The first person to notice something was wrong was not one of them.
It was my mother.
She woke early the next morning, as she always did, her routine precise and unchanging. Breakfast was served at seven sharp. Meetings began at eight. The Lu household ran on discipline and predictability—traits that had been ingrained in me since childhood.
When seven o'clock passed and my seat at the table remained empty, my mother frowned.
"Yanxi stayed up late," she said calmly. "She's probably resting."
My father nodded, not particularly concerned. "Let her sleep."
By eight-thirty, concern replaced patience.
By nine, irritation crept in.
And by ten, my mother sent someone to check my room.
The maid returned pale.
"Madam… Miss Yanxi isn't there."
---
Gu Chengyi did not think about me at all that morning.
He was in his office by eight, reviewing reports with his assistant, his mind already moving on from the previous night's banquet. Engagements, alliances, expectations—it was all background noise. Necessary, but not urgent.
Until his mother called.
"She didn't come home last night," Mrs. Gu said. "Do you know where Yanxi is?"
He paused mid-sentence.
"Didn't come home?" he repeated. "She lives with the Lu family."
"Yes," his mother replied slowly. "And she isn't there."
He frowned. "She probably stayed over with a friend."
"With no notice? No message?" There was a sharpness to her tone now. "Her parents are worried."
Gu Chengyi said nothing for a moment.
Then, inexplicably, an image crossed his mind—me standing in the corridor, eyes lowered, expression unreadable.
He dismissed it.
"She's an adult," he said. "She'll return."
After the call ended, he stared at the documents in front of him longer than necessary.
The numbers refused to settle.
---
Han Zhe noticed first because his phone stayed silent.
No morning message.
No sarcastic comment about the banquet.
No complaints about her heels or the food or the guests.
Yanxi always complained to him.
By noon, he was bored.
By one, he was irritated.
By two, he was calling her phone repeatedly, only to be met with the same cold automated voice.
"This number is currently unavailable."
He frowned, tapping his screen harder than necessary.
"She's sulking," he muttered to himself. "Give her a day."
Yet when evening came—and the message still did not arrive—his irritation slowly turned into something he did not want to name.
---
Shen Yu knew something was wrong the moment he entered the Lu residence.
It was too quiet.
The house had always carried a certain warmth when I was there. Subtle, unspoken—but present. The kind of warmth that came from someone who remembered birthdays, who filled empty spaces with quiet conversation, who noticed when people were tired.
Now, the air felt hollow.
Mrs. Lu sat rigidly on the sofa, her fingers clenched around a teacup she hadn't touched.
"She didn't take much," she said when he asked. "Just one suitcase."
Shen Yu's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.
"Her passport?" he asked.
"Gone."
Her phone?
"Turned off."
Credit cards?
"Only the one under her personal account."
No dramatics.
No impulsiveness.
No trace.
This wasn't a tantrum.
This was a decision.
---
By nightfall, the truth could no longer be ignored.
Lu Yanxi was missing.
Not unreachable.
Not avoiding calls.
Gone.
The four families gathered again—this time without chandeliers or laughter. The room was tense, heavy with accusation and suppressed panic.
"How could this happen?" Mrs. Han demanded. "She's never done anything like this."
"Did something upset her?" Mr. Shen asked carefully.
The room fell silent.
No one spoke.
Because everyone knew exactly what might have upset me.
Gu Chengyi sat stiffly, jaw tight. Han Zhe leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, expression unusually serious. Shen Yu stood by the window, gaze fixed on the darkened city beyond the glass.
Finally, my father spoke.
"She heard something," he said quietly.
The air shifted.
"Heard what?" Mrs. Gu asked.
My father did not look at them. "Enough to leave."
Han Zhe straightened. "What do you mean 'heard'?"
My mother closed her eyes.
"The conversation," she said. "From last night."
No one needed clarification.
The room felt suddenly smaller.
Gu Chengyi's breath stilled.
Han Zhe's mouth opened slightly, then closed.
Shen Yu turned away from the window.
---
"That's impossible," Han Zhe said sharply. "We were careful."
My mother looked at him then—truly looked at him—for the first time that evening.
"No," she said. "You were careless."
Silence fell like a verdict.
Gu Chengyi replayed the conversation in his mind with sudden clarity. Every word. Every careless dismissal. Every assumption that it didn't matter.
Her? If it weren't for my parents—
His fingers curled slowly.
"She wouldn't leave because of that," he said, though his voice lacked conviction. "She knows how these things are."
My father finally looked at him.
"Do you?" he asked coldly.
---
The first crack appeared that night.
Gu Chengyi ordered his assistant to trace flight records under my name.
Han Zhe called every mutual contact they had ever shared.
Shen Yu did neither.
He returned to his car and sat there, unmoving, his hands resting on the steering wheel as a memory surfaced uninvited.
Me, standing behind him at sixteen, adjusting his tie because he had forgotten again.
"You'll never find a wife like this," I'd joked.
He'd replied, distracted, "I'm not planning to."
At the time, he hadn't meant it cruelly.
Now, the words felt sharp.
---
By morning, they knew.
I had left the country.
No forwarding address.
No destination shared.
No return date.
"Find her," Mrs. Lu said, her composure finally cracking. "Bring her back."
Gu Chengyi nodded automatically.
Han Zhe clenched his jaw. "She can't just disappear like this."
Shen Yu said nothing.
But when the meeting ended, he made a single call.
"Use my personal network," he instructed. "Quietly. I want updates before anyone else."
For the first time in years, the three of them were aligned by the same thing.
Fear.
---
Thousands of miles away, I stepped into a small apartment with bare walls and unfamiliar light filtering through the windows.
It wasn't luxurious.
It wasn't impressive.
But it was mine.
I set my suitcase down, exhaled slowly, and sat on the edge of the bed.
For the first time since childhood, there were no expectations waiting outside the door.
No jokes.
No futures chosen for me.
No voices debating my worth.
Just silence.
I took out my phone, powered it on long enough to delete dozens of missed calls without listening to a single voicemail, then turned it off again.
Whatever panic I had caused…
Whatever chaos I had left behind…
It was no longer my responsibility.
They had made their choice.
Now, so had I.
And somewhere deep inside, a quiet, dangerous thought took root:
Let them realize what they lost.
Because I was never going back the same way I left.