The city didn't notice when I left.
That was the strange thing.
No thunder.
No dramatic farewell.
No one running after me calling my name.
Just a change of address processed in silence.
My new place was smaller than the apartment abroad.
One room.
One window.
A bathroom that rattled when the pipes worked too hard.
I paid three months upfront using my personal account.
No guarantor.
No family signature.
The landlord glanced at my documents, hesitated for less than a second, then nodded.
"You live alone?" he asked.
"Yes."
He didn't ask anything else.
The first night was the hardest.
Not because I cried.
But because I didn't.
I lay on the narrow bed, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, listening to sounds that weren't mine—footsteps above, a couple arguing softly next door, a train passing somewhere far away.
This was freedom.
And it felt frighteningly empty.
By morning, the world had already adjusted.
Classes continued.
Messages slowed.
My name stopped circulating.
I became what society is most comfortable with:
Unimportant.
Gu Chengyi found out about the trust removal at noon.
His assistant hesitated before speaking, which was how Gu Chengyi knew the news mattered.
"It was processed last night," the assistant said carefully. "All Lu-affiliated assets. Clean separation."
Gu Chengyi didn't respond immediately.
"Who signed off?" he asked.
The answer came quietly.
"Her father didn't intervene."
Something tightened in Gu Chengyi's chest.
He dismissed the assistant and stared out the window, the city sharp and distant.
She had been cut loose.
Not punished.
Released.
And somehow, that felt worse.
Han Zhe reacted differently.
He laughed when he heard.
A sharp, disbelieving sound.
"They really did it?" he asked into the phone. "Just like that?"
But when the call ended, he threw his phone against the wall hard enough to crack the screen.
"She always lands on her feet," he muttered.
Except this time, she hadn't landed anywhere at all.
Shen Yu read the report in silence.
No reaction.
No comment.
Then he folded the page carefully and placed it back into the file.
"Locate her current residence," he said. "But don't approach."
The man across from him hesitated. "Sir?"
Shen Yu's voice was calm.
"If she wanted us there, she wouldn't be this thorough."
I didn't know any of this.
I was standing in line at a clinic across town, holding a number slip between my fingers.
The place was quiet. Neutral. Anonymous.
Perfect.
When my number was called, I stood without hesitation.
The doctor was efficient, polite, distant.
She reviewed the file, paused briefly, then looked up at me.
"You're early," she said.
"I know."
She nodded once. No judgment.
"This changes some things," she added.
I smiled faintly.
"It already has."
Walking out, I felt the weight settle again.
Not hope.
Not joy.
Responsibility.
A tie I hadn't asked for.
A future that would not wait for me to be ready.
I placed a hand over my coat instinctively, then stopped myself.
Too soon for gestures.
Too dangerous for softness.
That evening, my phone buzzed for the first time in days.
An unfamiliar number.
I stared at it.
Didn't answer.
A message followed.
Yan Xi. It's me.
I deleted it without opening.
Another message arrived almost immediately.
Please. Just let me explain.
I powered the phone off.
Some explanations came too late to matter.
And some choices—once made—were never meant to be shared.
Outside, the city lights flickered on.
Inside, I sat alone at the small table, opened my notebook, and wrote a single line across the first page:
No one gets to claim this life but me.
Then I closed the book.
Because Chapter 73 wasn't about what they lost.
It was about what I would survive.
And the cost was only just beginning.