The doors opened.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
And yet the room stopped breathing.
Rhea Nior walked in.
Deep wine silk flowed over her like it had been poured—high slit slicing up one leg with deliberate arrogance, the fabric hugging her 42-inches hips before falling loose again. The blouse dipped just enough to bare her midriff, smooth skin catching chandelier light, a small silver navel piercing glinting like a secret meant to be seen. A thin waist chain rested against her skin, subtle, lethal.
Colour matched Ling's wine-red.
Unintentional.
Fated.
Rina noticed first.
Her eyes widened, then she laughed softly, delighted. "Well," she murmured, leaning toward Ling, "see, Miss Attitude."
Ling didn't turn.
She didn't need to.
Her breath hitched anyway.
She swallowed once—slow, controlled—already knowing. The shift in the room told her everything. The silence. The way eyes had tilted. The way sound itself seemed to pull backward.
Don't look, she told herself.
She turned.
And forgot how to breathe.
Her eyes went wide—just for a second, but it was enough. Heart slamming, pulse racing like it had lost all discipline. Her chest rose unevenly; she had to steady herself with one hand on the table beside her.
Rhea stood there—calm, unbothered, devastating—eyes locking onto Ling's like she'd known exactly where to aim.
The world narrowed.
Dadi leaned forward slightly, eyes sharp, assessing. "Oh," she said quietly. "She's beautiful."
Victor froze mid-conversation, gaze flicking between Rhea and his daughter. He didn't miss it—the tension, the way Ling had gone still in a way she never did. His smile faded into concern.
Eliza's expression tightened—not with disapproval, but calculation. Her eyes lingered on Rhea's confidence, her posture, the way the room had bent. "She has presence," Eliza said, measured. "Dangerous kind."
Mira felt it like a slap.
She stood beside Ling, close enough to feel the change in her—felt Ling's breath hitch, felt the shift of attention leave her entirely. Mira's fingers curled into her palm, nails biting skin.
Rhea walked forward.
Each step was unhurried. Controlled.
She stopped a few feet from Ling.
Close enough.
Ling forced a smile—sharp, brittle. "You're late."
Rhea's gaze swept over Ling once—slow, appreciative, unapologetic—then returned to her eyes.
"I said I'd come," she replied calmly. "I didn't say when."
Rina bit her lip to keep from laughing. "Wow. Someone check Ling's pulse."
Ling shot her a glare—but it lacked its usual bite.
Her eyes kept drifting back. To the slit. To the bare waist. To the silver at Rhea's navel catching light every time she moved.
She hated herself for it.
Mira spoke too quickly, voice tight. "You look… overdressed for a student party."
Rhea glanced at her then—finally. One look. Cool. Dismissive.
"I dress for rooms," she said. "Not approval."
Silence followed.
Ling exhaled slowly, steadying herself, reclaiming her mask inch by inch. "Enjoy the party," she said, voice low. "Don't get lost."
Rhea's lips curved—not a smile. A promise.
"I never do."
She moved past Ling, the faint brush of fabric, the whisper of perfume—warm, dangerous—lingering far too long.
Ling stayed still.
Jaw clenched.
Heart out of control.
Around them, the trillionaire party resumed—music swelling, laughter returning—but something fundamental had shifted.
Because Rhea Nior hadn't just arrived.
She had entered Ling Kwong's orbit.
Then Ling went to her room upstairs she shut the door harder than necessary.
She paced once. Twice.
"Idiot," she muttered under her breath, running a hand through her hair. "What was I even thinking? What's happening to me?"
She stopped in front of the mirror, shoulders squared, jaw set—rebuilding herself piece by piece the way she always did.
Breathe.
Control.
Focus.
She closed her eyes.
And Rhea appeared anyway.
That slit of wine-red silk.
The waist chain, dip of her navel and piercing fk Ling wanted to Kiss it.
The calm arrogance in her eyes.
The way the room had bent toward her without permission.
Ling's cheeks warmed before she could stop it.
A smile—soft, unguarded—slipped free.
"She's…" Ling whispered before catching herself. Her breath faltered. "…divine."
The word stunned her.
Her hand came up fast.
Smack.
She stared at her own reflection, eyes blazing now. "Enough. Get a grip."
Jaw clenched, mask back in place, Ling turned and headed downstairs.
The party was louder now.
Music deeper. Laughter brighter. The air heavy with money and movement.
And there—
Rhea stood near the far end, a glass in hand, talking to a girl Ling recognized vaguely.
Zifa.
Rhea was relaxed with her. Smiling. Her head tilted slightly as she listened, eyes warm in a way Ling hadn't seen before.
Ling hated that.
She moved through the crowd, pretending not to look—failing miserably. Her gaze kept pulling back, traitorous, magnetic.
Dadi noticed immediately.
"Oh ho," Dadi said, tapping Ling's arm with her cane. "If staring burned holes, that girl would be ash by now."
Ling didn't look away. "I'm not staring."
Dadi chuckled. "You're glaring with interest. Worse."
Ling finally tore her eyes away, scowling. "Don't start."
Dadi leaned closer, voice low and amused. "Careful, child. The ones who unsettle you are never accidents."
Ling said nothing.
Across the room, Eliza watched too—sharp-eyed, composed. She acknowledged Rhea's elegance, her confidence, the way she held herself like she belonged among power.
Impressive.
But approval?
No.
Eliza's gaze slid to Mira, standing close, waiting, familiar.
Mira fits, Eliza thought. Rhea is fire.
And Eliza Kwong did not like who can burn her daughter.
Rhea laughed softly at something Zifa said, completely unaware—or pretending to be—of the storm she had stirred.
Ling stood still, glass untouched in her hand.
She told herself she was in control again.
But her eyes betrayed her.
Because even surrounded by wealth, family, and expectation—
Ling Kwong's attention kept returning to one impossible truth:
Rhea Nior existed.
And Ling could no longer pretend she didn't matter.