The lights dimmed.
Music shifted—slower, deeper, threaded with bass that slid under skin instead of into ears. The crowd loosened, bodies moving closer, laughter softer, more dangerous.
The dance began.
Ling stood near the edge of the floor, one hand in her pocket, the other wrapped around a glass she hadn't tasted. Her posture was relaxed—too relaxed—but her eyes betrayed her.
They were fixed on Rhea.
Not openly.
Never openly.
She watched through reflections—mirrors, glass, the polished marble floor. Watched the way Rhea moved when she didn't think she was being observed. Unhurried. Confident. Like the music answered to her.
Ling's jaw tightened.
Don't, she told herself.
Her chest felt tight anyway.
For a fleeting, traitorous second, a thought surfaced—soft, impossible:
Dance with her.
Ling inhaled sharply, as if offended by her own mind.
That's when Dadi appeared beside her—silent as a conspiracy.
"Hmm," Dadi hummed, eyes twinkling. "You look like someone rehearsing disappointment."
Ling stiffened. "I'm fine."
Dadi followed her gaze effortlessly. "Want to dance with her?"
Ling nearly choked.
She scratched the back of her neck, suddenly fascinated by the ceiling, the chandelier, literally anything except Dadi's knowing eyes. "What nonsense."
Dadi smiled wider. "Ah. So it's that bad."
Ling scoffed. "I don't dance."
"You used to," Dadi said lightly. "Until you learned fear."
Ling snapped her head toward her. "I don't fear anyone."
Dadi leaned in, voice gentle, lethal. "Exactly."
Ling looked away again—anywhere but Rhea, anywhere but the truth pressing against her ribs.
Across the room, Rhea laughed softly at something Zifa said, her body swaying subtly to the rhythm, unaware—or pretending to be—of the stare carving into her.
Ling's fingers tightened around the glass.
She didn't move.
She didn't ask.
She didn't confess—not to Dadi, not to the room, not even to herself.
Dadi straightened, pretending to lose interest.
"Alright," she said casually. "I was only asking if I could help."
Ling's head snapped toward her. "Help with what?"
Dadi shrugged, already turning away. "Nothing. If you don't want to dance, that's fine."
The word don't echoed too loudly.
Ling swallowed.
Her fingers flexed once at her side.
"No—" she said, then stopped. Her voice came out rougher than intended. "I—"
Dadi paused, not looking at her. Waiting.
Ling exhaled sharply, jaw tight, eyes anywhere but the dance floor.
"…I want to."
The words felt treasonous.
Dadi turned slowly, her smile victorious but gentle. "Good. Took you long enough."
Before Ling could protest—or rethink—Dadi was already moving, cane tapping purposefully as she disappeared into the crowd.
Ling stood frozen, heart racing, every instinct screaming control.
Too late.
Across the room, Rhea was mid-laugh with Zifa when Dadi appeared beside her, smiling like trouble wrapped in silk.
"My dear," Dadi said warmly, "would you indulge an old woman's request?"
Rhea blinked. "Of course."
Dadi gestured toward the dance floor—and Ling Kwong.
"There's someone who dances terribly," Dadi said, eyes glinting. "She needs saving."
Rhea followed her gaze.
Their eyes met.
Time fractured.
Ling's breath caught so hard it hurt she tried not to look.
Rhea's smile faded into something quieter. Something unreadable.
Before either of them could retreat, Dadi took Rhea's hand firmly and pulled her toward ling's.
Warm. Real. Dangerous.
The music shifted—slower, heavier.
Suddenly, Rhea Nior was in Ling Kwong's arms.
Ling's hand settled at Rhea's waist instinctively, fingers brushing bare skin, the faint chill of the waist chain beneath her touch. Rhea's other hand rested lightly on Ling's shoulder, close enough that Ling could feel her breath.
The world blurred.
Ling forgot how to move.
Rhea looked up at her, eyes steady. "You're supposed to lead."
Ling swallowed, voice low. "I don't usually follow plans."
Rhea's lips curved. "Neither do I."
They moved—slow at first, careful, bodies adjusting, finding rhythm that felt far too natural. Ling's grip tightened just a fraction, protective, possessive before she could stop herself.
Around them, whispers started.
Mira watched from the edge of the floor, face pale, smile breaking at the seams.
Eliza stiffened, eyes narrowing—not angry, not approving. Measuring.
Victor looked unsettled.
Dadi leaned on her cane, satisfied. "Ah," she murmured. "There it is."
Ling lowered her head slightly, forehead almost touching Rhea's. Her voice came out rough, barely there.
"This is your fault."
Rhea smiled—soft, dangerous.
"You wanted this."
Ling didn't deny it.
She couldn't.
Because in that moment—under lights worth billions, in a room she owned—
Ling Kwong had surrendered something priceless.
And she hadn't even realized she'd asked permission.