Rebirth Over the Deep

"Miss Wallace, Zenith Corporation has never ventured into underwater projects. Why this sudden strategic shift, with you personally leading the charge?"

In the Q&A session, a prearranged reporter extended the microphone, asking the question everyone wanted answered.

Alec stood at the crowd's edge, his eyes pleading desperately.

He begged me not to speak, not to strip away his last shred of dignity before the world.

Rosalyn was there too.

She wore sunglasses and a mask, tucked in an inconspicuous corner, her body trembling with nerves.

She likely clung to the hope that I'd only target Alec, that she could escape this storm unscathed.

How naively absurd.

I looked at their faces, once so familiar, now only repulsive, and my smile deepened.

"That's an excellent question." My voice, amplified, rang clear and calm through every corner of the venue. "Zenith made this decision not for business reasons but because of a deeply personal experience."

I glanced at Andrew behind me.

He nodded, and every large screen in the room lit up.

A familiar yacht appeared, set against a chilling deep blue sea.

Alec's pupils contracted sharply.

Rosalyn's hands gripped her skirt tightly.

The video played silently, like an oppressive silent film.

It opened with me being restrained by two crew members, forcibly suited up in diving gear.

The camera zoomed in, capturing my face twisted with fear and despair, my screams and struggles vivid.

Alec stood nearby, watching coldly, as if I were a raving lunatic.

His impatient expression was caught in stark high definition.

The scene shifted.

I was mercilessly pushed into the black abyss.

The underwater footage was even more harrowing.

It was a raw record of my near-death.

I sank like a stone, flailing desperately in the dark, my panic and suffocation palpable through the screen.

The screens displayed my vitals—heart rate spiking to dangerous levels, oxygen saturation plummeting.

Though muted, the flashing red warning was more terrifying than any sound.

"Warning! Oxygen level below ten percent!"

The cold text appeared in the corner of the screen.

Gasps echoed through the room.

Reporters forgot to snap photos, stunned by the brutal footage.

Alec's face drained of color, pale as paper.

He wanted to flee but stood rooted to the spot.

The video wasn't done.

It ended with me dragged onto the deck, collapsing like refuse, soaked and shivering.

I tore off the helmet, spitting seawater, curled up in pathetic disarray.

On the other side of the frame, Alec tenderly embraced Rosalyn, celebrating her dream come true.

The champagne, the ribbons, the beaming faces contrasted cruelly with the lonely, broken figure on the deck.

The video froze there.

Alec kissing Rosalyn's forehead sat side by side with me fighting for life on the cold deck, forever etched on the screen.

The room fell deathly silent.

All eyes turned like blades toward Alec in the crowd and Rosalyn in her corner.

Disdain, anger, disgust, contempt.

I lifted the microphone and spoke slowly, my voice steady but sharp, slicing their dignity to ribbons. "I once thought a dream was the most sacred thing. That day, I learned one person's dream could be built on another's life. To ensure the 'Mermaid Dancer,' Miss Rosalyn Martin, had no regrets, my ex-husband, Mr. Alec Johnson, pushed me, someone with severe thalassophobia, into the ocean to complete her shoot."

"He told me it was just a few minutes. I wouldn't die." I paused, my gaze cutting through the crowd to Alec's bloodless face.

I smiled, cold as ice. "Right, Mr. Johnson?"

The crowd erupted.

If the video shocked them, my words ignited their fury.

"My God! That's attempted murder!"

"Forcing his phobic wife to dive for his mistress? Is that human?"

"Those vitals—she was seconds from death!"

"Rosalyn's no better! Her dream's built on someone else's life! Her awards should bear Miss Wallace's name!"

"Scum! Get out of this conference!"

Flashes went wild, aimed at Alec and Rosalyn.

Reporters swarmed them like sharks scenting blood.

"Mr. Johnson! Is Miss Wallace telling the truth? Did you nearly kill your wife for Rosalyn's dream?"

"Miss Martin! What's your defense? Is this how you achieved your dream? Can you sleep at night?"

"Have you no humanity, Alec Johnson?"

Alec stood dazed, overwhelmed by the onslaught, his mind blank as he flailed, stammering, "It's not true… It wasn't like that… Maeve, let me explain… It was an accident!"

"Accident?" a female reporter snapped. "The warnings and your indifference were accidents? Did you think of your wife dying while you held another woman?"

Rosalyn screamed as reporters tore off her sunglasses and mask, revealing her flushed, humiliated face.

She tried to flee but was trapped, her heels twisting, sending her crashing to the floor, head in hands, enduring the barrage of questions and scorn.

"Rosalyn! Look at the camera! Is this the cost of your dream?"

"Mermaid Dancer? More like a leech dancer, feeding on others' blood!"

A meticulously planned business event turned into a grand moral trial.

I sat on the high stage, a cold deity, watching the hell I crafted for them.

Alec broke free from a reporter's grasp.

Eyes red, he roared across the crowd, "Maeve! Why are you doing this? Seven years together! Must you destroy me?"

Destroy you?

I stood, looking down at him. "Alec, you destroyed me first. You shattered my love, my trust, and nearly my life."

"As for your company…" I lifted the nameplate reading "CEO Maeve Wallace," gleaming under the flashes. "It's mine now. I'll use it to create truly great work. You and your so-called legacy belong in history's trash heap."

My words, carried by the open microphone, rang clear across the room.

Alec seemed drained of all strength, stumbling back, hitting the wall, and sliding to the floor.

He stared at me, a stranger he never knew, his face a mask of collapse and despair.

Rosalyn's sobs mixed with the reporters' accusations, a requiem for their downfall.

Alec, Rosalyn.

The sound of their dreams breaking was music to my ears.

Andrew approached, whispering, "Miss, security has the situation under control. We can leave."

I nodded, casting a final glance at the two trapped in the storm of public outrage, with nowhere to run.

I turned, head high, and walked offstage under a sea of lenses.

The show was over.

And so were their lives.