Power had a side effect no one warned you about.
It made you visible to people who had never bothered to look before.
The confirmation arrived at 10:47 a.m.
Not an announcement.
Not a press release.
A single line in my secure inbox.
Status: Interim seat approved. Review scheduled in six months.
No congratulations.
No ceremony.
Just reality adjusting itself.
I read it once, then locked my phone and continued walking into the building as if nothing had changed.
That was the first mistake people made about power.
They thought it altered your behavior.
In truth—it clarified it.
Inside, the atmosphere was subtly different.
No open stares.
No whispered excitement.
Just pauses.
Microseconds too long.
People registering a variable they hadn't calculated for.
"Good morning, Miss Lu," the receptionist said, voice steady but posture straighter.
"Morning," I replied.
I didn't slow.
The briefing room was already half full.
Economists.
Legal advisors.
Policy analysts.
All seasoned. All brilliant. All accustomed to speaking without interruption.
The kind of room that tested whether you belonged before you even opened your mouth.
I took my seat.
No one offered to chair.
No one challenged it either.
Interesting.
The discussion moved quickly—interest rates, regulatory pressure, external partnerships.
I listened.
Not because I needed to learn.
But because people revealed leverage when they believed they were educating you.
Ten minutes in, a man across the table leaned back and said casually, "Of course, some of these risks stem from… personal volatility."
I met his eyes.
"Clarify," I said.
He hesitated. "Public perception can be… influenced by association."
I tilted my head slightly. "You mean my past."
A ripple moved through the room.
I smiled faintly. "Say it directly. Indirectness wastes time."
He cleared his throat. "Certain families still hold influence. Their response to your position—"
"—is irrelevant," I finished calmly.
Silence dropped.
Then I continued, voice even. "If our risk models rely on appeasing legacy sentiment, then our models are outdated."
I tapped my pen once. "Update them."
No argument followed.
Just notes being rewritten.
Across the city, the reaction was louder.
Too loud.
"She's testing boundaries," Han Zhe said, pacing his office.
"She's setting them," Shen Yu replied calmly.
Gu Chengyi sat at the head of the table, hands clasped, eyes unreadable.
"Public sentiment?" he asked.
"Split," Shen Yu answered. "But shifting."
Han Zhe scoffed. "Toward her."
No one corrected him.
Because it was true.
By noon, the calls started.
From media intermediaries.
From investment heads.
From people who hadn't returned my messages years ago.
I declined all of them.
Visibility wasn't access.
Not yet.
The first real complication arrived at 2:15 p.m.
An envelope.
Hand-delivered.
No return address.
Inside—photos.
Old ones.
Me at eighteen.
Me at twenty.
Me standing behind men who never looked back.
The intent was obvious.
So was the threat.
I didn't react immediately.
I scanned each image with clinical interest.
Then I flipped the last one over.
A name was scribbled faintly on the back.
Careless.
I smiled.
I made one call.
"Activate clause fourteen," I said.
A pause.
Then—"Understood."
By evening, the envelope had lost its teeth.
The sender received a formal inquiry.
Their funding froze.
Their partners distanced themselves.
No announcement.
Just consequences.
That was the difference now.
At 9:03 p.m., my phone rang again.
Gu Chengyi.
I let it ring.
Once.
Twice.
On the third ring, I answered.
"You're escalating," he said without greeting.
"So are you," I replied.
A breath. "This doesn't need to be hostile."
"No," I said softly. "It needs to be honest."
Silence stretched.
"You're changing," he said finally.
"I already did," I corrected. "You're just noticing."
Another pause. "What do you want, Yanxi?"
I looked out at the city lights.
The question used to terrify me.
Now—it clarified everything.
"I want," I said, "to never again be discussed as a consequence of your decisions."
He exhaled slowly.
"That might not be possible."
I smiled, unseen. "Then adapt."
I ended the call.
Late that night, alone in my apartment, I reviewed tomorrow's agenda.
Three meetings.
Two policy drafts.
One quiet dinner with someone who owed me a favor.
The world was adjusting.
Slowly.
Reluctantly.
But inevitably.
And as I closed my laptop, one truth settled with calm certainty:
They didn't lose me when I left.
They lost me when they assumed I would come back unchanged.
And Chapter 92 ended with something far more dangerous than anger—
Momentum.