At seven in the evening, inside the most prestigious five-star hotel in the city center.
The front desk clerk maintained her polite smile as she handed the deactivated card back to Gu Ran with both hands. "I'm sorry, miss. Do you have any other payment options?"
Gu Ran lowered her gaze to the black card in front of her.
Ever since she had shouted "We're over" at Ji Shiyu, she had thought she was the one who ended things—proudly declaring her independence, believing she was breaking free from a gilded cage. In her haste, she had packed her bags and stormed out, determined to stay at a hotel. But now, the cruel reality struck her like a slap in the face.
Her so-called "pride" had always been staying at five-star hotels and swiping the cards Ji Shiyu gave her without a second thought.
One by one, the frozen credit cards delivered a harsh truth: never challenge a man who doesn’t love you to see who can be colder.
He would freeze your cards before you even threatened to leave, making it clear—Then get out.
The front desk clerk, eyeing the visibly distressed yet expensively dressed woman, gestured to the QR code beside her and offered another smile. "We also accept WeChat Pay or Alipay."
Gu Ran opened her WeChat and Alipay apps. She rarely used these payment methods, and the spare change she had from past red packet grabs wasn’t even enough to cover a single night at this hotel.
As the clerk watched her toggle between the two apps, unable to complete the payment, her smile finally faded.
There were other guests waiting to check in.
Gu Ran didn’t know how she managed to drag her suitcase out of the hotel under the weight of everyone’s stares.
Only once she was outside did she realize how out of place she looked.
Back at Nanchen Residence, the servants noticed Gu Ran returning with her suitcase not long after she had left.
Relieved, they reported the good news to Assistant Xu.
But none of them noticed that later that night, under the cover of darkness, the girl slipped out of the villa’s gates wearing nothing but a simple T-shirt and jeans, carrying only her ID—leaving everything else behind.
...
In the land-scarce city of A, where luxurious five-star hotels stood tall, there were also budget-friendly motels.
Gu Ran lay in the damp, musty-smelling room, her eyes still swollen from crying, scrolling through her lively, New Year’s Eve-like WeChat feed.
The news of Qin Wenyi’s "resurrection" was the talk of A’s elite circles. No wonder the Qin family had listed her as "missing" after the helicopter crash years ago, insisting her body was never found—it had all been premeditated.
Gu Ran didn’t care about the Qin family’s complicated power struggles.
What she saw were posts from Yuan Mengxuan and Qin Wenyi’s old clique, celebrating the "good news" and planning a grand welcome-home party for her return.
As if coordinated, their posts all featured the same throwback photo—a group of students in uniforms, Qin Wenyi leaning intimately against Ji Shiyu’s shoulder, their relationship unmistakable.
They knew Gu Ran would see it. They had posted it for her, just like yesterday, when they had seen her engagement announcement.
A single day had turned everything upside down.
Gu Ran stared at the photo of Qin Wenyi and Ji Shiyu, her grip on the phone tightening until her fingers suddenly went slack.
She collapsed onto the bed, pulling the covers over her head, feeling tears soak into the pillow until exhaustion finally dragged her into sleep.
The next morning, Gu Ran cut up all the frozen cards and tossed them into the trash. Just as she finished, her phone rang.
It was Xu Hui.
"Miss Gu." From the headquarters of Xinbo Group, Xu Hui glanced toward the closed door of the CEO’s office, aware of the standoff between the two. "You forgot your luggage yesterday. Could you share your address? I’ll have someone deliver it to you."
Gu Ran thought of the designer labels filling those suitcases and bit her lip. "No need."
Xu Hui paused but didn’t press further. "Alright."
Holding the phone, he mentally calculated how long it would take—tomorrow? The day after? Next week?
That was how long Gu Ran’s "freedom" would last.
Xu Hui prided himself on understanding her well. A pretty canary with no real-world experience, raised in Ji Shiyu’s palm before she even graduated. Ji Shiyu’s generosity had spoiled her rotten, making her more temperamental and spoiled than anyone else. Even now, as she threw a tantrum and ran away, her pride wouldn’t last. In a few days, when she realized she couldn’t survive without his cards, she’d come crawling back to her cage, begging for her master’s protection.
Even with Qin Wenyi’s return, Ji Shiyu wasn’t a stingy man. Xu Hui was sure that if Gu Ran swallowed her pride and asked, Ji Shiyu would keep her—after all, what was one more bird in the aviary?
