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But what the hell was this?

Four years ago, he shoved me into the abyss with the cruelest methods, and now he showed up with this caring, concerned act, probing my wounds in front of everyone?

This seemingly considerate personal interference humiliated me more than direct insult.

"Mr. Moretti," I took a deep breath, chest rising slightly, forcing cold, hard words through my teeth, "an independent designer's value lies in facing real struggles and hardships. Every day I survived is the bone and blood of 'Wild Rose,' not some weakness that needs someone else's charity or sympathy."

Something dark flickered in Marcelo's eyes.

His brow furrowed tight. "Ruby, that's not what I meant, I just think—"

"Enough, Mr. Moretti!"

I snapped off the laser pointer, slammed it down on the podium with a sharp crack!

My eyes reddened from extreme emotional restraint as I stared directly at that man sitting in the head position, looking guilty, my voice cold as I shattered all social niceties.

"The award needs professional craft evaluation, not judges caring about and speculating on contestants' personal lives! If you have technical questions about my seams, sizing, and fabrics, mark your scores directly. If you just want to discuss whether I had a hard time four years ago from the judges' seat, then I'm sorry—I refuse to answer!"

Without waiting for the three judges' final comments, I grabbed my sample board and briefcase from the display stand, turned and strode toward the conference hall doors.

"Ruby!"

Behind me came a man's low, urgent call, and the sound of a heavy chair being pushed back.

I yanked open the door and rushed into the hallway, my heels clicking fast.

But I hadn't gone three steps before rapid footsteps sounded behind me.

"Ruby, wait, just let me say one thing!"

A large hand gently touched my wrist at the corner. His movement was careful and light, no forceful pulling. The moment he felt my violent resistance, he released the pressure, only using his tall frame to block the corridor leading to the emergency exit.

Marcelo breathed slightly hard, his black and white hair disheveled at his forehead, eyes shot through with deep red, the whole man stripped of his usual cold violence, eyes holding only desperate pleading.

"Let go of me, Mr. Moretti!" My back pressed against the marble wall as I glared at him coldly. "Is this your dignity as a sponsor? Harassing a contestant in the hallway?"

"I'm sorry. What I said in there—I was out of line."

Marcelo's voice sounded sandpaper-rough. He stood two steps away, hands slightly raised in a completely non-threatening gesture of retreat. "I just... I regret it. Ruby, that day in Hoboken... I know the truth now. Your mother's surgery, what you said to save her... I know it all."

Those scars I'd desperately buried in memory's depths—he dug them up without warning in the most humble tone.

My heart felt pierced by a needle point, a sharp ache spreading.

I trembled all over, tilted my head back to stare hard at that face full of remorse and guilt, and laughed coldly. "So what if you know? Marcelo, does that change the fact that you threw a check at me four years ago and told me to get lost?"

"No. I know it doesn't." Marcelo's eyes reddened, his Adam's apple rolling with difficulty, his tone almost groveling. "That night four years ago, I was so stupid. I believed words said in anger. I hurt you in the cruelest way. I haven't gone one day in four years without regret. I destroyed Chad; I wiped out the DeLucas root and branch... I'm not trying to condescend to you with charity, Ruby. I want to make amends. I want to win you back. I can spend the rest of my life making this up to you!"

"Make amends? Win me back?"

Those two phrases burned like hot irons pressed against my dignity.

I pushed down the tears threatening to spill, lifted my chin, each word cutting. "Marcelo Moretti, stop your self-indulgent performance! Your idea of making amends—publicly exposing my wounds with personal matters from the judges' seat? Your idea of winning me back—using your condescending pity to show everyone how pathetic I was back then?"

"I didn't—"

"You did!" I cut him off coldly. "I spent four whole years building my brand, my dignity. I'm standing here now because of my own talent, not your sympathy and guilt! If you really think you owe me, if you really want to prove you're not using your power to crush me, then get back to your company, take back all your extra 'considerations,' and treat my work like any other ordinary contestant—fairly! Don't use your 'amends' to dirty my 'Wild Rose'!!"