The unfortunate news of the day was that An Ning's rest had lasted precisely one day.
She woke to the sound of her alarm—sharp, insistent, and deeply offensive to the concept of peace.
For a moment, she lay there, staring at the ceiling, contemplating the most pressing question of modern civilisation:
Did she really need to work?
The sunlight filtering through her curtains suggested otherwise.
The alarm, unfortunately, strongly disagreed with her peace.
With a sigh full of deep-rooted resentment, she silenced it and dragged herself out of bed.
Somewhere in the house, breakfast was already being served.
Somewhere in her schedule, her manager was probably preparing a long list of "urgent matters" that absolutely couldn't wait.
An Ning, on the other hand, was still deciding whether motivation was a renewable resource, or simply a myth humanity insisted on.
She arrived at the dining room, and as usual, everyone was already seated—except her.
But for once, that wasn't the surprising part.
What was rare was that everyone was actually still home at this hour.
Her parents, after officially handing the company reins to her older brother, An Yancheng, had since spent half their time to travelling and the other half searching for An Ning.
The search had gone on for twenty years—a consequence, perhaps, of being too busy.
Back then, her parents had been caught between boardrooms and banquets, convinced they could balance family and ambition.
They had trusted the wrong caretaker.
One moment of negligence was all it took—the caretaker had staged a kidnapping, certain the An family's wealth would make them pay.
But panic ruined her plans. Little An Ning fell into the river, and by the time she was found—miles downstream in a tucked away province—her name and her past had been both washed away.
The caretaker was caught soon after, but the trail had already gone cold. The province where little An Ning was washed up on was so remote that even the post office only received news when someone happened to carry it through.
It didn't help that she'd been in a haze for nearly a week after the accident—half-conscious, feverish, unable to recall even her own name.
For weeks, the search made headlines. For years, the search never truly stopped.
Every lead ended in silence; every promise of hope dissolved into another empty trail.
By the time they finally found her—twenty years later—the An family had learnt that guilt was heavier than loss, and that some mistakes could only be repaid with patience.
An Ning was jolted back to the present by the weight of her mother's gaze—gentle, worried, and just a touch too perceptive.
"Ningning," her mother said softly, "it's fine to quit, you know? You don't have to work so hard."
"Yeah, your mum's right," her father chimed in, his tone warm and firm.
An Ning's heart stirred with an unfamiliar sensation—something soft and unguarded pressing against the edges of her composure.
Across the table, An Yancheng nearly shivered. In all his years, he couldn't ever recall his father using that tone on him.
Well, he supposed he couldn't fault his father for it.
His younger sister, sitting there looking all obedient and quiet, could make even the strictest heart soften a little.
Wasn't this exactly why he'd stayed the night at the family house instead of returning to his apartment near the company?
"Yancheng," his mother asked, turning toward him, "is Wanwan coming to An Ning's introduction party?"
The so-called "introduction party" was less a celebration and more a public announcement—a way to tell the world the An family's lost daughter had finally come home.
"She is coming," Yancheng replied. His tone, however, carried none of the affection one might expect from a man speaking of his fiancée.
"Song Qingwan," the little melon chimed, swirling around An Ning like an overly eager gossip. "Your future sister-in-law."
An Ning nodded, and looking thoughtful for a moment.
"I suppose you can go and pick her up," her mother continued, sighing with the familiar exasperation of a woman resigned to her son's lifelong lack of romance.
Their eldest son had always been the pragmatic sort—dutiful, dependable, and utterly hopeless when it came to matters of the heart.
He could negotiate a merger worth millions, but ask him to say something tender, he'd look as though someone had asked him to recite poetry at gunpoint.
Maybe, it had less to do with inability and more with disinterest; love, to him, was simply inefficient.
In their social circle, marriage was often used as a bargaining chip—another transaction dressed in designer clothing.
An Ning's parents, however, were an exception—proof that, on rare occasions, affection and practicality could occupy the same sentence.
Unfortunately, the same could not be said for her brother's engagement.
On paper, the union between An Yancheng and Song Qingwan was perfect—two powerful families, polished public images, a press release practically pre-written.
What it lacked, however, was warmth.
"I will arrange for someone to pick her up," An Yancheng replied. "I have a meeting just before the party."
His mother sighed, the disappointment evident. "You're lucky that the Song family even agreed to this marriage."
An Yancheng didn't answer—only reached for his coffee as though caffeine could shield him from familial expectations.
An Ning, meanwhile, watched the exchange with mild amusement.
In the original timeline, she vaguely recalled, this engagement hadn't ended well.
The novel had never bothered to explain why—the An family, after all, were mere cannon fodder in a story told from Sun Qiaolian's point of view.
"Ningning, have you finished eating?" An Yancheng asked, his tone slipping easily back into its usual calm efficiency. "Come on, I'll drive you to work."
"It's fine—"
"Didn't we agree on that yesterday?" An Yancheng stood, his chair scraping softly against the floor—a sound that made it clear negotiation was futile. "Let's go, princess."
An Ning gave him a look halfway between resignation and amusement. It was hard to argue with efficiency—especially when it came dressed as chivalry.