After the morning's insightful introductory session, the IPR authorities chauffeured all the company reps back to the IPR House, while the main programme carried on behind the closed velvet doors of the grand auditorium. Lunch was already being served when they arrived—steamed rice, tropical grilled fish, some coconut dumplings, and fruit cocktails chilled just right. It was giving international elegance with a touch of home.
But Zoey? She wasn't feeling any of it.
Her appetite had been swallowed whole by that intense stare-down earlier from none other than Ms. Samantha Sanchez. The way the woman looked at her, like a panther watching its prey, but in a designer suit and heels made of shark skin ,it sent chills down Zoey's spine. So instead of focusing on her studies like the rest of the reps, she whipped out her tablet and started digging. She needed answers.
And oh, did she find some.
Ms. Sanchez wasn't just a businesswoman. She was the business. The kind of woman whispered about in boardrooms and feared in Forbes columns. After inheriting Sanchez Foods from her late husband—who tragically died under mysterious circumstances that still sparked Reddit threads, she turned the once-failing company into an empire. Rumors swirled around her like perfume: she owned private islands in both the Philippines and Taiwan, had two sons who lived in obscurity, and apparently chaired half the food commerce decisions in Southern Asia. No scandal could touch her. No rival could topple her.
"They call her The Gem," Zoey read aloud quietly to herself. "Because she shines, and cuts through everything."
Tuesday arrived with fire in its heels.
Same glossy black cars. Same venue with towering glass walls. But the energy? It was war-ready.
Today, the reps were to present their cases,why they deserved international distribution. One by one, hopeful voices filled the room. Passion, ambition, strategy, all dancing in the air like confetti. When it was Zoey's turn, she did her best. She spoke clearly, emphasizing community initiatives, innovation, and what McKrapper stood for. It was solid. It was heartfelt.
But the atmosphere shifted when Serena walked in.
Hair slick, makeup matte, and grace like she owned the sun, Serena took the stage as though it was custom-built for her. Then came her final line, with a smile as sharp as her cheekbones:
"My company, Sanchez Foods, has introduced a taxing code that allocates 15% of all profits directly to the Philippine government. That's simply… giving back to our community."
Mic drop.
The room burst into applause. Judges clapped. One even stood up. And Zoey? Her heart plunged into her stomach like a failed soufflé.
Dre, standing beside her, whispered gently but firmly, "Don't be afraid. It's just the beginning. That girl is everything, yes. But that doesn't mean you're nothing."
That evening, the IPR House glowed with elegance for the cocktail soirée, lace curtains swaying, soft music playing, and reps nervously sipping on wine as they awaited the infamous list. It would come out tonight, and those not on it would have to pack and leave by Wednesday evening. Just like that.
Zoey stood on the balcony, trying to breathe past the panic rising in her throat.
Would she make it to Thursday?
Would McKrapper still have a place in this dazzling arena of giants?
She didn't know yet.
But one thing was certain—The game had only just begun.
And in this game? Fear was a luxury she couldn't afford.