Yinlin sat down on her worn couch, numb, the apartment suddenly foreign and tainted. This place—the only safe refuge she could afford for her daughter and herself—was no longer just unaffordable. It was owned.
He was doing this. Not subtly. Not quietly.
All of it—the rent hikes, the sudden promotion, the isolation at work, the chilling sense of eyes following her everywhere—it had always been him. Not a cruel twist of fate, but a deliberate, targeted action.
Why? Just to break her, to force her back into his arms, or worse, his bed?
The thought made her physically ill. She couldn't breathe in this place anymore. She couldn't stand to sleep in a bed under his roof, under his relentless, crushing control—even if he wasn't physically there.
How shallow could a man be to buy a whole building just because he was offended by a woman who refused to bend to him. Worst, how did the younger her get entangled with such an arrogant, morally corrupted man?
Look at you now, Yinlin. Trapped with a child, now being chased by a crazy ex-boyfriend you don't even remember.
Her own self mocked and laughed at her. It was a sickening, cruel joke. What sins had she committed in the past to be treated with such contempt? A payback for what? What is the rationale behind these actions? No one in this world have the resources nor power to fight such a deeply resentful man.
What was a woman like her supposed to do?
Bend down? Never.
That day Yinlin made her decision.
No confrontation. No message. No dignity left to protect, and certainly no hope left to cling to. She simply packed, piece by piece, filling old suitcases and worn backpacks. She found a pen and wrote her resignation letter, signing her name WenYinlin without flair or explanation.
By morning, her uniform was folded neatly on the table, a silent rejection. Mei's toys were stuffed into worn luggage. She had no intention of returning. There was no point in staying in a city that promised her no mercy for simply saying no to a man with power.
******************
Zhengqiang's palms were sweating against the steering wheel.
He had been waiting at the front of the building, inside the car per his usual schedule in the morning. But he felt odd, there was no movement from the window, no sight of Yinlin rushing her daughter to school, no sight of her daughter's pigtails—it was sealed shut.
He glanced to his watch several times, and felt an unease settled in his stomach. What if Ms. Wen ended up doing something unspoken after such tight pressure on her life? High rent. The working hours beyond average service worker. Minimal wage and no one to look after her daughter.
Anyone in that kind of pressure could break—the contingency plan—as Yuren warned must be implemented.
Zhengqiang wasted no time and stepped out of the car. He jogged up the stairs, to the floor 4B and knocked on the door several times. There was no answer. With his quick thinking, he kicked the door opened with no hesitation.
The old lock exploded, the door flew opened.
It was quiet inside, no signs of life. The apartment seemed intact, with worn furniture and dry kitchen. But the clothes rack, the wardrobe were emptied out.
He looked around and noticed the folded uniform on the center of the room.
She was gone.
And Zhengqiang didn't know how to explain this to his boss.
******************
Penthouse, Lujiazui
The silence in the penthouse was broken by the sharp, contained fury of Tao's breath.
"She what?"
The words were thin, stretched tight, like glass about to splinter.
Zhengqiang winced, pulling the phone slightly away from his ear. "She quit, Boss. Didn't show up today. Left a letter for the manager. Formal. Clean." A pause. "Her apartment was cleared out this morning. Neighbors said she took her daughter and caught the first bus to the terminal."
Another pause, heavier this time.
"I think she's really leaving."
Tao didn't move.
No coffee cooling on the counter. No robe draped over his shoulders. Just bare feet on cold marble, the penthouse humming softly around him, indifferent. The city below was waking up. His had stopped.
Gone.
Not a confrontation. Not a warning. No explanation to dismantle or reverse. Just absence. Sudden. Absolute.
Again.
His jaw tightened.
The dread pulled him straight back to nineteen. To the airport. Her hands cold in his, fingers laced too tightly, as if pressure alone could make a promise permanent. She had smiled and told him it was only temporary. That distance meant nothing. That he would come back.
For a while, it was true.
Messages every morning. Calls squeezed between classes. Her voice threading through unfamiliar streets and lecture halls, anchoring him while London remained foreign and cold.
Then the replies slowed.
Then stopped.
Calls rang until they died. Messages stayed unread. Days stacked into weeks without a word. No explanation. No fight. No ending. Just silence.
The apartment went quiet. Classes blurred. Meals were skipped. Time stalled at the point where she vanished, the world moving forward without him while he stayed suspended, waiting for a response that never came.
That was where it started. Not heartbreak. Abandonment. The realization that someone could erase him without effort, without consequence.
The pain hardened. The fear followed. Control came after.
And now it was happening again.
The same hollow pressure in his chest. The same certainty that she was slipping away, leaving him behind without even the courtesy of a goodbye.
He could survive rejection. Loss. Violence. But being forgotten—without a word—had broken him once. He would not allow it a second time.
"Where is she heading to?" His voice low, controlled under his breath.
"I believe it might be her hometown. The train is leaving soon."
He knew which hometown she was. She's leaving for a hometown that doesn't even exist in a map. Tao grabbed the nearest garment—a heavy black overcoat—and stormed toward the elevator.
Zhengqiang hesitated, professionalism warring with concern. "Sir, maybe this is a sign to let her—"
The look Tao shot him was raw, pure command, silencing whatever wisdom he was about to offer.
"I won't lose her again," he said, the words heavy and certain. "Not like before. Not this time."