Li Sijue clearly hadn't expected her to ask the question so directly.
For a fleeting second, a crack appeared in his composure — a flash of something sharp and human flickered in his eyes, like a nerve struck too suddenly. But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by the same calm, unreadable indifference that always seemed to surround him like armor.
"Does it make a difference?" he said finally, his tone cool, detached. He looked away, his voice level but distant, as though building a wall between them brick by brick. "Either way, he'll pay the price he deserves."
The words landed like cold rain, extinguishing the faint, fragile warmth that had begun to flicker in Bai Chenxi's heart.
Of course.
To him, she was probably nothing more than a variable to control — a pawn to steady, a name to protect for his own convenience. His help, his protection, even his anger — none of it had ever really been about her.
And she was a fool to have expected otherwise.
Something inside her hardened. Whatever softness his presence had stirred, she crushed it mercilessly beneath her heel.
"I understand." Her voice was calm now, emotionless, as sharp and thin as glass. "Thank you, President Li, for stepping in. If there's nothing else, I'll take my leave."
She didn't wait for him to reply. She turned, ready to walk away, spine straight and eyes forward — her dignity the only thing she could still hold onto.
But his voice stopped her mid-step.
"Bai Chenxi."
She froze, but didn't turn around.
For a moment, only the wind filled the silence between them. Then his voice came again — low, restrained, but laced with a tension she could feel even from a distance.
"Stay away from Gu Chenyì."
It wasn't advice. It was an order.
The kind of command that came from a man used to control — not just people, but entire worlds.
Bai Chenxi's lips curved into a cold, humorless smile. She finally turned, meeting his gaze head-on, her eyes glinting with defiance.
"President Li," she said softly, mockery curling in her tone, "my personal life has nothing to do with you. You're my boss — but that's all you are."
Her words cut with surgical precision, polite yet merciless.
She didn't wait for his response. She turned and walked away, every step steady and deliberate, her silhouette framed by the terrace lights — proud, untouchable, heartbreakingly distant.
Behind her, Li Sijue stood in silence.
His expression was unreadable, but his fists were clenched so tightly that the veins stood out on the back of his hands. The night air pressed against him, thick with unspoken anger and something darker — something he refused to name.
He hated the way she looked at him now — cold, guarded, as though he were just another man she had to defend herself against.
He hated even more the way Gu Chenyì had looked at her earlier — gentle, admiring, with that quiet understanding that seemed to reach parts of her Li Sijue couldn't.
And beneath all that anger simmered the one thing he couldn't admit even to himself — guilt.
Because until the mystery of that night at the Bojue Hotel was solved, he had no right to give her the clarity she deserved.
No right to claim her.
No right to promise her safety with his heart instead of his power.
So he let her walk away.
The celebration ended in awkward silence.
The next morning, Bai Chenxi packed her things to leave the set. The filming was complete; her job here was done. Yet as she closed her suitcase, a dull ache pressed against her chest — not quite sadness, not quite relief. Something heavier.
Outside, Ah Mo was already waiting. His expression, as always, was impassive, professional.
He stepped forward and handed her a document folder.
"Miss Bai," he said, his voice calm but firm, "President Li instructed that your upcoming schedule and accommodation will be fully arranged by our team — for your safety."
Her fingers tightened around the folder.
"'Arranged by your team,'" she repeated slowly, tasting the words. "Is that protection… or surveillance?"
Ah Mo hesitated for the briefest moment — then, true to his nature, said nothing.
Bai Chenxi looked past him, toward the van waiting by the curb. Sunlight spilled across the hood, dazzling and sharp.
She gave a faint, almost imperceptible smile — not of gratitude, but of understanding.
Protection or control — in Li Sijue's world, they were often the same thing.
And yet, despite everything — despite her pride, her suspicion, her fear — she couldn't quite banish the echo of his voice from the night before.
Does it make a difference?
The truth was, it did.
But admitting that would mean tearing open wounds she'd spent two lifetimes trying to seal.
So she didn't answer him — not aloud, not even in her thoughts.
She simply got into the car, the door closing with a quiet click that sounded too much like the closing of a heart.