Rebirth Over the Deep

The moment they pushed me into the sea, everything was already too late.

I sat in my office on the top floor of Zenith Corporation, a space sealed for seven years, reserved solely for me.

Beyond the vast floor-to-ceiling windows, half the city sparkled.

Andrew stood beside me, handing me a document.

"Miss, Alec Johnson's company has entered bankruptcy proceedings. All his assets, including properties and vehicles, will be frozen and auctioned to settle debts. Additionally, his biggest competitor, Oceanic Visions, has accepted our acquisition offer. Tomorrow at ten, we'll hold a press conference to announce this."

I flipped through the file, my fingers tapping lightly on the words "Oceanic Visions."

"I'll attend the press conference myself," I said evenly.

A flicker of surprise crossed Andrew's eyes, but he quickly grasped my intent.

He nodded slightly. "Understood. I'll make the arrangements."

He hesitated, concern in his voice. "Miss, your health… The doctor said you need rest. This event…"

"I'm fine." I cut him off, my tone unwavering. "I have to be the star of this show."

I wanted Alec, Rosalyn, and everyone who hurt me to watch.

Watch me grind them into the dust, step by step.

...

The press conference announcement hit the industry like a bombshell.

Zenith Corporation's high-profile acquisition of Oceanic Visions, with the group's heir stepping in as the new CEO, made headlines.

This news was the final straw, plunging Alec, already drowning in debt and desperation, into complete ruin.

He knew this was my final judgment.

On the day of the press conference, the venue overflowed with people, camera flashes lighting up the room like daylight.

Alec, somehow, slipped into the crowd of reporters, lurking in the back row.

He wore a crumpled suit, hair disheveled, eyes sunken, unshaven, a shadow of the "genius director," now resembling a desperate gambler facing his end.

His gaze locked onto the empty chair on the stage, marked with a nameplate reading "CEO Maeve Wallace."

Perhaps he clung to a final shred of hope.

Hope that I'd soften, that I'd spare him for old times' sake.

At exactly ten o'clock, amid the host's spirited introduction, I emerged from backstage.

I wore a sharp silver-gray suit, hair pinned up, makeup precise and commanding, my heels clicking with each step, as if treading on everyone's pulse.

My presence was cold and formidable.

I was nothing like the docile, quiet, invisible "Mrs. Johnson" who once trailed behind him.

The room fell silent.

The stark contrast left everyone speechless.

I felt, from the back of the crowd, a gaze heavy with disbelief, regret, and utter despair, piercing my back like thorns.

I didn't look back.

I walked to the center of the stage, sat, and adjusted the microphone.

My eyes swept calmly over the stunned faces below.

For a fleeting second, I met Alec's gaze across the distance.

His body swayed, barely able to stand.

I looked away, offering the hundreds of media outlets a formal smile.

"Good morning. I'm Maeve Wallace."