The building did not carry a name.
No sign. No plaque. Just glass, steel, and security that did not ask questions—it simply verified answers.
I arrived five minutes early.
Not to impress them.
To remind myself that punctuality was still something I chose.
The room was small. Intentional. A round table. Three chairs already occupied. No phones on the surface. No documents laid out.
They were testing observation.
I sat.
One of them spoke. "You understand why you're here."
"Yes."
"You also understand why this must remain temporary."
"Yes."
"And why you cannot be seen as affiliated with any legacy families."
I met his gaze. "I severed that link myself."
A faint shift. Approval, perhaps. Or caution.
"Good," he said. "Then we can proceed honestly."
They didn't ask about my skills.
They asked about my limits.
"How much pressure can you withstand before you push back?"
"What do you do when authority misjudges you?"
"If we withdraw support mid-crisis, do you adapt—or retaliate?"
I answered without bravado.
"Pressure reveals patterns."
"Authority that misjudges me loses access."
"And if you withdraw support," I said calmly, "I assume you intend to observe the damage."
Silence.
Then—soft laughter.
"You learn quickly," the woman across from me said. "Faster than expected."
"No," I replied. "I learned late."
The contract slid across the table.
Short. Precise. Dangerous.
No arbitration clause.
No public defense.
Termination at their discretion.
And buried in the final page—
A disclosure clause, effective only if breached by the consultant.
Meaning:
If I failed, they would let the world know exactly who I used to belong to.
I signed anyway.
News of my acceptance reached the wrong ears first.
A board member leaked it.
Not maliciously.
Carelessly.
By evening, my name was being attached to commentary I had never agreed to give.
Opinions I didn't hold.
Motives I didn't claim.
"She's positioning herself."
"She's aligning with power."
"She's negotiating leverage."
I shut my laptop.
Let them talk.
Visibility always came with distortion.
Han Zhe showed up unannounced.
Not angry.
Not joking.
Serious—rare enough that it startled me.
"You didn't tell us," he said.
"I didn't owe you notice," I replied.
He leaned against the doorframe. "You're stepping into crossfire."
"I know."
"And you're doing it alone."
I looked at him then. Really looked.
"No," I said quietly. "I'm doing it unclaimed."
The distinction landed.
He exhaled slowly. "You've changed."
"Yes."
Later that night, Shen Yu sent a single message.
They're watching reactions. Not performance.
I typed back.
Then I'll give them nothing to measure.
Three dots appeared.
Then vanished.
Across town, Gu Chengyi read the internal memo twice.
Consultant. Independent. No family backing.
He closed the file.
For the first time, the problem was no longer how to bring me back—
It was how to speak to someone
who no longer needed to be convinced.
That realization unsettled him more than anger ever had.
I stood by the window of my apartment, city lights scattered like distant constellations.
Tomorrow, the work would begin.
Not redemption.
Not revenge.
Positioning.
Because power didn't announce itself.
It waited.
And this time—
I was done waiting to be chosen.