University — Economics Lecture Hall
The classroom wasn't a classroom anymore.
It was a court.
Ling Kwong sat on the professor's chair like it belonged to her — because it did. One boot rested on the edge of the table, the other planted firmly on the floor, posture loose, predatory. Her blazer was open, sleeves pushed back, jaw tight with barely leashed rage.
The professor stood silently near the board, pretending to check notes.
No one spoke unless Ling allowed it.
"God," Ling drawled, tapping her fingers against the armrest, "this batch gets uglier every year."
A ripple of nervous laughter followed.
Rina lounged on a desk beside her, legs swinging, grin sharp. "Maybe intelligence is hereditary," she added sweetly. "And some people were adopted."
The class laughed louder now — forced, desperate.
Jian and Rawen leaned against the back wall like guards. Mira sat close to Ling's side, laughing a second too loudly, eyes glued to Ling's face, trying to reclaim space that was already slipping from her.
Ling smirked, eyes scanning the room like a ruler counting subjects.
"Close the doors," she said suddenly.
Rawen moved instantly, bolting them shut.
A lock clicked.
The sound landed heavy.
Ling leaned back, crossing her arms. "Attendance."
The professor swallowed. "Miss Nior is—"
"Late," Ling finished coolly.
Her eyes flicked to the door.
Of course she was.
Ling's mouth curved — not amused. Anticipating.
"You know," Ling said lazily, "there's something fascinating about people who think they can arrive when they want."
She stood.
The chair screeched loudly as she rose, boots hitting the floor with deliberate force. She walked slowly between the rows, fingers brushing desks, eyes cutting into people who refused to meet her gaze.
"They mistake patience for permission."
Rina laughed. Mira joined in, sharp and brittle.
Ling stopped near the front.
"Anyone else late today?" she asked.
No one breathed.
"Good," Ling said softly. "Then let's wait."
The room held its breath.
Minutes passed.
Then—
A knock.
Once.
Twice.
Ling's eyes lifted, dark and alert.
She smiled.
"Don't open it," she said calmly.
Rina glanced at her, startled. "Ling—"
"I said," Ling repeated, voice dropping into steel, "don't open it."
Another knock. Firmer this time.
From outside, Rhea's voice — controlled, cool, unmistakable.
"Open the door."
The class froze.
Ling walked back to the professor's chair and sat again, slower now, deliberate. She leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes fixed on the door like prey was waiting on the other side.
"No," Ling said loudly enough to be heard through the wood.
"You're late."
Silence.
Then Rhea's voice again, edged with frost. "Unlock it."
Ling smiled — not cruel, not kind.
Interested.
"You don't give orders here," Ling replied. "You knock. You wait. Or you leave."
The tension was suffocating.
Rina stopped laughing.
Mira watched the door, nails digging into her palm.
Outside, Rhea exhaled once — steady, controlled.
"Then open it," she said evenly, "before you embarrass yourself."
A few students flinched.
Ling's eyes narrowed.
Slowly, she stood.
And for the first time since the elevator, since the night, since everything shattered—
Ling Kwong felt something dangerous curl in her chest.
Not anger.
She walked herself.
Slow. Deliberate. Every step measured.
The class went silent as Ling reached the door and pulled it open just enough for her face to appear in the narrow gap. One sharp eye. One cold smile.
"You're not allowed in," Ling said calmly.
Rhea stood inches away.
Close enough that Ling could see the faint flush on her cheeks. Close enough to smell her perfume — soft, dangerous, familiar.
Rhea leaned forward.
Not submissive.
Not angry.
Regal.
Her eyes locked onto Ling's.
For a split second, the world collapsed.
Ling's heart betrayed her.
It raced — violent, sudden — like it had been waiting for this moment all day. Last night slammed into her without permission:
Rhea's body limp in her arms.
Rhea's breath against her neck.
The way Rhea had clutched her shirt in sleep.
The dance — slow, unplanned, too close — bodies moving before minds could stop them.
Ling's jaw tightened.
Control, she ordered herself.
Rhea's voice was low, steady. "Move."
Ling didn't.
She couldn't.
Her hand was still on the door. Her body blocking the entrance. Her mind somewhere between denial and disaster.
Rhea's gaze flicked — just once — to Ling's lips.
Then she pushed.
Not forcefully.
Confidently.
The door opened wider.
Ling stayed there.
Frozen.
The class watched as Rhea stepped past her like Ling was nothing more than furniture — like Ling hadn't just lost a war inside her own chest.
Rhea walked in, heels clicking against the floor, back straight, chin lifted. No apology. No explanation.
Ling stood at the doorway, pulse loud in her ears.
What the hell was that?
She closed the door slowly behind Rhea, the sound echoing far too loudly.
When Ling turned back, Rhea had already taken her seat — crossing her legs, opening her notebook, utterly composed.
Like nothing had happened.
Like Ling hadn't almost folded.
Rina glanced at Ling, grin faltering. Mira stared — sharp, possessive, alarmed.
Ling returned to the professor's chair.
Sat down.
Put one boot back on the table.
Laughed once — low, careless.
But her fingers trembled.
And she hated herself for it.
Because in that single heartbeat at the door, Ling Kwong hadn't lost power publicly.
She'd lost it privately.
And Rhea Nior knew it.