Gu Chengyi did not sleep.
He hadn't since the report crossed his desk—brief, factual, devastating in its restraint.
Confirmed contact.
Subject: Shen Yu.
Duration: short.
Location: off-campus.
No interference detected.
No interference.
Gu Chengyi read the line three times.
Shen Yu had spoken to her.
And she had allowed it.
That was the part that mattered.
Control had always been Gu Chengyi's strength.
When emotions complicated things, he simplified.
When uncertainty threatened stability, he narrowed outcomes until only one remained viable.
People called it decisiveness.
They didn't see the fear underneath—the quiet terror of losing relevance.
He stood by the window of his office, city lights reflecting in the glass like a fractured mirror.
"She's moving faster than expected," his assistant said carefully.
"Not faster," Gu Chengyi replied. "Cleaner."
That unsettled him more than resistance ever could.
He remembered the night of the banquet with uncomfortable clarity now.
Not the applause.
Not the woman at his side.
But the absence.
How easy it had been to proceed without checking whether Yanxi was even in the room.
At the time, it had felt efficient.
Now, it felt reckless.
He made the decision before doubt could intervene.
"Arrange a meeting," Gu Chengyi said. "Formal."
"With her?" the assistant asked.
"With her institution," Gu Chengyi corrected. "Under the foundation."
The pause was brief.
"That would look like leverage."
Gu Chengyi's jaw tightened.
"Everything looks like leverage when you've lived without it," he said flatly. "Proceed."
The invitation arrived two days later.
Official letterhead.
Impeccable phrasing.
A scholarship expansion proposal—generous, comprehensive, unmistakably strategic.
I read it once.
Then again.
Then set it aside.
They still thought access equaled influence.
I exhaled slowly and closed the folder.
Shen Yu found out an hour later.
"Don't go," he said simply when we spoke.
"I didn't ask," I replied.
A faint pause.
"Good," he said. "That means you're thinking."
"I always was."
He didn't argue.
He never did anymore.
Han Zhe, on the other hand, reacted badly.
He stormed into Gu Chengyi's office without announcement.
"You're cornering her," Han Zhe snapped. "That's not how this works."
Gu Chengyi didn't look up. "It's exactly how it works."
"No," Han Zhe said. "It's how you work."
That earned him a glance.
"You chased," Gu Chengyi continued coolly. "Shen Yu confessed. I'm offering structure. Stability."
"You're offering a cage," Han Zhe shot back.
Silence stretched.
Gu Chengyi leaned back, fingers steepled.
"She won't refuse," he said. "She's practical."
Han Zhe laughed once, sharp and humorless.
"That's what scares you," he said. "You don't know her anymore."
The meeting took place on a Thursday.
Neutral ground.
Glass walls.
No witnesses who mattered.
Gu Chengyi arrived precisely on time.
So did I.
We stood across from each other, two people who had shared a lifetime of proximity and almost nothing else.
"You look well," he said.
"So do you," I replied.
Politeness.
Distance.
He gestured toward the folder. "The offer stands. No obligations. No strings."
I met his gaze.
"You don't know how to offer anything without strings," I said calmly.
A flicker crossed his face—annoyance, or perhaps recognition.
"This is about opportunity," he insisted. "Not the past."
"You don't get to separate them," I replied. "You built your authority on erasing me."
His jaw tightened.
"That was never my intention."
"Intent doesn't undo outcome," I said evenly.
He tried a different angle.
"Turn it down," Gu Chengyi said quietly, "and you'll struggle. Not because I'll make you—but because the world will."
I smiled faintly.
"You're right," I said. "It will."
Then I slid the folder back across the table.
"That's why I need to win without you."
Silence followed—heavy, unyielding.
For the first time, Gu Chengyi looked unsure.
Not angry.
Uncertain.
When I left, I felt something shift.
Not relief.
Release.
Control only worked when someone still believed in it.
And I no longer did.
That night, Gu Chengyi stared at the untouched folder in his office.
Shen Yu had spoken and lived with the consequences.
Han Zhe had chased and been left behind.
And he—
He had offered power and been refused.
For the first time, Gu Chengyi understood something fundamental:
You couldn't negotiate your way back into someone's life after you had treated them like a variable.
Some losses didn't respond to strategy.
They responded only to humility.
And he had none left to spend.