To the readers:
> Guys, I'm finally back! Sorry for the delay—life got in the way, but this time, I'm here for real. I've reread Chapters 1 through 7 and noticed some grammar errors and name mix-ups, and I'm already fixing them one by one. From now on, the story will be cleaner, smoother, and way more intense. I promised you 12 solid chapters, and I meant it. Let's just say… things are about to get chaotic. Thank you for being so patient. Buckle up, queens and kings, because your girl is back.
So ready start and pause (I made some updates in chapter 30 and 31 I went through it and I find it incomplete so I did it again sorry for that and it is kinda important that was why I have to do it again
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Mike drove the car to the drop-off point, the engine of his sleek black sportscar humming like a purring beast.
"Thanks," Maria said casually, reaching for the door.
"Won't you even give me a goodbye kiss?" Mike asked, voice dipped in a teasing pout. His fox-like eyes, sharp and upturned at the edges, glimmered with mischief. Warm honey turned molten amber—playful and unreadable, as if they whispered secrets no one else could hear.
Maria shot him a look, rolled her eyes, and stepped out without a word.
"Bye, wifey!" Mike called with a lazy grin, waving at her. But the second she disappeared into the building, that grin fell. His gaze turned cold, those expressive eyes now dull—like a storm cloud rolling in over still water.
He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. "Blacklist the Valenci family. If any company dares cooperate with them… pull their funding. Let them rot."
His voice was soft. But deadly.
Then, without another word, he drove off, ignoring the envious stares and whispering crowd.
---
Inside the building:
The entrance hall was modern and grand, filled with soft lighting and elegant marble that echoed every step. Art pieces lined the walls—some classical, some avant-garde—as if preparing the contestants for what was ahead.
Maria walked toward the elevator.
A hand gently tapped her shoulder.
She turned to find Ivy standing behind her, dressed in soft pastels, eyes wide with delicate surprise and a smile that looked like it was hand-painted by angels. Three girls flanked her, all from elite families.
"Maria, I saw you getting out of a car just now," Ivy said sweetly, lacing her tone with innocent curiosity as they all stepped into the elevator. "It looked… expensive. Was that a friend of yours?"
"That car was the latest S-class," one of the girls added, arms crossed. "Not just anyone can own one of those. You need more than money—power, connection."
"Did you notice the license plate?" another girl chimed in. "Plates that start with that letter belong to the top-tier elite. My fiancé said only the top 1% can even apply for one."
The girl with the short bob gave Maria a sideways glance. "I mean… how does someone like you know someone like that?"
Maria ignored them, keeping her eyes on the elevator display.
Ivy gave a soft chuckle, the kind that made strangers believe she was harmless. "Girls, don't be rude. Maria's an influencer with millions of fans. I'm sure there's a story behind it. Besides…" Ivy reached out and gently held Maria's arm, her expression concerned. "I trust her. She must have her reasons."
The elevator doors opened.
Maria pulled her arm back slowly, not angrily—but firmly. She gave Ivy a faint, icy smile. "I thought I made it clear: if you don't apologize for the rumors you spread—about me being a kept woman, and that little trick you pulled in school—I'll release the video."
The girls behind Ivy blinked in confusion.
Maria tilted her head, her voice like silk woven with steel. "Bestie... acting like a snake doesn't suit your aesthetic. And between us… you and I both know who really owns that car."
Then she walked away, steps confident but not rushed—gliding like a queen on marble. Heads turned as she passed.
Ivy stood still, her face as calm and composed as ever. Only the slightest twitch of her jaw—barely visible—betrayed her fury. The other girls didn't notice, too distracted by Maria's exit.
Ivy smiled softly, eyes dimpling like nothing was wrong.
"Very good, Maria…" she murmured under her breath. Then, pulling out her phone, she typed something and slid it back into her purse with elegance. The snake had moved.
---
The Art Hall:
The wide room fell into a hush as six individuals stepped onto the judges' platform. One woman, poised and regal in a fitted navy suit, took the stage. Her heels clicked crisply against the polished floor.
"Welcome to the National Youth Art Competition," she said. "There are five levels. Each round is designed not only to test your skill, but to expose your weaknesses—and force your vision to come alive. Now… begin."
The contestants moved swiftly. Over fifty painters, scattered across the room. Canvases, brushes, and palettes clicked into motion.
Maria glanced at Ivy. Ivy was already painting, head bowed, brows furrowed in determined grace.
