Chapter 281

Chapter 281

Margaret's voice wasn't loud, but every word rang clear.

"It broke me, but it also rebuilt me into something stronger. I don't thank the pain, but I thank the version of myself who refused to give up in the ruins."

No resentment, no dramatics. Just stating a fact.

That evening, the digital version of the interview went live globally.

Richard saw the article in his study. He didn't read the online version—his assistant had respectfully placed the freshly air-shipped magazine on his desk. He dismissed everyone and closed the door.

The night was deep and quiet.

He opened the magazine, the scent of fresh ink mixing with the cigar smoke on his fingers, filling the air. He skipped past the sections on business strategy and technical analysis, flipping straight to the final page.

In the accompanying photo, her expression was serene, but her eyes held an unmistakable strength.

"Scars, but also armor."

He read that line over and over, his fingertip tracing the printed words. As if he could somehow touch her through the page.

He'd always thought that everything he'd done for her was about making amends, about redemption. He'd wanted to heal her wounds, help her forget the past.

But in this moment, he finally understood—those scars had long since become part of her blood and bones, transformed into the impenetrable armor she wore now.

She didn't need him to erase the past. She'd conquered it herself.

A complex emotion surged through his chest—part heartache, part admiration. And underneath it all, loss.

He picked up his phone, found her number. He wanted to say so much, typing and deleting, deleting and retyping, until only a single sentence remained.

[You're the bravest person I've ever known.]

Send.

Then he placed the phone face down on the desk.

Margaret saw the text the next morning. She'd just finished her run, still glistening with sweat. When that familiar name popped up, she glanced at the message, didn't reply, and set the phone aside to shower and change for another day of work.

Three days later, at the joint coordination meeting between Margaret New Energy Group and the Neville Group regarding the second phase of the African base station project, everyone sensed something different.

The discussion had turned to new material applications. The Neville Construction's chief engineer proposed a bold idea—using a new composite anti-corrosion material that would double the maintenance cycle for base stations, though it would increase initial costs by fifteen percent.

As soon as the proposal was presented, the project manager from Margaret's side immediately frowned, ready to raise objections. Margaret's cost control requirements were notoriously strict—premium solutions like this usually got shot down in the first round.

The conference room fell silent, all eyes turning to Margaret at the head of the table. Richard sat across from her, having attended the meeting personally today, though he hadn't spoken a word since it began.

Margaret studied the proposal in her hands, silent for a full minute. Just as her subordinates prepared their arsenal of counterarguments, she suddenly looked up, her gaze sweeping over the Neville Group engineers before landing on Richard's face.

"I approve this proposal," she said. "Long-term, reduced maintenance costs far outweigh the initial investment. Let's proceed."

The words hit like a thunderbolt. Not just her own team, but even the Neville Group representatives looked stunned. This wasn't Margaret's style.

Richard's hand curled beneath the table. He watched her, her expression maintaining that same businesslike composure. But in that decisiveness, he read something else—a permission to come closer.

She'd given him a response.

A month later, the Neville Group's fortieth anniversary gala was held at the city's most exclusive hotel. The elite gathered—business moguls, political figures, all the usual suspects.

The week before the celebration, Sovereign City's high society played a guessing game: Would Margaret show up?

Richard had definitely sent an invitation, but whether she'd come was another matter entirely.

Some said, "She definitely won't come. After how ugly things got back then, only an idiot would show up and humiliate herself."

Others argued, "Hard to say. She's the head of Margaret New Energy Group now, not the Neville family's former daughter-in-law. From a business perspective, this is prime networking territory. She has no reason not to come."

Still others added with sardonic amusement, "Now this should be entertaining! Are we getting a century-defining handshake of reconciliation, or an ex-lovers' showdown?"

The night of the gala, a long red carpet stretched before the hotel entrance, flanked by camera flashes bright as daylight. Richard, as host, stood at the ballroom entrance in a black velvet tuxedo, his posture impeccable as he greeted each arriving guest with handshakes and pleasantries.

His expression remained composed, his manner elegant, betraying no emotional turbulence. But his assistant could sense that their CEO's gaze kept drifting toward the red carpet entrance.

Most guests had already arrived. She still hadn't appeared.

Just when everyone assumed the speculation would end with "Margaret's absence," an understated black sedan pulled up to the carpet's end.

The door opened, and a foot in silver heels emerged first. Then Margaret stepped into everyone's line of sight.

She wore an impeccably tailored sapphire blue gown, the silk catching the light with subtle luminescence. Her hair was sleekly styled, and small diamond earrings glinted at her ears. Light makeup, lighter expression.

She walked alone, moving up the red carpet with complete composure. In that instant, the surrounding chaos seemed muted. Every lens, every gaze focused on her in unison.

She showed no discomfort, walking with measured steps, even nodding graciously to several industry veterans she recognized. Her behavior was impeccable, her boundaries perfectly maintained.

Richard watched her approach step by step. His heart felt seized by an invisible hand, his breathing momentarily suspended.

She stopped in front of him, just one step away. The photographers flanking the red carpet went wild, shutters clicking in a frenzy.

Finally, a smile appeared on Margaret's face. She extended her hand toward him.

"Mr. Neville, congratulations."

Her voice wasn't loud, but it cut clearly through all the noise. He looked at her outstretched hand, slowly lifting his own to meet it.

The moment their palms touched—warm, soft. She'd come.

Inside the ballroom, crystal chandeliers cast countless reflections, illuminating every expression with crystal clarity. Margaret's arrival was like a stone dropped into still waters, the ripples spreading outward in ever-widening circles.

Soon, Richard took the podium. Under the focused lights, after a moment of silence, he began his speech.

His opening was surprisingly straightforward.

"Over forty years, the Neville Group has experienced both peaks and valleys. Standing here today, the first thanks go not to opportunity, but to every partner who stood alongside us."

His gaze swept across the audience below, finally cutting through the sea of faces to land in Margaret's direction. His look held no heat, no trace of personal emotion—only focus and gravity.