Lu Huai stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows of her penthouse apartment, her slender fingers tracing the cool glass.
Twenty-two stories below, the neon lights of Los Angeles shimmered like a scattered constellation. The city buzzed with its usual nocturnal energy, but up here, in this soundproofed sanctuary, a profound silence reigned. In twelve hours, her life would irrevocably change.
She glanced at the tablet resting on the sleek, modern sofa. The press release drafted by her publicist, Miranda, glared back at her from the screen: "Academy Award-Winning Actress Lu Huai Announces Indefinite Hiatus from Acting to Focus on Personal Pursuits." The corporate-speak felt alien, a sterile wrapper for a truth that was messy, terrifying, and exhilarating all at once.
Her other hand drifted unconsciously to her abdomen, still flat beneath the silk of her robe. A secret rested there. A tiny, fluttering heartbeat that only she and her trusted obstetrician were privy to. Seven weeks. A cluster of cells rapidly dividing, writing a future she hadn't planned.
A soft chime echoed through the spacious living room. The security system's screen lit up, showing a familiar, anxious face framed by a chaotic mop of blonde curls. Miranda. Lu Huai sighed, the sound swallowed by the room's plush acoustics. She pressed the intercom button. "Come up, Miranda."
Minutes later, her publicist burst into the apartment like a small, well-dressed hurricane. Miranda Vance, at thirty-five, was a force of nature in the PR world, the architect of Lu Huai's impeccable public image for the past eight years. Tonight, however, her usual razor-sharp composure was frayed.
"Huai, you need to see this." Miranda didn't bother with pleasantries. She thrust her own tablet forward, her French-tipped nail tapping urgently on a trending hashtag:
#LuHuaiRetirement.
Lu Huai took the device, her expression unreadable. A grainy, long-lens photo filled the screen. It was her, taken two days ago, exiting the discreet back entrance of Dr. Evans' clinic. The clinic's discreet brass plaque, though blurry, was identifiable with a digital zoom. The headline from "Celeb Scoop" screamed: "LU HUAI'S MEDICAL MYSTERY: Is the Reclusive Star Ill?"
"Vultures," Miranda muttered, pacing the Italian marble floor. "They've been circling since you declined the Eternal Sunset sequel. I told you we needed a pre-emptive narrative. This 'personal pursuit' angle is too vague. It's leaving a vacuum, and nature—and the tabloids—abhor a vacuum. They're speculating everything from a nervous breakdown to a secret cosmetic surgery addiction."
Lu Huai handed the tablet back, a wry smile touching her lips. "Let them speculate. By this time tomorrow, it won't matter."
"Of course it will matter!" Miranda stopped pacing, her blue eyes wide with frustration. "Your brand is built on mystique, yes, but also on reliability. You're Lu Huai! The youngest actress to ever achieve the EGOT. You don't just… vanish. The studio is panicking. Your agent has called me six times. Your fans are launching '#StayWithUsHuai' campaigns. You have to give them something more."
I am giving them something more, Lu Huai thought, her palm pressing gently against her stomach. I'm giving them a future where I'm not just their Lu Huai.
"I'm not vanishing, Miranda. I'm shifting focus." Lu Huai walked to the minimalist kitchen, pouring two glasses of sparkling water. She handed one to Miranda. "The press release stands. No interviews, no tearful farewell specials. The announcement goes out at 9 AM Eastern."
Miranda accepted the glass but didn't drink. She studied Lu Huai, her publicist's gaze turning analytical, stripping away the celebrity to see the woman beneath. For the first time, she noticed the subtle changes. The lack of her usual evening glass of Pinot Noir. The new, almost protective way she held herself. The faint, unfamiliar softness in eyes that were famously cool and inscrutable on screen.
A staggering, impossible suspicion dawned on Miranda's face. Her gaze dropped to Lu Huai's midsection, then snapped back to her eyes, searching for confirmation.
Lu Huai said nothing. She simply held Miranda's gaze, her silence louder than any confession.
"…Oh." The syllable fell from Miranda's lips, all the fight draining out of her. The color leached from her face, replaced by dawning, horrified comprehension. "Oh, Huai. No. Tell me that's not… Tell me you're not…"
"Three months," Lu Huai confirmed quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Due in late November."
The glass of sparkling water trembled in Miranda's hand. She set it down on a side table with a sharp click. The implications unfolded in her mind with terrifying speed: the scandal, the shattered image, the career implosion, the relentless paparazzi hunt, the inevitable, cruel dissection of the father's identity…
"Who?" Miranda's voice was strained. "Please, for the love of all that's holy, tell me it's someone… presentable. Someone we can spin. An acclaimed director? A philanthropist? Please don't say it's that method actor from the indie film who only eats raw vegetables."
A shadow crossed Lu Huai's face, a flicker of something deep and old and painful. "There is no 'who,' Miranda. This is my choice. My child. My responsibility."
