The morning sun spilled across the polished marble floors of the University of Bologna, catching on centuries of carved names and whispered ambitions. Students hurried through the grand corridor, portfolios clutched close, their voices low with excitement—the architecture department was holding its annual exhibition, where the best minds would be recognized, and reputations quietly made or destroyed.
At the center of it all stood Scarlett—the woman everyone had begun to notice but few dared to approach. Scarlett stood beside her sleek model, her design illuminated by soft, shifting light. It was unlike anything the judges had seen before—fluid, dynamic, almost alive.
From the second floor balcony, Alisa Meng watched, her expression poised, but her fingers tightened subtly on the railing.
"Everyone's looking at her again," whispered Joanna, standing beside her.
Alisa's lips curved into a delicate smile, one that never reached her eyes. "Let them look. The higher she flies, the harder she'll fall."
For years, the Meng name had commanded respect in Italy's elite circles. Her father's empire had built half the skyline of Milan. She was used to being admired, envied, obeyed. Yet lately, it was that calm girl from the lesser-known design faculty stealing attention—Scarlett's presence quiet, but magnetic; her work, impossible to ignore.
When Alisa finally descended the stairs, students turned instinctively to make way. She moved like she owned the marble beneath her feet.
But as she approached Scarlett's table, the whispers grew louder.
"That's beautiful," Alisa said sweetly, eyes sweeping over the model. "Almost reminds me of García's 1943 Bologna Pavilion. Such inspiration from the classics is… admirable."
Joanna caught the cue, leaning closer with a mock gasp. "You're right! The curve, the glass symmetry—it's identical to García's work. Isn't plagiarism a serious offense here?"
Their words dropped like stones in water, spreading ripples fast. Within hours, murmurs spread through the department. Anonymous emails reached the professors, citing 'similarities' between Scarlett's new design and the archived plans of García, a legendary Italian architect whose original work was considered untouchable.
Alisa smiled faintly as she passed the gossiping students. Her plan had worked perfectly—at least, for the moment.
But what she didn't know was that Scarlett hadn't simply recreated a classic—she had reinvented it. Late at night, in the quiet corners of her studio, Scarlett had integrated Artificial Intelligence into the structure's blueprint. Her model didn't just stand—it learned. It adapted to light, adjusted temperature gradients, and optimized spatial flow. It was García's dream reborn through modern innovation.
When the exhibition reopened the next morning, the professors requested a live demonstration before the jury. The room filled with tension; even Alisa and Joanna stood close, pretending to be curious spectators.
Scarlett stepped forward, calm as ever. "The inspiration may be classical," she said softly, "but the soul of this design belongs to the future."
At her signal, the sensors activated. The glass surfaces shimmered; the structure shifted subtly as if breathing. The model adjusted its angles to balance natural light and heat flow, the data projected on the screen behind her in real time.
Gasps filled the hall. Professors exchanged glances. Someone whispered, "It's adaptive architecture… this is new."
Across the room, Alisa's smile froze. Joanna's face paled. The 'plagiarized' design had just rewritten the very definition of innovation.
And in that charged silence, he—Nicolas Volkov—was now watching her with quiet fascination. His dark eyes lingered, unreadable, as though something long dormant had just awakened.
Alisa felt the heat of jealousy rise to her chest, sharp and ugly. No one, not even the Meng family, had ever commanded his attention like that. Not for talent. Not for intellect. Not for anything.
As the applause erupted, she turned away, nails digging into her palm.
"This isn't over," she whispered to Joanna. "If she wants a war, I'll give her one. Let's see how long her little genius lasts once I turn this university against her."
Her voice was smooth as silk, but behind her eyes burned something ruthless—a promise.