The twenty-second day did not begin quietly.
It began with a name trending.
I saw it while standing in line for coffee—my phone lighting up with unfamiliar notifications from platforms I no longer checked.
Lu Yanxi.
Han Zhe.
Overseas sighting.
My fingers tightened around the cup.
So he hadn't just come to find me.
He had come to expose me.
The article wasn't long. It didn't need to be.
Han Zhe, heir to the Han Group, was spotted overseas yesterday attending a private luncheon with actress Qiao Wen, fueling renewed engagement rumors. Sources confirm Lu family heiress Yanxi is also studying abroad, though the two were not seen together.
Not seen together.
I exhaled slowly.
So this was his choice.
Come to my city.
Then stand beside another woman publicly.
Twice, now.
Once at home.
Once here.
Very deliberate.
I didn't have time to sit with it.
When I stepped out of the café, cameras were already there.
Not professional.
Phones.
Students.
Whispers.
"Is that her?"
"That's Lu Yanxi."
"She ran away but still follows him?"
I stopped walking.
Across the street, Han Zhe stood frozen.
Not alone.
Qiao Wen was beside him—tall, elegant, fingers lightly curled around his arm as if it belonged there.
Her smile faltered when she saw me.
His didn't come at all.
This time, he crossed first.
"Yanxi—"
Cameras lifted instantly.
I didn't retreat.
I stood there while a dozen lenses captured the moment I was never supposed to exist inside.
"You shouldn't be here," he said under his breath, panic bleeding through his composure.
I looked at his arm.
At her hand.
Then back at his face.
"You came to my city," I said calmly. "You brought her. And I shouldn't be here?"
Qiao Wen stiffened.
"Han Zhe," she said softly, "you didn't say—"
He cut her off. "Not now."
That was the second choice.
Not me.
Not even fully her.
Just his image.
Someone shouted, "So who is she?"
Another voice followed. "Isn't she the discarded fiancée?"
Discarded.
The word spread fast.
I felt it—not as pain, but as weight.
The stripping away of something I once carried without question.
Han Zhe turned sharply. "Enough. She's not—"
I interrupted him.
"No," I said. "They're right."
Every sound died.
I lifted my chin slightly.
"I was the option you didn't choose. Twice."
Qiao Wen's grip loosened.
The realization hit her too late.
She wasn't standing beside a man claiming her.
She was standing between a man and the woman he'd already lost.
"I'm sorry," she murmured to me, almost instinctively.
I met her gaze.
"This isn't your fault," I said. "It's his pattern."
Han Zhe's face drained of color.
"Yanxi," he said urgently. "Let's talk privately."
I shook my head.
"No," I replied. "You wanted public clarity. You have it."
I stepped closer—just enough for the cameras to catch everything.
"You didn't come to bring me back," I said quietly. "You came to see if I was still waiting."
Silence.
"And now you know."
I stepped back.
That was when it happened.
A sharp cramp twisted low in my abdomen.
Brief.
Easy to miss.
But real.
My hand curled reflexively against my coat.
Han Zhe noticed.
His eyes narrowed. "Are you—"
I looked at him.
Cold. Measured.
"Don't," I said. "You don't get concern now."
The possibility hung there.
Unspoken.
Unclaimed.
A future that felt less like hope and more like a threat I refused to name.
That night, the headlines exploded.
Han Heir Publicly Chooses Actress Over Former Fiancée
Lu Yanxi Seen Confronting Couple Before Leaving Alone
Seen.
Leaving.
Alone.
By morning, the Lu family issued a brief statement.
Yanxi's actions do not represent the Lu family. All prior arrangements are considered null.
My name was gone.
My status severed.
Cleanly.
Han Zhe watched the news replay in his hotel room, drink untouched.
"She didn't cry," he said hoarsely.
"She didn't beg," his assistant replied.
"She didn't even ask me to choose."
That was when it broke him.
Because this time—
He had chosen.
And still lost everything.
Three cities away, Gu Chengyi stared at the footage.
"She let him choose someone else," he said quietly.
Shen Yu didn't respond.
Because they both understood what it meant.
Once is pain.
Twice is confirmation.
After that—
There is no coming back without blood.
On my balcony, long after midnight, I pressed a hand flat against my stomach.
Nothing moved.
Nothing promised.
Good.
Some things were curses best left unspoken.
The first man had reached me.
And he had left something behind:
Proof.
That I was no longer the girl men discarded quietly.
I was the consequence they now had to explain.
Two men remained.
And neither of them would be forgiven easily.