“You know that design is mine,” I whispered. Why does she have it, Ryan?"
But Ryan’s expression was ice cold. He then brushed me off with that same dismissive look. "Why would you take something that doesn't belong to you? You’re disgusting.”
Moments ago, I clung to the hope that he would stand up for me and that he’d remember I showed him the original pottery piece before I even entered the competition.
But instead, he delivered the final blow.
Whispers started to ripple through the crowd, faces filled with disdain.
“Even her husband’s confirming it,” one of them commented.
Another spectator added, “Guess she really did plagiarize.”
“She’s got some nerve, pulling this here!” someone shouted.
“Stealing someone's work and then lying about it? Pathetic!” A mock came through the guests.
It hit me that any attempt to explain was pointless.
With my husband standing firmly by her side, I was utterly alone.
I didn't remember much about leaving the press conference—just the cold, unrelenting rain that soaked through my clothes as I walked, mirroring the emptiness I felt inside.
When I got home, I was drenched, shivering from the inside out.