I didn't tell anyone.
Not Shen Yu.
Not my mother.
Not the doctor who confirmed it with a careful, neutral tone that assumed excitement where there was none.
I nodded, thanked her, and scheduled nothing.
Silence, I decided, was the only position that still belonged entirely to me.
The city continued as if nothing had shifted.
Emails arrived.
Deadlines loomed.
Panels debated the very systems I had disrupted—using language polished enough to pretend neutrality.
I showed up to everything.
On time.
Prepared.
Unapologetic.
If anyone noticed the faint change in my posture, the way my hand sometimes rested unconsciously against my abdomen, they said nothing.
Power noticed.
Power always does.
Shen Yu confronted me on the fourth day.
Not with questions.
With tea.
"You haven't slept," he said, placing the cup in front of me.
"I have."
"Not deeply."
I didn't respond.
He studied me for a long moment, then said quietly, "You're carrying something alone."
That almost made me laugh.
Almost.
"I'm choosing what to share," I replied. "That's not the same thing."
He didn't push.
Instead, he nodded once. "Then know this—whatever you decide, don't underestimate how quickly they'll try to define it for you."
"I won't."
But even as I said it, I knew.
The margin for error had narrowed.
The first rumor surfaced that afternoon.
Not explicit.
Not confirmable.
Just enough.
A comment during a televised roundtable.
"Some people mistake personal instability for ideological courage," one of the hosts said smoothly. "Especially when they're going through… transitions."
The camera cut away.
The damage stayed.
My inbox filled with concern disguised as curiosity.
Are you okay?
You seem different lately.
Maybe you should step back for a while.
I deleted them all.
Gu Chengyi showed up unannounced that evening.
That alone told me everything.
He didn't sit.
Didn't smile.
"You're being targeted," he said.
"I know."
"There's speculation."
"I know."
He hesitated. "Is any of it true?"
I met his gaze steadily. "You don't get to audit my body."
His jaw tightened.
"This isn't about control," he said. "It's about exposure."
"Everything is about control," I replied calmly. "Exposure is just the excuse."
He stepped closer. "If there's something you need—"
I cut him off with a raised hand.
"No," I said. "You don't get to arrive now and frame yourself as support."
Silence stretched.
Then, quietly: "If this gets out, they'll weaponize it."
I nodded. "Which is why it won't. Not yet."
His eyes searched my face.
For the first time, I saw fear there—not of scandal, but of irrelevance.
"You're planning something," he said.
"Yes."
"You won't tell me."
"No."
He exhaled sharply. "You've changed."
I tilted my head slightly. "No. You've lost access."
The confirmation came the next morning.
A leak.
Not about me.
About Han Zhe.
Financial irregularities.
Quiet settlements.
A trail of favors disguised as generosity.
Nothing illegal enough to prosecute.
Enough to destabilize.
The article ended with a single line:
Sources suggest more revelations may follow.
I closed my laptop.
So that was how they wanted to play it.
Pressure for pressure.
Narrative for narrative.
I placed a hand over my abdomen again, grounding myself.
"You're early," I murmured softly. "You don't know what kind of world this is yet."
A strange calm settled over me.
I wasn't trapped.
I was positioned.
And whether this secret became shield or weapon depended entirely on timing.
For the first time since I left, I understood something with crystalline clarity:
They weren't trying to bring me back.
They were trying to slow me down.
I smiled faintly.
Too late.
Because the woman they thought they were managing
had already moved three steps ahead—
and this time,
she wasn't running.
She was building something
no one else
would get to name.