Yan Xiuran jolted upright.
Her breath came in ragged, uneven gasps.
Her body trembled, slick with cold sweat.
The echo of Yan Tianhao's slap still burned across her cheek, the weight of his words pressing against her ribs like an iron vice.
It took her a second to remember.
She wasn't in the Yan estate.
No marble floors, no imposing bookshelves, no damning documents scattered across a mahogany table.
Instead, she was in the suffocating silence of her own bedroom.
Dim light filtered through the curtains, casting long shadows against the walls.
The rain outside hadn't stopped, hammering relentlessly against the glass, as if trying to drown out the echoes of her dream.
A dream.
No—a memory.
The remnants of it clung to her like thorns, digging in, refusing to let go.
The betrayal. The humiliation. The finality of it all.
She exhaled sharply, forcing herself to move.
The sheets were tangled around her legs, the fabric damp from her sweat. Every muscle in her body ached, tense from the ghost of a battle she had already lost.
They had thrown her away.
Song Lianhua had orchestrated it. Yan Ruoyan had reveled in it. Yan Weisheng had let it happen.
And Yan Tianhao—her father—had condemned her without a second thought.
She lifted a trembling hand to her face, fingers ghosting over her cheek.
The bruise from that night had long since faded, but the sting still remained.
She should have seen it coming.
No.
She had seen it coming.
She just never thought they would actually do it.
Yan Xiuran's jaw clenched, nails digging into her palm.
It had been over two years since that night. A year since they had branded her a criminal, exiled her from the Yan family, stripped her of everything she had bled for.
But she was still here.
She thought she had moved on. It had been a long time since she last had those dreams, since she let herself think about the past. But seeing Doctor Wei today brought it all back.
The memories, the betrayal, the pain—it was still there, no matter how much she tried to forget.
Yan Xiuran stood up, her breath still uneven. The weight in her chest was unbearable, suffocating, and she needed an outlet—something, anything, to drown it out.
She stepped outside her bedroom, the cold air hitting her sweat-dampened skin.
The heavy bag hung in the corner, swaying slightly from the last time she had used it.
No gloves, no wraps—she didn't need them.
She wanted to feel it.
Her fists met the bag with a sharp thud.
Again.
And again.
The dull ache in her knuckles grew sharper, rawer with each strike, but she welcomed the pain.
The sting, the burn—it was real.
Unlike everything else. Unlike the life she had lived under their control. Unlike the love she thought had existed.
Her arms grew tired, her breathing ragged, but she didn't stop until exhaustion forced her to.
When she finally staggered back, her hands throbbed, knuckles split, blood staining the rough surface of the bag.
She didn't care.
Grabbing a bottle of water from the counter, she took a deep sip, letting the cool liquid soothe the rawness in her throat.
Her free hand ran through her short, sweat-damp hair—hair that had never been her choice.
Her reflection in the mirror caught her off guard.
She stared at herself, chest still rising and falling heavily. And yet, it wasn't her she saw.
Doctor Wei's words echoed in her mind.
"Why do you refuse to be yourself?"
Myself?
What did that even mean?
The last time she had long hair, she had been six.
She could barely remember it—only the feeling of soft strands slipping through her fingers, the innocent joy of tying them up into pigtails, pretending—just for a moment—to be a little girl.
But Song Lianhua had seen her.
The memory flashed, sharp and bitter.
The cold grip on her wrist.
The scolding words, the disgust in her stepmother's eyes. The way she had grabbed a pair of scissors, severing those strands in a single, merciless motion.
"You are the Yan Family's heir. You are a boy. You will never do this again."
Yan Xiuran had accepted it.
Had accepted who she was supposed to be.
She had thrown away the little girl who had once played with her hair in front of the mirror, who had dreamt of wearing dresses like the other children.
And she had become him.
The perfect son.
The male heir of the Yan family.
So how could she be herself when she had spent her whole life believing she was that person?
A bitter chuckle left her lips.
There was no answer.
Dragging herself back into her bedroom, she collapsed onto the chair by her desk. That was when she saw it.
The envelope.
It sat there on her side table, untouched since she had thrown it down hours ago.
Her fingers hovered over it before she finally picked it up, the weight of it in her hands.
She hated them.
Yan Tianhao. Song Lianhua. Yan Ruoyan. Yan Weisheng.
She wanted to make them pay. Make them regret everything. Make her father realize that he was wrong. Make Song Lianhua suffer for framing her. Make Yan Weisheng choke on the guilt of his betrayal.
But what then?
What was left after revenge?
Nothing.
That was the truth, wasn't it?
No matter how much she tried to ignore it, she couldn't resign herself to that kind of life.
A life consumed by hate, by schemes, by a never-ending cycle of destruction.
She was never that kind of person.
Besides—how would she even start?
She had nothing.
No money. No status. No allies.
Not even the friends she had once thought were hers.
The moment they learned she was no longer Liu Xiuran, they had abandoned her.
If the Yan family could frame her for something she hadn't done, how could she possibly take revenge when she was utterly powerless?
She exhaled, fingers tightening around the envelope.
Living like this—wasn't it just another kind of revenge?
A slow, miserable existence, proving that they had taken everything from her?
Her lips pressed into a thin line.
Then, she made her decision.
She opened the envelope.
Her eyes scanned the contents, the words confirming what she already knew.
Doctor Wei had offered her a chance—a way out.
A way to start over.
To live not as Yan Xiuran, but as Li Xiyan.
For the first time in years, she would live for herself.
Before she could think twice, she was on her feet, grabbing a bag, shoving in what little she had left.
No more hesitating.
No more waiting.
This time, she was choosing her own path.