By Monday morning, the office buzzed with news.
"She resigned?"
"Just like that?"
"No farewell mail. No handover drama."
Her name moved through the company like a rumor no one could confirm. Some said she'd finally gotten tired of being invisible. Others said she'd been fired quietly. No one knew the truth—because she had made sure of that.
From her new apartment across town, she watched the company emails on a burner laptop, sipping tea that had long gone cold.
She had resigned cleanly.
Too cleanly.
No accusations.
No emotional breakdown.
No threats.
That was what unsettled him.
At noon, her phone rang.
She didn't need to check the screen to know who it was.
She let it ring.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then she answered.
"Hello?" Her voice was calm, polite—almost unfamiliar.
There was a pause on the other end. The kind that betrayed shock.
"You didn't even tell me you were leaving," he finally said, his tone carefully light. Too light.
She smiled.
"I thought you'd be busy."
"With what?"
"With her."
Silence.
Not anger. Not denial. Silence.
Interesting.
"That's not fair," he said eventually. "You know how things look from the outside."
She leaned back against the chair, eyes half-lidded. In her past life, this sentence had been enough to make her doubt herself. To apologize. To stay.
Not this time.
"I agree," she said gently. "That's why I removed myself from the picture."
His breath hitched. Just slightly.
"You didn't have to resign," he said. "You built half of this company. We can talk."
Talk.
The same word he'd used the night she died.
"I don't think that would be appropriate anymore," she replied. "You're a CEO now. Appearances matter."
Another pause.
"You sound different," he said slowly.
"I had time to think."
That was true—seven days of borrowed life and one memory of dying on a cold floor while the man she loved watched.
Across the city, he stood by his office window, gripping his phone tighter than necessary. Something was wrong. She wasn't begging. She wasn't accusing. She wasn't emotional.
She was… detached.
And that scared him more than anger ever could.
"Let's have dinner," he said. "Just once. Closure."
Closure.
She almost laughed.
"Maybe," she said. "If our schedules align."
She hung up before he could respond.
That evening, she went out.
Not to hide.
Not to run.
To be seen.
A simple dress. Clean lines. Confident posture. She looked like a woman who had stepped out of a shadow that no longer fit her.
At a charity networking event downtown, she felt it before she saw it—the weight of someone's gaze.
Then she turned.
Him.
The rival CEO.
Taller than she remembered. Sharper eyes. A presence that made people unconsciously straighten their backs. In her past life, he had been an irritation. A constant thorn in her ex-lover's pride.
Now, he was… observant.
Their eyes met.
Recognition flickered across his face, followed by something else.
Interest.
"So," he said as he approached, voice low and amused, "the company finally realized they couldn't afford you."
She raised an eyebrow. "You've been keeping tabs?"
"I keep tabs on valuable assets."
She smiled—slow, measured.
"Then you know I'm currently… independent."
His lips curved. Not smug. Not flirtatious.
Strategic.
"Funny," he said. "I was just thinking my company has been missing something."
"And what's that?"
"Someone who knows how to survive betrayal."
Her smile didn't waver.
Neither did her heartbeat.
Across the room, her ex had just walked in—arm linked with another woman—only to freeze when he saw her laughing softly with the man he hated most.
Jealousy burned sharp and unexpected.
He had wanted her gone.
He hadn't expected her to rise.
And for the first time since her rebirth, she felt it clearly:
The future was no longer something that happened to her.
It was something she was about to take.