I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis
Chapter 183 - 184 Livestreamed Squabble

Chapter 183: Chapter 184 Livestreamed Squabble

Applause rattled through the hall as the contestant before me stepped down.

I walked to the centre of the platform.

The screen behind me buzzed once, then flared to life.

White light burned the edge of my vision.

My palms were dry; I’d made sure of it.

I hadn’t come all the way here and worked weeks on four hours’ sleep a night just to flinch now.

I gripped the mic in one hand, the laser pointer in the other.

I began.

‘Good afternoon, judges, guests. I’m Mirabelle Vance.’

I paused just long enough to force them to look up.

‘The theme: Evening Gala. Gemstones. Composure. I designed a four-piece set intended for high-profile, high-visibility events. Met-tier, red carpet-ready. But every clasp, hinge, and suspension curve is engineered for full comfort. Nothing that requires styling glue or double-sided tape to sit right.’

I clicked the pointer.

The ring rotated on the screen.

‘Let’s start with the ring. Cushion-cut Ceylon sapphire, 7.8 carats, zero thermal treatment. Cradled in a platinum claw mount. The tapering shank has micro-pavé spinels—black, not red—to reduce flare under flash photography. The undergallery’s open to let the stone breathe.’

Another click.

The necklace.

‘This collar piece uses a floating halo design. Twenty-two Colombian emeralds, tension-set between curved titanium bars for flexibility. They follow the line of the collarbone, not the neckline. It moves with the body, not against it. No flipping, no twisting. Even with hair down.’

Next, the earrings.

‘Triple-drop configuration. Mixed cuts: marquise, pear, and round. Centre stones are white zircons, not diamonds. They give a wetter sparkle under LED but stay lighter on the lobe. The hooks are reverse-weighted to stop swingback when walking.’

Last one.

‘The bracelet’s a hinged bangle. Centre inlay of brushed gold with hex-set garnets, chosen for low-reflectivity under spotlight glare. Interior lined with medical-grade silicone. Non-slip. Sweat-resistant. You could wear this through a whole gala dinner and forget it’s there.’

I glanced at Aliénor Dubois.

She leaned in, elbows on the table.

Her gaze pinned the screen.

I closed. ‘Thank you.’

As the last contestant, no one ushered me off.

I stayed in place.

The judges began scoring.

The ones with styluses muttered between themselves, heads bent.

One tapped the corner of his screen like it was unresponsive.

I scanned the audience and found Ashton immediately in the second row.

His hands came together first.

A few people turned.

Then more clapping.

It spread fast, like someone had flicked a switch.

I didn’t wave; the whole thing was being livestreamed. But I let him see the smile.

The secondary screen flickered with slow-moving comments from online viewers.

Dubois finally spoke. ‘It’s... fine.’

Nothing else.

A long pause.

Then the numbers appeared.

Eight.

Six.

Seven.

A hush.

Then—

Octavia spoke.

She didn’t bother to lower her voice. Or hide the hostility in it.

‘That last guy’s necklace looked like costume jewellery from a Halloween aisle. You gave him nines. Now she shows actual craftsmanship and you suddenly develop cataracts? Are you taking the piss?’

A collective murmur rippled through the room.

The livestream chat exploded.

I glanced at the screen.

The viewer count was jumping in real-time.

The comments scrolled so fast I had to squint.

[What the hell is this scoring?]

[Octavia just blew it up. They thought she was here to look pretty. Ha.]

[Mirabelle’s work is solid. Actual design logic, not whatever the hell that last entry was.]

[Six?! That necklace is museum-grade. This is rigged as fuck]

‘Dr Dubois?’ Octavia’s voice cut through the noise. ‘I’m not a professional designer, sure. But you are. So explain the score. I’m waiting. And I’m not the only one.’

Aliénor Dubois didn’t answer.

She crooked a finger at one of the staff.

He jogged over.

She leaned in and murmured something.

I couldn’t hear it from where I stood.

Octavia could.

‘Dr Dubois?’ she said, louder this time. ‘Why are you telling them to shut down the livestream?’

Dubois’s voice cracked the slightest bit. ‘There’s been... a technical issue.’

Octavia turned towards the secondary screen.

The footage streamed as smoothly as ever.

‘Really? Because from here, everything looks perfectly functional. So unless the “issue” is your ego, I suggest you answer my question.’

The chat feed behind me was boiling.

[Is that @MVanceJewels?]

[I bought her bracelet. Loved it. No way this is legit]

[Bribes. Has to be]

[Rigged.]

[Rigged]

[Rigged.]

In the hall, the shouts started off scattered and low.

‘It’s rigged!’

‘That score’s a joke!’

‘Say it to her face!’

Chairs scraped.

Half the third row stood.

Phones shot up.

Cameras locked on Dubois.

She reached for her mic again.

Her hand trembled slightly.

‘Everyone, please, calm down. Scoring is based on each judge’s independent criteria. Some variation is expected—’

Octavia didn’t even need to raise her voice.

‘Don’t insult us. You gave that walking disaster nine points. Now suddenly you can’t see straight? That’s not a difference of opinion. That’s rigged.’

Dubois inhaled sharply.

‘Miss Grey, you’re a guest. I’m a qualified adjudicator. You comment on surface appeal. We evaluate across multiple metrics—’

Octavia let out a short laugh. ‘Right. Because if I’m not one of you, I must be clueless.’

She folded her arms. ‘Fine. Then educate us. What are these mysterious “metrics”? Tell us. Right now.’

A voice shot out from the back: ‘Yeah, let’s hear it!’

Another: ‘That was the best design all day!’

Third: ‘Score or step down!’

From where I stood, I could see the whole stage.

Security clustered near the exits, hesitating.

Dubois stared at her hands.

The mic shook.

‘We’re taking a ten-minute break,’ she said. ‘We’ll resume soon.’

‘Why?’ I stepped forward. ‘There’s no segment left. I’m the last contestant. The programme doesn’t list a break.’

The crowd roared.

The comment feed behind me had probably imploded by now.

I didn’t need to look.

Dubois spun towards me.

Her glare was sharp, desperate.

‘What exactly do you want?’

‘I want a real score. I want transparency.’ I pointed at the screen. My pieces hovered in high-resolution detail, turning slowly under the overhead lights. ‘It’s all right there. Let the audience decide. Let the livestream stay open.’

‘Absolutely not!’ she snapped. ‘The public doesn’t understand technical design. That’s the point of a panel. We’re the standard.’

‘Then maybe you’re the problem.’ I stared straight at her. ‘Because right now, the comment section’s doing a better job than you.’

She opened her mouth.

No sound came out.