Lingling Kwong
Trillionaire Mansion, Night
The gates sealed behind her with military precision.
Glass. Steel. Silence.
Lingling Kwong walked through a mansion designed to obey her—lights adjusted automatically, temperature perfect, staff invisible. This place had never failed her. It never questioned her.
Tonight, it did nothing to calm her.
Ling entered her room and let the door close behind her without a sound.
The lights stayed off.
She preferred it that way.
Moonlight spilled in through floor-to-ceiling windows, pale and cold, glinting off black marble floors and steel accents. The room was enormous, not decorative—engineered. Every inch reflected discipline, dominance, and purpose. Luxury stripped of softness.
One wall was glass, overlooking the city she owned in pieces and influence. Another was lined with framed photographs—Ling mid-air in a basketball dunk, sweat darkening her jersey; Ling driving a football forward with ruthless focus; Ling on podiums, medals hanging heavy against her chest. Victory, documented. Proof that effort bent reality.
Her bed sat low and wide, charcoal sheets pulled tight, untouched. No excess pillows. No indulgence. Sleep was a function, not a comfort.
She crossed the room and stopped in front of the open cupboard.
Inside, everything was arranged with military precision.
Blazers. Tailored shirts. Training gear folded by type and purpose. Shoes aligned—leather boots, athletic sneakers, cleats still bearing faint marks of use. No color without intent. No softness without reason.
This was where she reset.
Ling rested her hand on the edge of the cupboard door, fingers curling slowly.
The room usually settled her.
Tonight, it didn't.
She turned toward the far corner where her private gym occupied its own shadowed section—weights racked cleanly, a punching bag hanging still, a treadmill facing the window. The faint scent of metal and effort lingered in the air. Control lived here. Pain was honest here.
Ling dropped her watch onto the table beside the bed. The sound echoed too loud.
Annoying.
She moved toward the mirror built seamlessly into the wall. Her reflection stared back—tall, lean, composed. Sharp jaw. Calm eyes. Nothing out of place.
And yet—
She lifted her gaze slightly, meeting her own eyes.
"You don't lose control," she said quietly
She tossed her blazer onto the marble table harder than necessary. The sound cracked through the hall, sharp and lonely. Ling paced, boots striking the floor like suppressed violence.
Rhea Nior.
The name burned.
"How," Ling muttered to herself, jaw tight, "does a freshie walk into my class like that?"
Anger simmered beneath her skin—not loud, not explosive. Controlled. Dangerous. She hated disorder. Hated disruption. Hated anyone who dared exist outside the hierarchy she enforced.
And yet—
Her mind betrayed her.
Rhea standing in the aisle.
The way her back stayed straight when everyone else bent.
The unapologetic curve of her waist,hips beneath that fitted dress fk too tempting.
Ling stopped pacing.
"No," she said coldly, to no one.
But the image returned anyway.
The nose ring—small, deliberate. Not decoration. Declaration.
Her lips—full, relaxed, curving not in fear but in quiet arrogance.
The way she didn't rush. Didn't hesitate. Didn't seek permission.
Ling clenched her fists.
Attraction was weakness.
Distraction was failure.
She had crushed better people for less.
And yet, the memory of Rhea's eyes—dark, steady, unafraid—slid into her thoughts like a blade finding a soft place in armor.
She didn't look at me like I was above her.
That was what made Ling furious.
Inferiority was the order of things.
Rhea had rejected it without asking.
Ling moved to the window, city lights stretching endlessly below her—everything she owned, everything that bent.
"Tomorrow," Ling said aloud, voice low and absolute, "you bow."
She pictured it clearly.
Rhea's confidence cracking.
That sharp tongue silenced.
That ego forced to recognize power.
Ling thrived on control. She always had.
But then—unwanted, uninvited—
Another image surfaced.
Rhea leaning close.
That calm voice murmuring something meant only for her.
The heat of proximity Ling had no right to remember.
Ling turned away sharply, as if she could outrun her own thoughts.
"Pathetic," she hissed.
She hated herself for it.
Hated that her pulse had quickened.
Hated that her mind lingered where it shouldn't.
Hated that Rhea Nior had entered her space and left something behind.
Ling straightened, face returning to ice.
She would break Rhea publicly.
Methodically.
So thoroughly that no one would ever forget the order of things again.
And yet—buried beneath rage and resolve—
a darker truth waited, unspoken even to herself:
Lingling Kwong didn't just want Rhea to bow.
She wanted to understand why a single girl had managed to unsettle a kingdom
without lifting a finger.
That thought followed her into the night—
and Ling hated herself for not being able to kill it.