Maria smirked.
She dipped her brush in ink.
The woman in heels strolled through the rows, eyeing canvases with a discerning gaze. When she passed Ivy, she paused—then smiled. Ivy's shoulders loosened.
But when the woman reached Maria, she stopped. For a full ten seconds.
Then she turned and whispered something to a guard.
The guard quietly asked Ivy to shift her seat farther away.
Ivy blinked—startled—but didn't argue. She simply smiled and nodded like the perfect lady. Though her eyes flickered briefly to Maria, her lips never lost their curve.
The woman remained nearby, watching Ivy paint.
Maria, unbothered, dipped her charcoal stick and began sketching. Layer by layer, her world emerged on the canvas—bold strokes softened by ethereal hues. Where Ivy painted to impress, Maria painted to speak. Each color, each trace held life.
—
One Hour Later…
"Time's up," the woman said. "Please return to your seats."
The contestants stepped back.
The judges walked from canvas to canvas. When they reached Ivy's, one of them smiled—a rare sight. Ivy received praise from nearby students, her expression calm but proud, like a flower blooming under sunlight.
Then the judges moved to Maria's painting.
They paused.
Then returned to Ivy's.
Then back again to Maria's.
They exchanged glances. Nods. Quiet whispers.
Confusion spread among the students.
Ivy's fingers curled around her skirt under the table—but her face never changed. She turned slowly toward Maria, expecting gloating.
But Maria wasn't even looking.
She was resting her cheek in her palm, eyes distant—almost bored.
As if this whole thing… was already in her control.
"Only 45 contestants will move forward," the judge said, clapping once. "If your painting isn't revealed, you're out."
Silence swept across the room like a fog. Then a wave of murmurs rose and fell as staff approached the easels. One by one, the covers came off.
Some contestants gasped and clapped joyfully.
Others squeezed their eyes shut, whispering silent prayers.
A few broke down in tears before the results were even clear—hope a fragile thread slipping from their grasp.
Then came the last five.
The judge moved with deliberate grace and peeled off the fifth easel's cover herself.
A breath caught in dozens of throats.
The painting was magnificent—detailed, powerful, technically dazzling.
But it had only taken fifth.
From the corner of the room, Ivy froze.
That was her painting.
Her breath caught mid-throat. Her lashes trembled. She blinked slowly, as if her eyes betrayed her. The expression on her face shifted into the perfect storm of pain and resilience—a fallen goddess cradling her pride in bleeding hands.
She didn't speak. Her body language screamed what her lips didn't: Why me?
Her lips quivered, but she pulled herself together. She tilted her chin up, just slightly. Her gaze lowered with the grace of a sorrowful empress. She would endure this… for now.
Then her eyes found Maria.
And Maria… was smiling.
Not cruelly. Not sweetly.
Just enough to mock. Like a princess watching a jester dance in a puddle.
"Copycats never win," Maria murmured, her voice dipped in sugar and thorns. She twirled her phone around her finger and turned away with a giggle.
Ivy's knuckles whitened around her skirt, her nails digging in.
Then the fourth, third, and second paintings were revealed.
Ivy's chest rose sharply with each one.
The pain in her face melted into confusion, then disbelief. Then came the anger—sharp and blazing, like lightning behind glass.
She stood, every movement smooth and composed, but inside her storm raged.
"I... apologize," she began, her voice soft but audible. "I truly don't want to cause any scene. But I need to ask…"
Her voice cracked at the edges, the perfect note of heartbreak. Real or not, it didn't matter. It felt real.
"Why did my painting only take fifth?" she asked, voice trembling like porcelain about to shatter. "I know the judges are experienced beyond compare. I know each piece was selected for a reason. And I saw such incredible talent today—" she turned to the audience, eyes glowing, "—art that truly moved me."
A few of the contestants who had ranked higher than her instinctively stood up in support.
"I don't mean to compare or diminish anyone's efforts," Ivy continued, bowing deeply. "But if I've failed… I want to know where I failed. Please, so I can learn. Please… I just want to understand."
The silence in the room shifted. Became tight. Emotional.
Ivy's words hung in the air like fragile glass, and when she bowed politely, her trembling voice pleading for understanding, the crowd was already in her palm.
Gasps.
Soft murmurs of sympathy.
"She's so graceful even in injustice…"
"Such humility."
