The Housewife’s Counterstrike Chapter 09
Two years later.
The Atlantic Shipping Regulatory Bureau held a grand celebratory gala in New York.
As the largest rights holder and highest-ranking overseer of the Voyager line, I walked gracefully up onto the main stage in a floor-length couture gown of deep black.
Before an audience of political and business luminaries, I delivered a speech on *Legitimizing Shipping Lines and Protecting the Rights of Seafarers’ Families.*
I spoke of institutional reform. I spoke of the countless family members who waited ashore, of the injustices they endured and the dignity they deserved.
When applause rolled through the room, I stood beneath the spotlight, my heart clear and untroubled.
In that moment I finally understood, all the way through—once, my whole world had been Herman’s homecoming; I’d thought he was my harbor. Now, I no longer leaned on anyone. I *was* the ocean, vast and without end.
Alice’s husband had risen to become a highly respected top-tier captain. Alice, in a dress I had gifted her, held her husband’s arm as they laughed brilliantly in the middle of the dance floor.
In a corner of the ballroom, I overheard a few sailors murmuring about Herman.
They said Herman had recently tried to pull some scheme on a rickety old smuggling boat, hoping to work his way back into the underworld. It ended in an explosion.
He kept his life, but his right leg was ruined for good. Not a single shipping company or gang was willing to touch him now.
The mafia and the sea both punish mistakes without mercy.
One mistake was enough to bury a lifetime.
I listened calmly to the end. Nothing shifted in my expression. My eyes didn’t so much as pause.
Late that night, I sat alone on the balcony of my new home, and opened the old voyage ledger.
Tucked between the pages for Marseille was the very same copy of the smuggling manifest that had changed my life.
*Delivery address: Downton Manor.*
I pulled it out gently, tore it into small pieces, and let the sea wind carry them out into the dark, endless water.
Every debt, every grievance, dissolved with it into nothing.
Somewhere in the distance, a foghorn sounded again as a great ship pulled slowly away from the pier and set out toward the boundless horizon.
My phone lit up. A photo from Alice.
She had taken it looking back at the ship’s wake, foaming white.
The caption read: *Selena, we’re setting sail!*
I smiled and typed back: *Safe voyage.*
For six years, every hope I had was tied to the return of one man.
From here on out, no coastline of mine would ever wait for anyone’s return again.
The sea wind is free. And so am I.