of the vehicle. As she began to close the door, she paused. "Actually, do relay a message for me. Tell Mr. Blackwood to focus his attention on Christopher. He should stop wasting his time pursuing me. I lack for nothing, least of all male attention. He should abandon this pointless endeavor."

She turned and walked away, her posture radiating an unshakable, regal confidence.

Dominic was left speechless, his face pale. She doesn't lack men? Abandon it? How was he supposed to deliver that message to Nathaniel? He felt a cold dread. Would he be fired for this?

Isabella, however, felt no such hesitation. Her message was clear. She checked the time—9:30. The show started in thirty minutes. She quickened her pace, heading straight for the dressing rooms.

Backstage was pure chaos. Makeup artists darted between models. The manager, Mr. James, was pacing nervously. "Where is Isabella? Why isn't she answering her phone?"

"How unprofessional," Sophia Kensington sneered from her makeup chair. "She's always been arrogant. A nobody pretending to be a star. Mr. James, you never should have given her the closing spot."

"'Shouldn't have hired her'? And who would you suggest? You?"

A cool, cutting voice echoed from the hallway. Isabella strode into the room, her gaze landing dismissively on Sophia. "The model ranked third in all of Westchester... why are you speaking again?"

"You! I am ranked third! What are you? You have no ranking at all! How dare you use that tone with me!" Sophia shot up from her chair, furious.

Isabella let out a derisive laugh. "Precisely. A complete unknown like me was chosen for the finale. Doesn't that prove you're inferior to a newcomer? Are you certain you didn't simply purchase your ranking?"

"You—!" Sophia shoved her assistant and makeup artist aside, lunging toward Isabella.

"Enough!" Mr. James roared. "The show begins in thirty minutes! Everyone, get ready! Anyone who ruins my show will pay ten times the damages!"

The room fell silent instantly. Sophia sat back down, fuming. A makeup artist rushed over to Isabella and began helping her into her outfit.

Mr. James approached Isabella, his expression a mix of anxiety and awe. "Miss Montgomery, I must admit, your audacity is impressive. Because of you, this show is completely sold out. How do you feel? Do you truly believe you can win?"

If she failed, it would damage Chanel's reputation. The company would be criticized for hiring her. He knew better than anyone: a jewelry show wasn't like a fashion show. There were no elaborate costumes or wings. The focus was solely on the jewels. The models simply wore them and walked. How much spectacle could there be? How could one woman possibly stand out?

Isabella remained utterly composed. "Don't worry. I haven't lost to anyone in the last five years." Her tone was as arrogantly confident as ever.

The other supermodels shot her disdainful looks. She was beautiful, yes. But her arrogance was staggering. She was just a woman. Two eyes, a nose, a mouth. What made her so special? Did she think she could just walk out on stage and hypnotize the entire audience? With what? A handful of glitter?

Who did she think she was, going up against Alexander Whitmore, the son of the nation's second-richest man?

Sophia snorted at Isabella's retreating back, seething with impotent rage. Suddenly, her phone screen lit up with a new message.

[Sophia, this is your first major show. Double-check everything. Especially your heels—they can be faulty. Tripping on the runway is the ultimate humiliation for a model. It would destroy your career. Be careful!]

A vicious, calculating gleam flashed in Sophia's eyes as she read the message.

Hmph. Mock me, Isabella? I'll make sure you're run out of the industry for good. You think you can beat Alexander? Not a chance.