The Waste Heir's Comeback

Selena's POV

I exited her blog and began browsing other news. Sure enough, under Beatrice's "professional" framing and guidance, the entire public discourse was completely dominated by narratives of "the black swan awakening" and "the bearing of an heiress."

The New York Times headline read "The Awakening of the Black Swan: Selena Windsor Heralds a New Era." Vogue launched a #TheSelenaBlackDress# challenge on their website, with countless socialites and netizens imitating my look.

Reportedly, an Armani black dress that had been utterly unremarkable received thousands of orders overnight from across the East Coast, even triggering a custom-tailoring craze for "minimalist power" little black dresses.

On social media, it was a carnival centered entirely on me. My Instagram followers skyrocketed from a few hundred thousand to several million overnight. People even flooded Kane's Instagram to mock him for being "blind."

My phone vibrated again—a video call from Beatrice.

"Did you see it! How was my analysis? Professional enough? Did I blow your mind enough!" She was flushed with excitement on the other end, her eyes bloodshot, clearly having pulled an all-nighter for that article. But then, a hint of confusion crept into her excited tone.

"Although, Selena, honestly... something's weird."

"What is it?" I asked.

"This traffic surge is too intense. Honestly, it's kind of scary." Beatrice's expression turned serious, revealing the keen instinct of a professional blogger.

"I'll admit my blog has some reputation in the circle, but this spread rate is completely beyond my expectations. Less than an hour after I published, Forbes and The Wall Street Journal's websites were already citing my article—this has gone way beyond the fashion sphere."

"It feels like... I lit a match, and then someone poured an entire barrel of gasoline on it. There's definitely a push behind this, and it's a top-tier PR team at work."

She frowned, speculating, "Did your father do this? Has he come around and decided to build momentum for you?"

My heart stirred. Beatrice's perceptiveness was extraordinary. She was right—this kind of cross-sector, rapid public fermentation couldn't have formed naturally.

Richard? I immediately dismissed that idea. He'd been furious at my "rebellion" last night. Given his personality, he wouldn't turn around this quickly and use such delicate tactics to pave my way. His style leaned more toward brutal commands and after-the-fact damage control.

Then who could it be?

Unbidden, a figure surfaced in my mind—the man who'd intervened for me in the banquet hall and lent me his jacket outside the study. Could it be Damian Cross? But why would he do this? Simply out of a legal advisor's "duty"?

I buried this question deep, revealing nothing to Beatrice. Until I understood more, I could only remain silent.

I merely attributed this unexpected assistance to the shift in my entire destiny's trajectory since my rebirth. I'd stirred up a small storm, and that storm had happened to collide with an era hungry for new stories, evolving into a hurricane that swept everything before it.

"Richard?" I smiled lightly at the camera. "He was busy yelling at me last night—he didn't have the bandwidth for PR. Perhaps... we've all underestimated how hungry people are for a new Windsor family story. And you, Bea, gave them exactly what they wanted."

Hearing my praise, Beatrice's doubts dissipated somewhat, and she became animated again.

"Fine, I'll take your word for it!" She tilted her chin at the camera. "But you'd better give me that Chief Fashion Officer position wholeheartedly!"

"Absolutely, my Chief Fashion Officer." I looked at the dark circles under her eyes, warmth flooding my chest. "Don't forget about lunch at Le Bernardin. You need to recharge, and then we'll talk properly about next steps."

After ending the call with Beatrice, I immediately got up. I dragged out a black combination-lock suitcase from the deepest corner of my walk-in closet and began a ruthless purge.

Everything in this mansion was still immersed in post-gala exhaustion, but I was more mentally alert than ever.

I searched every corner of my room for those hallucinogenic drugs Vera had "kindly" procured for me over the years, disguised as imported vitamins and sleep candies; those bizarre, violent fringe publications she'd subtly encouraged me to buy; and those clothes printed with exaggerated, grotesque patterns, some even carrying cult-like implications. I retrieved them all, along with the original speech manuscript I'd gotten back from Finch the butler, and packed them neatly, piece by piece, into the suitcase.

In my previous life, these items had been brazenly unearthed not long after and laid out before Father and the private physician, becoming ironclad evidence of my "mental instability, dissolute lifestyle, and severe self-destructive tendencies."

In this life, I would turn them into blades aimed at Vera's heart.

I summoned Finch and had him deliver the suitcase to a private club I frequented in the East Side, to be stored in my exclusive locker under my name.

Only after completing all this did I begin preparing for lunch with Beatrice.

Noon, twelve o'clock.

The door to Le Bernardin was dark oak with no view of the scenery beyond, completely separating members from prying eyes. I'd chosen this place—in my previous life, I'd found it boring, but now I needed its privacy.

Beatrice had arrived early. Before her sat a glass of sparkling Perrier, and she was looking down at her phone replying to something, brow furrowed.

"Still busy with your viral article, my Chief Fashion Officer?" I pulled out the chair across from her and sat down.

"Don't even get me started," she put down her phone and made an exaggerated face at me. "Overnight, I became the person who best understands 'heiress style' in all of New York fashion circles. Three editors want me to write columns for them, and the offers are ridiculously high. I feel like a fraud."

"You're not a fraud, Bea. You simply spoke the truth." I looked at her seriously. "And truth is always a luxury commodity."

The waiter poured my water, and we ordered. During the wait for our food, Beatrice's gossip radar finally activated at full power.

"Seriously though, Selena," she leaned forward, lowering her voice, her amber eyes sparkling with excitement, "that man last night... that lawyer Damian, what's his deal? I swear, the way he looked at you was absolutely not how an ordinary lawyer looks at an employer. Plus he's so handsome, that restrained yet dangerous aura—way more compelling than Kane's pretty-boy vibe!"

I was cutting into the tender cod on my plate when my movements paused.

"He's just the head of the Windsor Trust." I answered calmly.

"A trust manager would block your father's slap for you?" Beatrice clearly didn't buy it. She pursed her lips. "Selena, we don't have secrets between us. Have you... finally decided to throw that idiot Kane out of your heart?"

"Bea," I raised my head, looking directly into her eyes, interrupting her speculation. My words unconsciously took on weight. "Listen, what I'm about to tell you, you cannot tell anyone—not a single word."