Emma
Eleanor moved across the stage like she owned it, each click of her heels echoing in the stunned silence. Despite the chaos of camera flashes and whispered speculation, she remained perfectly composed - not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in her couture suit.
"Now then," she began, voice carrying effortlessly through the auditorium. "Shall we discuss the rather fascinating timing of these accusations?"
Through my blurred vision, I saw Camille shift uncomfortably. Thompson's hands clenched on his judging papers.
"These so-called original designs," Eleanor continued, gesturing to the images still displayed. "They seem quite conveniently timed, don't they? Almost as if they were waiting for exactly this moment."
"The evidence speaks for itself," Thompson blustered, though his con
