The music didn't stop.
It deepened—slower now, heavier, curling around them like a held breath.
Ling's hand tightened at Rhea's waist without permission. Pulled her closer. Too close. Rhea's body fit against hers with an ease that unsettled her—like this space had been waiting.
Ling closed her eyes.
A mistake.
Her breath went uneven, chest rising too fast. The faint scent of Rhea—warm, intoxicating—blurred the room, the lights, the watching eyes.
For a moment, Ling forgot where she was.
Forgot who she was supposed to be.
"I—" Ling murmured, voice low, unguarded. "You shouldn't look like that, too breathtaking."
The words slipped out before discipline could catch them.
Silence bloomed between beats.
Ling froze.
Her eyes snapped open—wide, alarmed, as if she'd just stepped off a cliff.
What did I just say? she thought
Rhea blinked once. Twice.
Then she smiled.
Slow. Wicked. Knowing.
"Like what?" Rhea asked lightly, tilting her head just enough to be cruel. "Like you don't know how to breathe?"
Ling's jaw clenched. She loosened her grip just a fraction, regaining control inch by inch. "Don't flatter yourself."
Rhea leaned in anyway, close enough that only Ling could hear her.
"Oh, I'm not," she whispered. "You're doing that all on your own."
Ling's throat bobbed.
Around them, the party blurred into noise again—music, laughter, glittering lights—but the space between them sharpened, dangerous and intimate.
Rhea's hand rested calmly on Ling's shoulder, pulse steady, eyes locked onto hers.
"You pulled me closer," she said softly. "Then you closed your eyes."
Ling's lips pressed into a thin line. "You talk too much."
Rhea smiled wider. "And you say things you try to hide."
The song ended.
The moment didn't.
Ling stepped back abruptly, mask snapping into place, spine straight, expression cold once more.
"Dance over," she said flatly.
Rhea inclined her head, perfectly composed.
"For now."
She turned away, disappearing into the crowd without looking back.
Ling stood there for a second longer than necessary—heart racing, breath still unsteady.
Across the room, Dadi watched with quiet satisfaction.
Rhea walked away from the music without looking back.
The party noise dulled as she reached the private elevator corridor—marble floors, muted lights, silence thick enough to think in. She pressed the button once.
Nothing.
Again.
Still nothing.
She exhaled slowly, irritation flickering across her face. Typical.
Behind a decorative pillar, Mira watched.
Her expression was calm. Too calm.
She pulled out her phone.
"Jian," she said quietly.
"Yes, Mira?"
"The upstairs elevator isn't opening," Mira said, eyes fixed on Rhea's back. "Tell her to use the downstairs one."
Jian hesitated. "Mira… the service elevator? It's not working properly. It might be—"
"Don't ask questions," Mira cut in softly. "Just do what I said."
A beat.
"…Alright," Jian replied.
Mira ended the call, smoothing her dress, her lips curving into something that almost looked like concern—but wasn't.
Jian approached Rhea moments later, respectful, neutral.
"The main elevator is under maintenance. Use the downstairs one."
Rhea glanced back once, briefly—toward the party, toward Ling's presence she could still feel even at this distance.
"Fine," she said, already moving.
She didn't see Mira step back into the shadows.
Didn't hear the faint exhale Mira released—slow, deliberate.
Rhea descended the stairs toward the lower level, heels echoing softly, unaware that her path had been adjusted, not obstructed.
Above, the party continued—music rising, lights glittering, laughter masking intent.
But Ling noticed absence before panic.
It came as a wrongness—subtle, irritating—like a note out of tune.
Her eyes scanned the room again.
Rhea wasn't near the bar.
Not with Zifa.
Not anywhere the light touched.
Ling's jaw tightened.
"She wouldn't leave without making noise," Ling muttered to herself.
She moved toward the private elevators upstairs, irritation sharpening her steps. She hates basements, Ling thought absently. She wouldn't take the lower ones.
The upper elevator corridor was empty.
Too empty.
Ling pressed the button once.
Nothing.
She frowned, checking her watch, then turned sharply and headed back.
Below—
The elevator jolted.
Just once.
Then stopped.
Rhea staggered forward, palm slamming against the wall. The lights flickered, dimmed, steadied again—too weak, too enclosed.
"Seriously?" she muttered, pressing the emergency button.
No response.
She checked her phone.
No signal.
The space felt like it shrank an inch.
Then another.
Her breathing hitched before she could stop it.
No.
She closed her eyes briefly, forcing herself upright. She'd been in worse situations. She had control. She always did.
But the walls were too close.
The ceiling too low.
The air—wrong.
Her chest tightened sharply, breath coming shallow now. She swallowed hard, throat dry, pulse hammering loud enough to feel in her ears.
"Calm down," she whispered to herself. "It's just an elevator."
The silence answered back.
Her palms grew damp. She pressed one against the wall, grounding herself—cold marble, smooth, real.
But the thought crept in anyway.
Trapped.
Her breath stuttered.
She slid down slowly, back against the wall, knees drawn in just slightly—pride still holding her posture rigid even as panic clawed up her spine.
"Don't," she told herself fiercely. "Don't do this. Fk Rhea get over this."
Her vision blurred at the edges.
She focused on counting breaths—one, two—
The elevator hummed, then went dead quiet.
Rhea's heart slammed harder.
Above—
Ling.
Her irritation turned sharp, then cold.
"Where is she," Ling asked a passing staff member.
The man hesitated. "Miss Nior was advised to take the service elevator, ma'am."
Ling froze.
"…Advised by who?"
The man swallowed. "Mr. Jian. On instructions."
Ling's eyes darkened.
She turned, already moving, phone out, voice clipped and lethal.
"Shut the music. Check every elevator. Now."
Something cold coiled in her chest.
Because Ling Kwong didn't lose people in her house.
And the silence where Rhea Nior should have been
felt suddenly, terrifyingly loud.