Bai Chenxi's mind was a storm.
She didn't want to see anyone.
Not after the headlines. Not after that phone call.
But when Gu Chenyì appeared at her door — his expression calm, his eyes full of quiet concern — she couldn't bring herself to shut him out.
There was no pity in his gaze, only simple, human kindness.
After a brief hesitation, she drew a breath, straightened her posture, and walked into the living room.
He stood waiting, tall and gentle, holding an elegant food box in one hand.
"I'm sorry for dropping by uninvited," he said, his tone soft, apologetic. "I saw the news… I was worried you might not be in the best mood, so I brought something sweet. It's not much, but sometimes a little sugar helps."
The warmth in his voice, the quiet thoughtfulness of the gesture — it struck her harder than it should have.
He was nothing like Li Sijue.
Where Li Sijue was sharp edges and control, Gu Chenyì was warmth and space — the kind of man who made the air around him easier to breathe.
"Thank you, Mr. Gu. I'm fine," Bai Chenxi replied with a faint smile, gesturing for him to sit.
He didn't push, didn't pry.
"Don't pay attention to what's online," he said, placing the box in front of her. "People will always talk. What matters is the work you've done. Your strength — your skill — that's what speaks for you."
His voice carried no agenda, no implication — just faith. And in this world of hidden motives, that alone felt like a rare luxury.
The two of them talked — at first about the industry, then about acting, then about music.
As the minutes slipped by, the weight in her chest began to ease. The apartment felt less like a cage, more like a refuge.
For the first time in days, Bai Chenxi allowed herself to laugh — softly, briefly.
But peace, as always, was fragile.
The sharp chime of the electronic lock shattered it.
"Beep. Beep."
The door swung open.
Li Sijue filled the doorway — tall, commanding, the faint chill of the outside world still clinging to his tailored suit. His expression was carved from ice, unreadable and dangerous.
The air in the room turned brittle.
Gu Chenyì rose from the couch, composed as ever. "President Li," he greeted evenly, "I came to check on Chenxi. That's all."
Li Sijue didn't answer.
His gaze moved past Gu Chenyì — landing instead on Bai Chenxi, then briefly on the food box sitting innocently on the coffee table, the golden script of the bakery logo catching the light.
The silence was suffocating.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low — dangerously calm.
"I believe I told you," he said, eyes locked on Bai Chenxi, "to stay away from him."
The words weren't loud, but they carried a weight that made the room itself seem smaller.
Possession. Distrust. Command.
All the things she thought she'd left behind in her last life — all of them, standing there in one man.
Bai Chenxi felt something inside her snap.
She stood abruptly, anger surging through the numbness that had been building for days.
"For heaven's sake, Li Sijue — who do you think you are?" Her voice trembled with fury. "What right do you have to question me?"
His brows drew together, a faint flicker of surprise crossing his otherwise cold expression.
She took a step toward him, eyes blazing.
"You have no problem meeting Zhao Qian in the middle of the night — the same woman who may have ruined my life — and then you come here and lecture me about boundaries?"
Her voice cracked, not from weakness, but from the sheer intensity of emotion she'd been holding back for far too long.
"Tell me," she demanded, "what gives you the right?"
Li Sijue's jaw tightened. He opened his mouth, then shut it again. For once, words seemed to fail him.
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut.
Gu Chenyì took a discreet step forward, his tone polite but firm. "President Li, perhaps this isn't the best time. Miss Bai's been under tremendous stress lately. I think she just needs—"
"Stay out of this," Li Sijue snapped, his voice dropping into a tone that could have frozen steel.
Gu Chenyì didn't flinch. "You're angry," he said evenly, "because you care. But right now, what she needs isn't control — it's understanding."
That word — understanding — seemed to hit Li Sijue like a physical blow.
His gaze darkened, unreadable.
He looked at Bai Chenxi again, and for a moment, the fury in his eyes gave way to something more raw — confusion, maybe even hurt.
Then, just as quickly, the walls went up again.
"Rest well," he said curtly, his tone formal, emotionless. "You have work tomorrow."
Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and walked out, the echo of his footsteps fading into the hallway.
The door shut with a soft click.
For a moment, Bai Chenxi just stood there, staring at the empty space where he'd been, her hands clenched tightly at her sides.
The silence pressed down until she could hardly breathe.
"Are you alright?" Gu Chenyì asked quietly.
She exhaled slowly, her voice faint. "I don't know anymore."
He didn't say it'll be fine, or don't think about him.
He just nodded, wordless, and began unpacking the sweets he'd brought.
"Then eat something," he said gently, pushing the small box toward her again. "You'll feel better."
Bai Chenxi looked down at the delicate pastries — soft, golden, dusted with sugar — and let out a shaky laugh.
A fragile kind of peace returned, fleeting yet real.
She picked up a small piece, tasted it — and for a brief, bittersweet second, warmth bloomed through the chaos.
Outside, Li Sijue's car was still parked under the streetlight.
Through the window, he could see her silhouette — soft, blurred, sitting across from Gu Chenyì.
She was smiling again.
It shouldn't have bothered him.
But it did.
And as he sat there, jaw tight, staring at the faint glow of her apartment window, a thought burned through his mind with terrifying clarity:
He wasn't just losing control of the situation —
He was losing her.