"That's not an answer!" Miranda's professional facade finally shattered. "Huai, you're not just any actress! You're a global brand worth hundreds of millions. The father's identity is not a minor detail! Is he married? Is he… problematic? Do we need to prepare a confidentiality agreement, a hush fund?"
"There will be no father in the picture," Lu Huai stated, her voice gaining a steely edge. "Not publicly, not privately. This child is mine alone."
Miranda sank onto the sofa, looking utterly defeated. "The press will eviscerate you. They'll call it a PR stunt, a cover for a breakdown. They'll dig, Huai. They'll dig until they find something, or until they invent it. And when the baby comes…" She gestured helplessly. "Every diaper change, every pediatrician visit, will be a photo op for some paparazzo in a tree. Your child will never know a moment's peace."
"I know." Lu Huai's response was simple, heavy with the weight of that knowledge. "That's why I'm not just taking a hiatus, Miranda. I'm leaving."
The word hung in the air. Leaving.
"Leaving LA?" Miranda asked weakly.
"Leaving the life." Lu Huai turned back to the window, looking at the glittering sprawl of the city that had made her a star, and that now felt like a gilded cage. "The contract for the Malibu house expires next month. I'm not renewing it. I've already made arrangements."
"Arrangements? What arrangements?" Miranda's mind was racing, trying to catch up. "Huai, you have commitments! The fragrance endorsement, the seat on the film festival jury…"
"Delegate them. Cancel them. Pay the penalties. I don't care." Lu Huai's tone was final. For eight years, she had been Lu Huai the brand, the product, the icon. Every smile calculated, every word filtered, every relationship scrutinized. The two Oscars, the Tony, the Emmy, the Grammys—they lined her shelves but left a hollow echo in the penthouse's silence. The child growing within her was the first real, unscripted thing to happen to her in a decade. She would protect it with a ferocity she'd never had to summon for herself.
Miranda stared at her client, her friend. She saw the resolute set of her jaw, the quiet fire in her dark eyes. This wasn't a impulsive decision. This was a carefully planned escape. The "personal pursuit" in the press release wasn't a yoga retreat or a charitable foundation. It was motherhood, in its most raw and unmarketable form.
"Where will you go?" Miranda asked, her voice subdued.
"A place where no one looks for a film empress." A faint, genuine smile finally reached Lu Huai's eyes. "A place with quiet streets, good schools, and no paparazzi with telephoto lenses."
For a long moment, silence stretched between them, filled only by the low hum of the city below. Miranda finally let out a long, shuddering breath, the fight gone. The publicist in her was already dead, mourning the death of a legendary career. The friend, however, was slowly rising to the surface, concerned and afraid.
"How can I help?" Miranda asked, her voice now soft with resignation and a dawning, protective loyalty.
Lu Huai walked over and placed a hand on Miranda's shoulder. "You've already helped. By building the fortress, you gave me the means to walk out of it. Now, I need you to manage the retreat. Release the statement. Handle the fallout. Be the unflappable Miranda Vance. And then… let me go."
Miranda nodded, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. She stood up, squaring her shoulders, the professional mask sliding back into place, albeit cracked. "Okay. Okay. 9 AM Eastern. We'll go with the original release. I'll prepare a Q&A sheet for the inquiries, all non-answers. I'll…" She took a deep breath. "I'll buy you time. But Huai…"
"Yes?"
"When the time comes… when you're settled…" Miranda's voice wavered. "A postcard. Just so I know you're alright. Both of you."
Lu Huai pulled her into a brief, tight hug. "You'll be the first to know."
After Miranda left, the apartment felt both emptier and more full. Lu Huai didn't return to the city view. Instead, she moved to her study, a room lined with awards and framed posters of her most iconic roles. She ignored them all, going straight to a small, plain safe embedded in the wall behind a Monet print.
Her fingers flew over the keypad. The door clicked open.
Inside, there were no jewels, no confidential contracts. There was a single, worn manila folder. She lifted it out with a reverence usually reserved for sacred objects.
She sat at her desk, the cool glass surface stark under the minimalist lamp. Opening the folder, she pulled out a single sheet of paper. It was a sonogram image, grainy and black-and-white. In the center, a small, bean-shaped blur. A tiny, flickering light that was a heartbeat. Next to it, she placed another document. The letterhead was elegant, discreet: "Veritas Capital Management."
It was a quarterly portfolio statement. The numbers on it were staggering, even by Hollywood standards. But these weren't payments for movie roles or endorsement deals. These were returns on investments—in tech startups, green energy, biotech firms—made over the last six years under a name no one in the entertainment world had ever heard: L.H. Capital.
Lu Huai, the actress, was stepping into the shadows. But the woman in this room, the one with a razor-sharp mind for numbers and a nerve of steel, the one who had quietly built a financial empire while captivating audiences on screen, was just getting started. She was a fortress, and she was about to become a sanctuary.
She traced the outline of the tiny bean on the sonogram. "It's just you and me, little one," she whispered to the silent room. "And we're going to be just fine."