The next day, the competition committee arranged a podcast livestream at a loft-style studio in SoHo.

The so-called "roundtable discussion" was actually a carefully orchestrated crisis PR stunt.

Julian sat in a casual chair, still wearing last night's Tom Ford suit.

His tie was loose, giving off a "hungover chic" vibe that fit right into the current "effortless elite" trend.

Speaking into the microphone, he adopted his usual "mentor" persona:

"Layla is a 'doer.' She works very hard."

He paused, then spoke with the arrogant tone of a Harvard Design School lecturer:

"But in architecture, you know, 'less is more.' Excessive effort sometimes leads to 'over-designing.'"

Then, he pivoted to that name:

"Harper is completely different. She’s an 'experiential' genius. Her intuition for space... is phenomenal."

I stared at him, my stomach churning.

Over-designing?

I spent three months stationed in an abandoned factory in the Bronx full of gang graffiti, going door-to-door for community research, and that’s "over-designing"?

And Harper drawing a sketch on her iPad on a Hamptons beach is "intuition"?

Even Architectural Digest and Dezeen praised my proposal as a "return to humanitarianism."

Only the man who slept in my bed publicly belittled me on a livestream.

I wanted to argue, but those damn gaslighting memories flooded back—"Don't be so sensitive, Layla," "You're taking it too seriously."

Since it's a show, let me end this performance.

"Julian."

I adjusted the mic and interrupted him with a standard podcast host voice:

"Your speech is fascinating. But I have to pause. I need to use the ladies' room."

I took off my headphones and walked out. Dead air filled the livestream.

Intermission. The back alley of SoHo.

Julian lit a cigarette, frowning. "Are you crazy? I fought for this exposure for you."

"You should talk more about your 'failure experiences' and praise Harper’s talent... It’s good for your career."

So that was his goal.

The backlash on Twitter and Reddit about Harper being a "nepo baby" was getting too loud.

He needed me, the "technical veteran," to endorse her, to prove Harper beat me fair and square, to calm the public opinion.

I looked at him and suddenly found it laughable.

"Julian, nice PR strategy."

I pulled a smile dripping with irony:

"But I’m just the 'perennial runner-up.' What right do I have to critique the champion?"

I turned and walked away, leaving him in the cold alley wind.

This time, I didn't even bother acting.