Chapter 18 — Global Livestream, Her Dress Shows My Name

The corners of the lips curled slightly. First time in many days. I really laughed. Because I know. People are about to panic. Not me anymore. Chung Ngoc Hoa sat opposite me. She was also reading the same statement.

“This diagnosis is fake.”

She put down the phone. Use a spoon to gently stir the bowl of porridge.

“It's really fake.”

“Do you have proof?”

“Tan Lang has it.”

“He was involved in the entire process of creating this report.”

Chung Ngoc Hoa nodded slightly. Don't ask any more. She stood up to collect the dishes and chopsticks.

“Tomorrow I have to go to the Association for an urgent meeting.”

“After what happened at Fashion Week.”

“The jury panel was arguing so much that they couldn't see each other anymore.”

"The four people request that Ha Mat's exam results be kept intact."

“You two demand a complete re-investigation.”

“I am the seventh vote.”

I looked at her.

“So how do you plan to vote?”

She turned on the faucet. The sound of gurgling water echoed in the kitchen.

“What do you think?”

“Someone who has done textile research for forty years.”

“If you don't even know whose technique it is, you won't be able to recognize it.”

“Then those forty years have been lived in vain.”

The sound of water still echoed steadily. She did not turn back. But I still hear the last sentence.

“Time to turn the tables.”

“Then don't be soft-hearted.”

Afternoon. To Niem's article was published. The title is very simple.

“Five years as a designer.”

No sorrow. No denunciation. No agitation. Simply organize all my work from college to present. In correct chronological order. Each work is accompanied by: Date of original manuscript creation. Material selection profile. Record technical experiments. Place Ha Mat's corresponding works right next to them. The timeline is so clear that it cannot be denied. All my designs. All appeared at least four months before Ha Mat's corresponding work. Some sets are even a year earlier. Two hours after posting. The number of reads exceeds five hundred thousand. Comment area. Completely opposite of what I said before. Someone dug up the article:

“Me and Ha Tinh — An unforgettable friendship.”

Which Ha Mat once posted. Every sentence and word were dissected by netizens.

“Look at this part.”

“‘She made a mistake but she paid the price.’”

“Now you know who made the mistake?”

Someone else wrote:

“The most disgusting is the sentence: 'She is very talented, she just went down the wrong path for a while.’”

“It's clear that it was Ha Mat who stole other people's talents.”

Then someone discovered something else. In the post, there are nine photos of Luc Ngan. There were three photos that accidentally captured the corner of the design. After zooming in. A microscopic signature is seen at the edge of the paper. No: That discovery was shared more than forty thousand times. That very night. Luc Ngan deleted all social network accounts. But it was too late. Screenshots are saved everywhere. Luc Ngan's face. Ha Mat's face. Chu Minh Vien's face. Along with designs bearing the signature "Tinh". Combined into the most ironic picture. Ten o'clock at night. Luc's mother called me. I looked at the screen for three seconds. Then pick up the phone. Her voice sounded at least ten years older.

“What do you want anyway?”

“I don't want anything.”

“I'm just bringing the truth to light.”

Her voice immediately rose.

“Do you know how much pressure Luc Ngan has been under these past two days? Are not?"

“The company's customers continuously cancel contracts.”

“His father was so angry that he was hospitalized.”

“Did you think about the consequences before doing these things?”

I calmly interrupted.

“Do you remember three months ago?”

“That day she sat in my twelve square meter rented room.”

“Force me to help Ha Mat with the shaping process.”

“What did you say?”

The other side was silent. I continued.

“My reputation in the industry is done.”

“The only thing I can do is live on my skills.”

“I think what you said is very correct.”

“I live by my skills.”

“But the workmanship is mine.”

“Reputation must also be mine.”

There was a gasp on the other end of the line. Like something was stuck in my throat.

“Divorce procedures between me and Luc Ngan.”

“I won't cause trouble.”

“The story of changing the name of the office.”

“You guys figure it out yourselves.”

“From today onwards.”

“Me and the Luc family.”

“There is no longer any relationship.”

I hung up. Put the phone down on the table. The screen still shows her call history. I stroked gently. Outside the window. Street lights shine down on the apartment yard. Creates the shadow of a tree. The shade of the trees is very quiet. Standing still without moving. Me too. At this time. I was at the bottom of the sea. Cold water poured in from all directions. Constantly pulling me deeper. The last light I saw. It's a phone screen. And the message Luc Ngan sent to Ha Mat.

“It's done.”

“The prize is mine.”

And this life. I sit in a warm room. The windows are closed. Wind cannot penetrate. The phone rang again. It's a number saved a long time ago. But never called. Ha Thieu Dinh. I picked up the phone.

“I have something to tell you.”

“The International Society for the Preservation of Textile Culture today received a request for a formal investigation.”

"Relating to Professor Chu Minh Vien being suspected of appropriating students' intellectual property rights for a long time."

I sat up straight.