The studio was colder than it needed to be.
Not physically—strategically.
Neutral colors. Muted lighting. No logos too close to frame. Everything about the space whispered credibility. The kind designed to make viewers believe this wasn't entertainment, but truth.
I arrived exactly on time.
Punctuality was respect.
Timing was power.
The host stood to greet me, polite smile, professional distance. She was experienced—sharp eyes, steady tone. Not someone easily manipulated.
Good.
I didn't need easy.
I needed precise.
"We appreciate you coming," she said as we took our seats. "There's been… considerable public interest."
"I imagine there would be," I replied calmly.
The cameras weren't rolling yet.
That was the real test.
She glanced at her notes. "Before we begin—are there any boundaries you'd like to set?"
"Yes," I said immediately. "No speculation. No hypotheticals. Only what I can confirm."
A pause.
Then a nod. "Understood."
That was when the red light turned on.
"Miss Lu," the host began, "you've been described recently as 'absent,' 'unreachable,' and 'strategically silent.' How would you describe yourself?"
I looked directly into the camera.
"Present," I said. "And deliberate."
A ripple—not in the room, but beyond it.
She didn't interrupt.
Smart.
"You've stepped away from several long-standing affiliations," she continued. "Some say this suggests instability."
I smiled faintly.
"People often call clarity 'instability' when it inconveniences them."
She raised an eyebrow. "Are you referring to your family?"
"No," I said smoothly. "I'm referring to systems."
That landed harder than any name ever could.
The questions followed a careful arc.
My education.
My projects.
My absence.
Then—the inevitable.
"There are rumors," she said evenly, "that your departure followed a personal betrayal."
I didn't react.
Not outwardly.
"Rumors," I repeated. "Are shortcuts people take when they don't have facts."
"Then let's talk facts," she said. "Did something happen that night?"
I held her gaze.
"Yes," I said. "Something happened."
The air tightened.
"But not to me," I continued. "Around me."
Her pen stilled.
"Explain."
"I learned," I said calmly, "how easily people confuse proximity with entitlement. And how casually they speak when they believe no one important is listening."
Silence.
The good kind.
"I didn't leave because of what was said," I added. "I left because of what was revealed."
By the time the interview ended, no accusations had been made.
No names spoken.
No flames lit.
And yet—
Everyone watching knew exactly who was burning.
Within an hour, reactions flooded in.
Commentary dissected tone.
Analysts praised restraint.
Critics searched desperately for cracks.
None appeared.
My phone buzzed.
Once.
Then again.
Then continuously.
I ignored all of it.
Except one message.
Shen Yu:You didn't defend yourself.
Me:I didn't need to.
A pause.
Shen Yu:They're panicking.
I smiled.
Good.
That evening, a private message came through channels I hadn't used in years.
Old power. Older money.
A seat may be opening. Temporary. Quiet.
I stared at the words.
Then typed back.
I don't take temporary seats.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Then—
Then name your terms.
I closed my eyes briefly.
The cost of silence had been high.
But the value of voice?
Higher.
Somewhere else in the city, a glass shattered.
Not accidentally.
Gu Chengyi stood motionless in his office, watching fragments scatter across the floor.
The interview replayed silently on the screen behind him.
Calm.
Composed.
Untouchable.
"She didn't say my name," Han Zhe muttered from the doorway.
Gu Chengyi didn't respond.
Because not being named—
Was worse.
That night, alone again, I stood by the window of my apartment, city lights flickering like distant stars.
The world felt different now.
Not kinder.
But clearer.
They had spoken when they thought I didn't matter.
I had spoken only when I did.
And the balance had shifted.
This wasn't revenge.
This was reclamation.
And Chapter 90 ended with a truth none of them could escape:
I was no longer the silence in their story.
I was the voice they could no longer control.