The meeting request arrived the next day.
Formal.
Carefully worded.
Sent through an intermediary who made it clear they were only the messenger—not the pressure.
Private setting. Neutral ground. No media. No families.
I stared at the screen for a long moment.
Then I laughed softly.
They were finally afraid of doing it wrong.
I didn't accept.
I didn't decline either.
Instead, I replied with a counter.
If we meet, it won't be to revisit the past.
It will be to discuss boundaries going forward.
And it will be one-on-one.
Silence followed.
Not the comfortable kind.
The calculating kind.
Gu Chengyi received the condition first.
One-on-one.
No buffers.
No shared responsibility.
No hiding behind history or group familiarity.
He closed the file he was reviewing and leaned back slowly.
"She's removing our safety net," his assistant said.
"No," Gu Chengyi replied. "She's removing our advantage."
For years, they had moved as a unit—diffusing blame, cushioning impact.
Now, each of them would stand alone.
And be judged alone.
"I'll go first," he said after a moment.
The words surprised even him.
Han Zhe found out minutes later.
"One-on-one?" he scoffed. "She's serious."
Then his smile faded.
"She always was."
For the first time, charm wouldn't save him.
No audience.
No jokes.
No emotional shortcuts.
Just the version of himself she'd seen too clearly at the worst possible moment.
He hated that the thought made his chest tighten.
Shen Yu read the condition last.
He said nothing.
He simply deleted the draft apology he'd been rewriting for days.
If words were going to matter again, they would have to be spoken—
And heard.
I chose Gu Chengyi deliberately.
Not because he hurt me the most.
But because he had believed his logic made him innocent.
The meeting place was a quiet café overlooking the river. Minimal staff. No cameras. No lingering eyes.
I arrived first.
Of course I did.
When he walked in, he paused.
Not because he didn't recognize me—
But because I wasn't what he remembered.
No hesitation in my posture.
No careful smile.
No waiting to be read.
I didn't stand to greet him.
He sat down slowly, as if sudden movements might fracture something already unstable.
"Thank you for agreeing to meet," he said.
I met his gaze calmly. "You're welcome. Once."
Silence stretched.
He was the first to fill it.
"I won't justify what I said," he began. "There is no version where it wasn't cruel."
Good.
That was new.
"But I need to understand," he continued, voice measured. "Why now? Why cut us off completely?"
I tilted my head slightly.
"You didn't lose me when you said those words," I replied. "You lost me when you assumed I would stay anyway."
His jaw tightened.
"That wasn't—"
"Intent doesn't negate impact," I said evenly. "You taught me that, remember?"
He stilled.
Yes.
He had.
"You want boundaries," he said after a moment. "Tell me what they are."
I didn't hesitate.
"We don't revert," I said. "No casual familiarity. No emotional access. No private concern disguised as care."
He absorbed that silently.
"And if we earn it back?" he asked quietly.
I smiled.
Not kindly.
"History isn't currency, Gu Chengyi," I said. "Consistency is."
The river outside flowed steadily, indifferent.
When the meeting ended, he didn't reach for the check.
He didn't ask for another chance.
He stood and said only one thing:
"I won't assume again."
I nodded once.
"That's a start."
That evening, two more messages came in.
One impatient.
One careful.
I didn't answer either.
Because Chapter 114 wasn't about reconciliation.
It was about recalibration.
And for the first time, the power dynamic was no longer inherited.
It was negotiated.
One boundary at a time.