"I feel bad now…"
Even a few contestants who ranked higher than her shuffled awkwardly in their seats, avoiding her gaze.
That's when Maria tilted her head—playfully, innocently—and turned to the girl sitting beside her. A girl known for her loud mouth, big dreams, and bigger greed.
Maria let out a long, dramatic sigh. "Wow… Ivy's really going through it."
The girl leaned in, "Right? She doesn't deserve fifth. That painting was amazing!"
Maria lowered her lashes and gave a delicate frown. "I know. I mean, Ivy's always been… kind. She gives everyone stuff. The gifts, the perfumes, the lunches. She's like a fairy godmother."
"She gave me an imported lipstick once," the girl whispered, starry-eyed.
"I heard she gave someone a million after helping her once," Maria murmured, just loud enough.
The girl's eyes widened. "Million? Just for helping?"
Maria smiled gently, like she regretted even bringing it up. "Shh. Don't say I told you. I don't want anyone to think I'm spreading rumors. Ivy's sweet... maybe too sweet."
The girl's mind raced—money, influence, attention. Her mouth moved before her brain caught up.
She shot to her feet.
"IVY!" she shouted.
The room turned.
Maria's eyes gleamed like polished glass—still silent, still innocent.
The girl cleared her throat and turned to the judges. "You should all be ashamed! Look at how you're treating someone who's given you nothing but kindness!"
The judge froze, her expression turning cold.
"She's always generous—giving gifts to classmates, teachers, and even the staff!" the girl continued passionately. "Perfumes! Luxury skincare! Jewelry! Ivy doesn't need to cheat, she's rich enough to BUY the whole competition if she wanted to!"
The room went dead silent.
Just like that, the tone changed.
Whispers broke out.
"Wait… gifts to teachers?"
"She gave me an imported pen last week."
"I got a designer clutch…"
"Did we… take bribes?"
Maria's fingers brushed her lips like she was trying not to speak. Then, she sighed.
"Wait," she whispered loudly, just enough for those around her to hear, "are gifts considered bribery? I mean… she gave the judges things too, didn't she?"
Several heads turned.
"Maybe it's normal for rich people to do that…"
"But why give everyone something? Even the janitor?"
"Unless it was to cover something up…"
Ivy's heart thudded in her chest.
No…
The judge's brows furrowed. One of them whispered something to the woman in charge. Her expression stiffened like cracked porcelain.
"Ivy," the woman called coolly, voice laced with tension, "please sit down. If you have concerns, you can raise them after the round. Let us finish the unveiling."
The crowd watched as Ivy—eyes wide, lips parted, face pale—slowly lowered herself back into her seat.
Maria didn't look at her. She just flipped her phone camera off, set it down with a faint click, and leaned her chin on her palm like a bored queen.
Inside, she was smiling.
The bait had not only been swallowed…
It had poisoned the water.
The crowd was still murmuring, when the girl who had yelled earlier—the one who took Maria's bait like a starving fish—stood up again, this time hesitating. Her eyes darted around nervously, calculating.
"I-I just meant…" she started, voice thinner now, "It's not like Ivy meant to bribe anyone, right? She's generous. Always giving out gifts. That's… that's a nice thing."
Silence.
Dead. Silence.
The atmosphere turned suffocating.
A guy in glasses nearby folded his arms. "So you're saying giving designer bags and perfume to people judging your talent is what, exactly? Kindness?"
Someone in the back scoffed. "I bet you only defended her for money. You're a sellout, not a friend."
"No! That's not—!" the girl's voice cracked as the crowd turned on her. She was unraveling now, fumbling with her sleeves, trying to explain, justify, backpedal. "I just thought—she helped me once, and—"
"Helped or bought you?" a student said coldly.
The murmurs swelled again. She looked toward Ivy for help… but Ivy didn't even glance her way.
She was too still.
Too… broken.
Ivy sat at her seat, the once-confident mask shattered like porcelain. Her hand trembled as she reached for her water bottle—but missed. She clenched her skirt, knuckles white.
Her posture perfect. Her shoulders poised. Her expression—a masterpiece of ruin.
Quiet tears clung to her lashes, but none fell. Her chin tilted up, as if fighting gravity, dignity, humiliation.
A fallen goddess, still holding her crown with bloodied hands.
Maria, tilted her head—watching Ivy like one might study a painting of tragedy in a museum.
Beautiful. Poised.
Cracking.
