Dark Revenge Of A Jilted Bride: Till Life Do Us Part!-Chapter 82: The Convention III

"He watches you like you are the only person in the room." Areso pointed out softly, none of the teasing glint in her voice. "You sure you don’t want to take him?"

Gianna, still staring at Noah, scoffed lightly. "Do you want him?"

Her friend shook her head. "Nah. I’m done with rich assholes really..."

Athena and Chelsea laughed, loud enough to attract the attention of Gianna’s colleagues who looked rather surprised to hear such freeness from celebrities.

"Enough Areso..." Athena mused, chuckling. "We don’t want our reputation being watered down now, do we?"

Areso shrugged. "Gianna caused it."

But Gianna wasn’t really with them.

Held captive by Noah’s gaze, she cared no hoots for her friends at that second. Well, until a frowning Esme slithered her arm, smoothly, around her brother’s. And glared hotly at her.

Gianna cussed herself and her penchance to lose it around this male, and looked away. It didn’t help that her friends seemed to have endorsed the non-existent relationship because of boxes of goodies.

Yet... her ears were attuned to the greetings that commenced when he arrived at their booth, at the seating ensemble.

She was a hundred percent aware when the greetings ended.

When her friends chose silence... watching of course whatever Noah’s play they had bet on.

When Noah approached her. Not minding the attention they were beginning to draw again.

Her breath hitched when Athena jabbed her softly again. She knew what it meant. "Look up, girl!

And that was because she was pretending to be engrossed in her phone.

"Hey beauty...."

Of course. She bit back a scoff and looked up, looked at him.

He was standing in the row before hers, leaning down, grasping the apex of the seat before her. He was right in her face.

So startled was she that she was speechless.

"You look breathtaking too..."

Velvet wrapping around her senses, such that when the scoff came, it was light, too light. Sounded like assent.

"I would have sat beside you... but there is no seat—"

Gianna was grateful then, that she had come with her friends. "Just stay with your family..." she whispered furiously.

He laughed, nodded, but he sat on that seat before her.

And when Gianna ’s eyes flared bright with irritation, Athena laughed. "Welcome to my world."

Before Gianna could get a word in, the lights in the hall shifted.

Not dimmed—not yet—but angled, subtle enough that only the practiced noticed. A quiet signal passed through the hall like breath drawn before speech. Conversations tapered. Glasses were set down.

Gianna felt it before she saw the source of it.

At the far end of the hall, the central platform came alive, its edges traced by a low glow that pulsed once, then steadied. The moderator stepped into the light with the kind of confidence that didn’t ask for attention—it assumed it had already earned it.

He was tall, sharp in a tailored charcoal suit, hair just silvered enough to signal authority without age. His smile was charismatic in the way of men who had hosted too many rooms like this to feel impressed by them anymore.

"Ladies and gentlemen," his voice carried cleanly, amplified without distortion, "welcome."

Applause followed; the sound of wealth acknowledging itself.

Gianna shifted her weight slightly.

"This year’s convention," the moderator continued, "has seen record attendance. Designers from across continents. Houses old and new. Innovation and audacity in equal measure."

A pause. A practiced smile.

"And competition."

The word landed with intent.

Gianna’s gaze flicked once, scanning faces. Some smiled. Some stiffened. A few leaned closer to companions, murmuring calculations.

The moderator lifted a hand. "As you know, each participating company has submitted two designs for consideration. These will be judged on originality, craftsmanship, narrative, and commercial viability."

Commercial viability. The phrase always made Gianna’s mouth curve faintly. As though art needed permission to exist.

"The winning piece," he continued, "will secure multi-tier distribution deals, supplier partnerships, and—perhaps most importantly—visibility."

That got the desired attention.

Gianna felt it then—the hum. Anticipation tightening the air, electric and brittle.

She didn’t share it. Her calm wasn’t detachment. It was trust. In her hands. In her vision. In the hours spent alone, coaxing lines into obedience.

Vance, sitting next to her, to her left, leaned closer, voice pitched low. "This room thinks it’s ready. It’s not."

Her lips curved, pleased with his sudden humour. "It never is."

The moderator’s gaze swept the crowd. "Before we begin presentations, please enjoy the opportunity to revisit the booths, engage with designers, and prepare your questions. The first showcase will commence shortly."

The platform lights dimmed again. Movement resumed—but it had changed. Now, it was purposeful.

Buyers peeled off toward booths they had already decided mattered. Investors adjusted strategies mid-step. Designers straightened spines, plastered on smiles ready to please.

Gianna didn’t rush when she walked toward the showcase as one of the investors stopped before her piece. She remained calm, letting the wave pass around her like water around stone.

Her fingers brushed the smooth edge of the Beckett’s display case, as she smiled to the smiling investor whom she had met already outside.

"Do you like it?"

"Is that a joke, Gianna? I already told you... this is the piece I want. Let me have it, before the vultures descend..."

That was when she felt it. The prickle.

She turned her head slowly—and found Sabrina.

Her cousin stood a few paces away, framed by a cluster of admirers, dressed in a fitted gold suit that screamed here I am!. Her hair was sleek, makeup immaculate. She looked...fine. Polished. Competent.

And entirely too pleased with herself.

Sabrina’s gaze met Gianna’s and held, lips curling into a smile that wasn’t friendly enough to pretend. It was the kind of smirk that assumed superiority had already been decided.

Gianna didn’t react. She simply looked back. Long enough.

Sabrina’s smile twitched. Just once. Then she turned away with exaggerated disinterest, resuming conversation, her laughter a touch too loud.

Chelsea scoffed under her breath. "She looks like someone who’s already rehearsed her victory speech."

Gianna turned aside, to see her friends before the booth. She chuckled. They were buying?

"Let her rehearse," Areso said coolly. "Reality tends to interrupt."

When she was done settling the investor whose ears were ripe for gossip, but who had to leave so as not to blow a cover, she spoke: "She doesn’t register. Not today."

If anyone’s presence was bound to register, it was Noah... whose gaze she could still feel on her.

Athena’s nod was satisfied. "Good."

They paused then, drawn into conversation by a buyer from Milan.

Gianna answered questions with composed clarity, her hands expressive but controlled. She spoke of sourcing, of ethical partnerships, of why certain cuts demanded patience.

More faces leaned in...

At one point, she caught her reflection in the glass—utterly herself. Just present.

Time slid. The hall filled further. More murmurs. More glances. More weight pressing toward the inevitable moment when judgment would be rendered publicly.

And then... movement near the stage again.

The moderator returned, microphone in hand, expression now sharpened with anticipation.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he called, voice cutting cleanly through the hum, "if you’ll begin to gather."

Gianna’s heart gave a single beat. Here we go.

People converged toward the seating area arranged before the platform.

Gianna took her place with Beckett’s, flanked by Vance and Daphne, her friends and Noah settling just behind, a quiet wall of presence at her back.

The lights dimmed fully this time. Screens flickered to life.

"Design," the moderator said, "is not just adornment. It is declaration."

Gianna’s fingers stilled against her thigh.

"The first submission," he continued, "comes from—"

She inhaled cleanly. Because whatever happened next, she was ready. The room was about to learn her name properly.