The night in City A was no longer simply a blanket of quiet stars—it pulsed with the relentless thrum of distant traffic, neon-lit reflections, and the hum of a city that never truly slept. Inside a penthouse cloaked in glass and silence, Gu Chenyan stood before a wide window, his tall frame outlined against the lights below.
He hadn't moved in hours.
Behind him, the decanter on the coffee table sat half-empty, its rich amber liquid catching flecks of city gold. Two untouched glasses flanked it—one for himself, and one for her.
But Lin Nian'an hadn't returned.
The words she hurled at him days ago still echoed in the vast hollowness of the room.
"You don't trust me. You never did."
The truth in her voice had hit him harder than the slap she never gave. And Gu Chenyan—usually impenetrable, precise, and terrifyingly composed—felt like a man stripped of all logic.
He hadn't even fought back.
He couldn't.
Because it was true.
Every calculated move he'd made since their reunion had been designed to control the narrative, to cage her into a world of his own making, driven by fear, guilt, and a twisted sense of protection. But not once did he ask himself what she wanted.
Not once did he believe she had her own strength.
Not once did he fully trust her.
And now, she was gone.
He turned away from the window, finally, running a hand through his silver-white hair, no longer sleek but tousled with exhaustion. The tailored suit he wore hung slightly askew; even the perfection of his image had begun to unravel.
He reached for his phone.
No messages.
He didn't dare call again. The last time, she hadn't even picked up.
He had people looking for her, of course. But Lin Nian'an wasn't the type to disappear without purpose. Wherever she was, she had chosen to be. Chosen not to be found. Not by him.
And she had every right.
Gu Chenyan lowered himself onto the leather sofa, the weight of regret pressing against his chest. He never thought this day would come. Not really.
He had spent years building walls, even around her.
Especially around her.
And when she finally broke through—when she started asking questions, demanding honesty—he had doubled down on his silence.
Out of habit. Out of fear.
Out of a need to protect what little control he had left.
But love wasn't about control.
He knew that now.
And it might be too late.
—
Across the city, in a quieter district, Lin Nian'an sat alone in a modest hotel suite. The walls were cream-colored and impersonal. Her suitcase lay half-unpacked. A red dress hung over a chair—one she had worn on a night she thought might change everything.
It had.
But not in the way she imagined.
She'd been staring at her laptop for the past hour, fingers frozen over the keys, an open document untouched. Her agency had called earlier—two opportunities waiting for her. One was in London. The other in Tokyo.
Both meant leaving.
Starting over.
She could. She would.
But why did her heart feel like it had been hollowed out and filled with lead?
The memory of Gu Chenyan's eyes haunted her. Not the cold, unreadable gaze he showed the world—but the fractured one that slipped through when he thought she wasn't looking.
She had seen it that night. When she walked out.
She had wanted him to stop her. To say something. Anything.
But he didn't.
And now, the silence between them stretched like a canyon—wide, unforgiving, echoing with everything left unsaid.
Her phone vibrated.
A message. From Qiao Lin.
"He's not doing well. Thought you should know."
Lin Nian'an stared at it, unmoving.
She didn't reply.
Couldn't.
Because part of her still cared.
And that terrified her.
—
Three days later.
Gu Chenyan sat at a long conference table, surrounded by a dozen executives. Charts flashed across the screen. A merger was being finalized. Numbers were up.
He should've felt triumphant.
Instead, he felt numb.
He signed the final document, pen scrawling across paper without pause, and stood up before anyone could congratulate him. The room fell quiet.
"Excuse me," he said simply and left.
His assistant trailed after him, trying to keep up. "President Gu, the Tokyo board is asking for a—"
"Cancel it."
"But—"
"I said cancel it." His tone was steel.
The elevator doors closed on the startled assistant's face.
Gu Chenyan leaned against the wall, finally letting the mask fall. His jaw clenched. His chest ached. Everything was too loud and too quiet at once.
He reached into his coat pocket.
A necklace.
It was hers. One she had left behind accidentally. Or maybe on purpose.
The chain dangled between his fingers, delicate and cold.
"Where are you, Lin Nian'an…" he whispered.
And this time, his voice cracked.
—
Later that night.
A black car pulled to a stop outside the hotel where Lin Nian'an had been staying. Inside, a tall figure stepped out, dressed in black, hair silver beneath the streetlights.
Gu Chenyan walked to the front desk.
"I'm looking for someone," he said.
The clerk stared up, startled.
He showed her a photo.
The girl nodded.
"She checked out this morning."
"Did she say where she was going?"
"She said she had a flight."
"Where to?"
"She didn't say."
He nodded, slowly. A bitter smile tugged at his lips.
Too late. Again.
As he turned to leave, he passed by a small table near the exit. A bouquet of white lilies sat atop it. Next to them, a discarded boarding pass.
His eyes caught it.
Tokyo.
His fingers curled around it, heart racing.
There was still time.
There had to be.