"Tsk. Even giving gifts to people now has a hidden motive?" a guy scoffed, folding his arms and glaring at Ivy. "So this is how the rich stay at the top, huh? Smile, flatter, gift, and expect results."
A girl across the room chimed in, voice sharp. "All that talk about 'pure talent'? What a joke. Just say you paid your way in, Ivy."
The room was tilting, the tension thick as oil. The judges—once calm—had gone pale. Their posture stiffened, the main judge flicking nervous glances between Ivy, the crowd, and the assistants trying to keep things under control.
Then Ivy stood.
Straight-backed. Poised. Not a single tear.
"If giving gifts is now a form of bribery," she said, her voice steady despite the cracks threatening to slip through, "then maybe you should all return the ones I gave. I never knew being kind—thanking people—would be used as a knife."
Some people paused. A few looked down. But Ivy kept going.
"I don't need to bribe anyone to win. My work speaks for itself. And to those who supported me, even if it backfired, thank you. I know not everyone here likes me, and that's fine. But accusing the judges—who have spent years building their careers—is wrong."
She turned to the woman on stage, and for a moment, even the crowd hesitated.
"Attack me if you want. But not them. They deserve better."
A murmur ran through the audience. Some nodded. Some shifted, uncertain now. Ivy had played her hand well—heartbroken but righteous, bitter but graceful.
Maria smiled.
Of course she did.
A smirk curved her lips as she leaned forward slightly, chin resting on her palm. Her sapphire eyes met Ivy's.
Mockery. Calm. Cold.
"Talent, huh? Funny how theft has a new name these days," she thought, amused.
But her voice was sweet as syrup when she spoke aloud. "Maria, please show us the first-place painting," she said to the judge, voice full of polite curiosity. "We've been waiting a while, haven't we?"
The judge turned to her slowly. Her expression was unreadable. Too unreadable.
Because under that mask, she was panicking.
The bribery rumors… the glances from her colleagues… the whispers… if this mess wasn't handled, her entire reputation could collapse.
And she knew who to blame.
Her eyes flicked to Ivy. Cold. Detached.
"Go sit down," the woman said tightly. "Once we're done, you can decide whether you deserve your rank."
Ivy flinched. The air around her cracked, but she held her ground. She bit her lip hard, tasted blood, and finally walked back to her seat. Her legs moved, but her pride stayed frozen mid-fall.
The woman in heels straightened her back, regaining her composure after the storm Ivy's scene had stirred. Her fingers twitched against the last cloth-covered easel—the one still untouched, still mysterious.
Her voice rang through the room, sharp and clipped.
"The first position…"
Silence.
Not a breath dared interrupt.
"…goes to the artist of this painting."
She pulled the cloth down.
Gasps erupted. Mouths parted. Some even stood instinctively, like witnesses to a divine revelation.
There, displayed under the perfect lights, was a painting that didn't just draw attention—it demanded reverence.
A woman, sitting serenely under a waterfall of cherry blossoms. Her eyes, closed in peace. But what made the painting spellbinding wasn't just her beauty—it was the world inside her.
Look closer—
—her hair was formed by rivers winding through mountains.
—her robe, painted to look like woven silk, was actually made from the temple rooftops and smoke trails of incense rising skyward.
—villagers, tiny and vibrant, washed clothes by a stream that made up the curve of her jaw.
—children danced in the corners of her lips like a silent smile.
She wasn't just a woman.
She was the world—painted into a living goddess.
The crowd was stunned into silence… until the murmurs exploded.
"It's… unreal."
"No, this… this has a soul."
"I feel like it's alive."
"Ivy's was good… but this?"
"Now THIS is first place."
Ivy's eyes locked onto the painting. Her entire body went cold. Her soul wanted to weep. Her hand trembled on her lap.
Because she knew.
That painting was hers. Or more accurately—what she stole.
Or thought she stole.
Her version had the structure—the temple, the mountain, the villagers.
But Maria's?
Maria's had life.
Emotion.
Depth.
It wasn't just technically superior… it felt like it was watching you back.
Ivy's breath hitched. She tried to stay calm, lips pressed tightly, but her cheeks burned crimson. Not just in anger… but in shame.
"Wait…" someone from the crowd said, voice cautious, "didn't Ivy's painting have a mountain and temple too?"
Another chimed in, "But hers was more stiff. Like a drawing. This one's like a dream you want to keep dreaming."
A low hum built.