Dramatic Moment

Selena's POV

Below the stage, hundreds of pairs of eyes focused on me like searchlights, dissecting every tiny tremor that ran through my body.

Even though the champagne I had drunk was clean, I could still feel that familiar heat—the same sensation that had dragged me into the abyss in my previous life—coursing through my blood. But this time, surging alongside it was a rage that had been tempered by fire.

In the prolonged silence, the crowd began to ferment into a subtle disturbance, like the buzzing of mosquitoes and flies.

"What's wrong? Did she forget her lines?"

"She seems to be shaking... look, her hands."

"She's just a child after all. This kind of occasion is too much for her."

Those contemptuous, pitying, and schadenfreude-filled gazes wove together into an invisible net that wrapped tightly around me.

I saw the corners of Vera's mouth—that perfect arc was now tinged with the satisfaction of imminent triumph. Lillian's body leaned forward slightly, like a cat preparing to pounce on its prey, filled with impatient ambition.

They thought I had stage fright. They were certain that the spiked champagne was already rampaging through my bloodstream, ready to watch me turn into a babbling lunatic.

But they didn't know that the person standing here now was a revenger who had clawed her way back from hell. The trembling of my body didn't stem from fear, but from the turbulent grief and fury that came with rebirth from the depths of my soul.

In the final second before everyone's patience completely ran out, I raised my hand and closed the carefully prepared speech.

A light "snap" echoed.

This sound was like the death knell I personally rang for the Selena of the past.

All the murmuring in the banquet hall came to an abrupt halt. Everyone watched this gesture, their faces filled with confusion.

"This draft is beautifully written, using many fashionable words," my voice was as clear as a diamond striking ice. "But unfortunately, this is not my mother."

My mind was crystal clear, and those memories that had been blurred by alcohol and drugs in my previous life were now unprecedentedly vivid.

During those long years when I was despised by everyone, I had countless times curled up in my mother's old study like a lost child, going through her manuscripts, interviews, and design notes over and over again. At that time, I couldn't understand or remember them; I was only instinctively searching for traces of my mother's existence, drawing strength from her.

It turned out that those fragments that had sunk into the deep sea had never disappeared. They were just waiting for a moment to be awakened.

"The person who prepared this draft for me clearly knows nothing about her." I didn't name names, but I could feel Vera's gaze instantly turn venomous.

The guests around exchanged glances, and the atmosphere began to grow subtle.

"First, the year is wrong. The actual launch of the Morning Mist collection was in the spring of 2008, not 2006 as stated here."

I no longer looked at the draft, but tossed it aside.

"My mother, Eleonora Windsor, never believed that jewelry was a tool for flaunting wealth." My voice began to soften, yet it was filled with power. "She said that jewelry is a container of time, used to hold the joys and sorrows, glory and love of the human world. What it records is life itself."

I spoke of the work my mother was most proud of during her lifetime, which wasn't some rare treasure. A cornflower school badge representing resilience and light. A silver wedding ring that carried a lifetime of devotion, personally restored by my mother. And the inspiration behind the "Morning Mist" collection—not some luxurious ball, but an ordinary morning after rain. My mother was moved by a dewdrop on a leaf that refracted the light of the rising sun, fragile yet tender. She wanted to use the world's hardest diamonds to preserve that fleeting tenderness.

With each story I told, the real self imprisoned within me broke free from another layer of restraint. My mother's philosophy, her tenderness and strength, were being re-injected into this cold commercial empire through my words.

I saw those industry veterans in the audience—the contempt and disappointment in their eyes were melting away, replaced by emotion, nostalgia, and renewed appreciation for me as "Eleonora's daughter."

"I admit that I was once naive, willful, and did many absurd things. I didn't deserve the title of 'Eleonora's daughter.'"

As I spoke these words, I felt completely severed from my past self. Every word was a farewell to that deceived and manipulated girl, and also the most solemn vow I made to myself.

"But from now on, I will relearn everything. I will learn to shoulder the responsibilities that a Windsor heir should bear. I will spend the rest of my life protecting what my mother truly left behind. Until one day, I can truly be worthy of my surname, worthy of everything my mother left me."

I lowered my head in a deep, respectful gesture to the audience below.

What responded to me was complete silence.

Someone in the front row murmured in a low voice: "She is Eleonora's daughter... this is truly her daughter!"

This sentence was like a signal. The first sound of applause rang out. Immediately after, the applause spread like wildfire, instantly sweeping through the entire hall, converging into a thunderous roar that shook the dome.

Several notoriously demanding industry giants in the front row stood up and offered me solemn respect. The flash of cameras from the media section merged into a dazzling sea of light, frantically recording this dramatic moment.

In this boiling wave of sound, I slowly straightened my back. I had finally, with my own hands, left that Selena who had been treated as a joke permanently in yesterday.

When I raised my head again, I saw my father's face full of shock, as if meeting his daughter for the first time. I saw Lillian frozen in place, her face as pale as paper, the ambition in her eyes replaced by enormous astonishment. And Vera—she was gripping her champagne flute so tightly that her perpetually perfect smile finally showed a trace of a grotesque crack.

Good. This was only the beginning.

Amidst the prolonged applause, I casually took that speech manuscript and walked down from the podium. I ignored everyone who tried to approach me with congratulations, and instead first found Finch.

"Uncle Finch," I handed the document to him, my tone serious, "please lock this document in your personal safe exactly as it is. Other than me, don't allow anyone to touch it."

"Yes, Miss." The old butler looked at me, his eyes full of gratification and excitement.

I instructed him because I remembered. In my previous life, after my eighteenth birthday, Finch, who had been utterly loyal to my mother, died in an accidental fall from a building. I believed it was no accident. In this life, the people I needed to protect were not just myself.

After doing all this, I turned around and moved through the crowd of wine glasses and intermingling guests. My gaze passed over all the superficiality and shot straight toward the most inconspicuous corner of the banquet hall.

Damian Cross was there. My line of sight collided with his.

Under my gaze, those arms that had been crossed over his chest slowly lowered.

Then, toward me, he slightly lowered his head. It was an extremely subtle yet incredibly formal gesture of respect. An ancient courtesy belonging to a guardian.

Representing recognition and promise.

To me, it was even more—a continuation of that promise made at the moment of my death in my previous life.

In that instant, all the boiling clamor of the outside world receded from me. The towering waves stirred up by rebirth in my heart finally found a harbor where they could dock.

My heart, in that moment, finally settled back into place. In those gray eyes, I found a real anchor.