The call shattered whatever composure Rhea had left.
"Miss… your mother—" the servant's voice trembled just enough to sell it, "—she's not well."
Rhea didn't ask questions.
She grabbed her keys, left the university without looking back, her mind already racing ahead—calculating hospitals, doctors, consequences. The drive home was reckless, fast, silent.
Too fast.
When she pushed open the mansion doors, breath tight—
"Mom?" Her voice cut through the hall, sharp, demanding.
Then—
"Ninna."
A small sound. Soft. Uncertain.
Rhea froze.
A one-year-old girl toddled toward her, chubby hands outstretched, dark curls bouncing, eyes impossibly familiar. Before Rhea's mind could catch up, the child was lifted into her arms, tiny fingers clutching her collar like an anchor.
Behind her came a calm, warm voice.
"You still run like the world is ending."
Rhea turned.
Shyra Nior stood there—taller than Rhea remembered, softer than Kane, dressed in pastel instead of armor. No malice. No calculation. Just tired eyes and a smile that carried years of patience.
"You—" Rhea swallowed. "You weren't supposed to—"
"Surprise," Shyra said gently. "My husband's going abroad for a few weeks. I thought I'd stay here. With Amaya. With Ma."
She stood holding a tiny bundle against her shoulder. The child blinked wide eyes, chubby fingers clutching Shyra's necklace.
Rhea's anger flared instantly.
"What is this?" she snapped. "Where's Mother?"
Shyra smiled.
Not sharp. Not triumphant.
Guilty.
"She's fine," Shyra said gently. "Drinking tea. Very dramatic about it, actually."
Rhea's jaw tightened. "You lied."
"I surprised you," Shyra corrected softly.
Before Rhea could retort, the baby shifted, making a small sound—half breath, half babble.
"Nn… na."
Rhea froze.
Her eyes dropped instantly.
The baby's face lit up.
"Ninna," the child tried again, clapping her hands awkwardly.
Something in Rhea broke—quietly, privately.
She crossed the room in two steps and took the baby into her arms without asking. The child nestled against her chest like she belonged there, fingers tangling in Rhea's hair.
"Hey," Rhea murmured, voice changing unconsciously. "Hey, little menace."
The baby laughed.
Shyra watched them, eyes soft.
"She missed you," Shyra said. "I told her Ninna was busy conquering the world."
Rhea snorted quietly. "Sounds about right."
They sat.
The mansion felt different with Shyra in it—lighter, warmer, intrusive in a way Rhea didn't know how to reject.
"You look tired," Shyra said after a moment. "Angry too."
Rhea didn't answer.
Shyra continued anyway, voice calm, patient—the way it had always been.
"You don't have to be sharp all the time, Rhea," she said. "Being strong doesn't mean cutting everyone."
Rhea stiffened.
"You didn't come here to lecture me," she said.
Shyra smiled sadly. "I came because I missed you. And because Mother worries. And because—" she hesitated, "—you're becoming someone you don't have to be."
Rhea looked down at the baby, who was chewing on her finger now, completely trusting.
"I don't need fixing," she said.
Shyra didn't argue.
She only said, "Just… don't let your anger be the only thing that stays."
Shyra stepped closer, touching Rhea's arm. "You look… sharp. Like you're cutting yourself from the inside."
Rhea pulled away, instinctively shielding Amaya against her chest. The child giggled, pressed her face into Rhea's neck, murmuring nonsense that sounded like devotion.
"Ninna," she babbled again.
Rhea's jaw tightened. This—this was the only place she softened. The only creature she didn't weaponize herself against.
Shyra noticed.
"You scare people on purpose," Shyra said quietly. "But you don't scare her. Ever wonder why?"
Rhea looked away. "I don't need a lecture."
"I'm not Kane," Shyra replied, still calm. "And I'm not here for revenge."
At that word, Rhea's spine stiffened.
"I know what Ma wants," Shyra continued. "And I know who she wants you to become. But hate is loud, Rhea. It exhausts you before it destroys anyone else."
Kane appeared from the corridor, very much alive, very much watching Rhea's face fracture
Kane's gaze sharpened. "Careful, Shyra."
Shyra didn't flinch. "She's my sister."
Rhea's grip on Amaya tightened just a fraction.
"You don't understand," Rhea said flatly. "You never did."
"Maybe," Shyra admitted. "But I understand this—" She gestured to the child in Rhea's arms. "You're not cruel by nature. You're just loyal to the wrong pain."
Silence fell heavy.
Amaya yawned, resting her head on Rhea's shoulder, trusting, unafraid.
Rhea closed her eyes for a second—only a second—then opened them, steel back in place.
"Don't interfere," she said to Shyra. "Stay sweet. Stay blind. This isn't your war."
Rhea handed the baby back reluctantly.
The child whimpered, reaching for her. "Ni… na."
Rhea paused.
Her chest tightened.
"I'm not throwing you from this mansion," Rhea said finally, not meeting Shyra's eyes but Amaya's. "Just because of her."
Shyra smiled. "That's enough.
Shyra watched her go, heart heavy.
Kane smiled faintly.
Rhea walked away before softness could trap her.
But as she reached the stairs, one thought followed her—unwanted, persistent:
At the university, rage had made her reckless.
Here, love made her vulnerable.
And somewhere between those two worlds stood Lingling Kwong—
a problem Rhea hadn't planned for,
and a weakness she hadn't named.