As Xu Hui held the phone, Gu Ran suddenly spoke. "Assistant Xu, you think I won’t last a few days before crawling back to beg Ji Shiyu to keep me, don’t you?"
Caught off guard, Xu Hui stammered, "Uh—"
Gu Ran clenched her jaw, the image of the uniform-clad Ji Shiyu and Qin Wenyi burning in her mind.
She spoke as much to Xu Hui as to herself: "Tell Ji Shiyu I’m not coming back. I won’t go back."
"Miss Gu?" Xu Hui tried to respond, but Gu Ran had already hung up.
Staring at the ended call, then at the CEO’s closed office door, Xu Hui suddenly felt that this time… things might really be different.
After the call, Gu Ran looked down at her phone’s contacts.
She had few friends. Over the years, the ones she once had drifted away. On the surface, she seemed untouchable—people deferred to her, invited her to every gathering—but Gu Ran knew the truth. She had never truly been part of Yuan Mengxuan’s circle. No matter how lavish her spending, no matter how much they pretended to respect her, behind her back, they sneered: Just a plaything.
So when they heard this "plaything" was about to become Mrs. Ji, their disbelief was palpable.
But now, it was all just a joke—a delusion. The real white moon had returned, and they were happily planning her grand welcome.
Gu Ran opened WeChat again. She had always pinned her chat with Ji Shiyu at the top.
Their last exchange was two nights ago—her sending a photo of The Love Lake, asking if he liked it.
He never replied.
Gu Ran tapped on Ji Shiyu’s profile, hesitated, then selected Add to Blacklist, followed by Delete Contact.
After completing two simple steps, Gu Ran suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of relief, as exhilarating as the moment last night when she discovered there were still hotels in City A charging as little as a hundred yuan per night.
She didn’t think she was as hopeless as Xu Hui made her out to be.
If there was no Ji Shiyu in her future, then she’d just support herself. She might not afford luxury goods, but she certainly wouldn’t starve.
The mere act of making this decision filled her with joy. Gu Ran bounced in place a couple of times, then, finding the silence too stifling, turned on the hotel TV.
It was noon, and most channels were broadcasting midday news.
Gu Ran randomly selected a station where a male anchor was delivering the news with sharp enunciation. The headline at the bottom of the screen read: "Live Streaming Industry Booms, Platform Hosts’ Earnings Reach New Heights."
Normally, Gu Ran wasn’t one for news, but this particular segment caught her attention—specifically, the part about "earnings reaching new heights."
The anchor spoke with fervor, explaining how in this rapidly evolving era, live streaming had become a thriving industry. The content was diverse: people streamed video games, sold products, even broadcasted themselves farming in fields—all of which drew massive audiences.
The report then cut to an interview with an anonymous female streamer, her face pixelated but her glamour still evident. She revealed that her current average monthly income was around 200,000 yuan, entirely from fan donations. The highest single donation she’d received was a gift worth 100,000 yuan. Thanks to this income, she had recently purchased a 200-square-meter luxury apartment in City A and a BMW for daily use.
The anonymous streamer added that her earnings were nothing extraordinary—just above average. She wasn’t even among the platform’s top streamers, who didn’t even rely on fan donations; their daily income from sponsorships and events alone was staggering.
Gu Ran’s jaw dropped in shock.
Was it really that lucrative?
She scrambled for her phone, vaguely recalling an unused live streaming app installed on it.
CatPaw Live.
Gu Ran opened the app and clicked on a random homepage stream. A female host was singing half-heartedly to background music.
Gu Ran had always been a bit face-blind when it came to streamers, but with the help of beauty filters, this one seemed passably attractive.
A few moments later, a massive firework effect exploded across the screen: "User Little Fan has gifted Mao Tiantian a ‘Romantic Firework.’"
The host paused her singing to flash a sweet heart sign at the camera, her voice dripping with saccharine affection, "Thank you, Little Fan, for the firework! Love you, mwah! XOXO."
Gu Ran listened to the host’s lackluster singing, then glanced at the gift’s price tag—50,000 CatPaw coins, equivalent to 500 yuan. She didn’t fully understand it, but her worldview had just been rocked.
People could actually make money like this?
This was how people made money?!
At that moment, Gu Ran had never felt more confident in her life. Only nine words echoed in her mind:
I can do this. I’m ready. Let me in.
