Kane left.
The door shut.
The lock clicked.
Silence.
Rhea stood exactly where Kane had left her, spine straight, jaw set — holding herself together by habit, not strength.
Then it happened.
One tear slipped.
Uninvited. Uncontrolled.
She froze.
"No," Rhea whispered, anger flaring instantly. She brushed it away like it was an insult. "Don't."
Another followed.
Her chest tightened — not a sob, not a breakdown — something worse. Pressure. Helplessness. Rage with nowhere to go.
This is not about her.
She paced once, sharply. Hands clenched. Breath shallow.
It's anger, she told herself.
It's my mother.
It's being cornered.
Not Ling Kwong.
Never Ling.
She wiped her face hard, forcing composure back into place, staring at her reflection until it obeyed.
Cold.
Regal.
Untouched.
By the time she turned off the light, the tears were gone.
The reason for them remained — unnamed, denied, buried.
Other side Kwong Mansion — Dinner Table
The table was 24ft long. The lighting perfect. The tension familiar.
Ling Kwong sat straight-backed at the head, sleeves rolled, expression neutral. If anyone else had looked closely, they'd have noticed she hadn't eaten much.
Dadi watched her over her glasses.
"You're quiet today," she said lightly. "Did the food insult you?"
Rina snorted, already grinning. "Or did someone forget how to argue back?"
Ling didn't rise to it. "I'm tired."
Victor smiled gently. "You've been pushing yourself lately."
Ling nodded once. Noncommittal.
Eliza adjusted her napkin with practiced elegance. "Discipline requires balance," she said pointedly. "Too much distraction dulls sharp minds."
Dadi clicked her tongue. "Sharp minds dull only when they lie to themselves."
Eliza's gaze slid toward Ling. "I just hope certain… distractions don't derail her focus. Some people aren't suitable for our world."
Ling finally spoke.
"Focus isn't fragile," she said evenly.
Victor's smile lingered.
Dadi watched Ling like she was reading a book written in invisible ink.
Rina nudged Ling under the table. "You're quiet," she teased. "Dangerous sign."
Rina clicked her tongue, eyes sharp and amused.
"I have something to tell, she played today like she was angry at the ground," she said lightly. "Did it offend you?"
Dadi burst out laughing.
Dadi leaned over the table. "Or maybe someone offended you."
Rina laughed. "Dadi woke up dangerous today."
Ling shot Rina a warning look.
Rina grinned wider. "What? The campus is buzzing. Miss Attitude has fans now."
Ling didn't respond.
Ling stood. "I'm done."
She left before anyone could respond.
Upstairs, Ling closed her bedroom door and leaned against it — just for a second.
Her chest felt tight. Irritated.
Annoyance, she told herself.
Residual adrenaline.
Nothing else.
She straightened, washing her hands as if that could rinse away memory — the doorway, the eye contact, the way her pulse had betrayed her.
The room was quiet in the way only memory makes loud.
Ling stood near the bed, lights low, jacket discarded somewhere she didn't remember throwing it. The sheets were still creased wrong — not the way she slept, but the way someone else had.
Last night.
Rhea had been here.
Unconscious. Weightless. Heavy with meaning Ling refused to name.
Ling sat slowly on the edge of the bed, eyes tracing the place where Rhea had lain in her arms — head tucked against her shoulder, breath uneven, lashes too long for someone who challenged her like a blade.
She hadn't planned to look.
She did anyway.
On the side table.
Neatly placed.
Rhea's jewellery.
The earrings — delicate, sharp, removed carefully so they wouldn't hurt her when she slept.
The rings — slipped off one by one, Ling's fingers steady even when her chest wasn't.
The bracelet — unclasped slowly, like Ling was defusing something fragile instead of metal.
Ling stared at them.
She remembered doing it.
Remembered thinking, This will bruise her wrist.
Remembered adjusting Rhea's hand so it wouldn't curl awkwardly.
Remembered how wrong it felt to know these details.
Ling picked up one ring between her fingers.
Small. Warm still, somehow — memory lying.
Her jaw tightened.
"You were unconscious," Ling said quietly to the empty room, like that explained everything. "This wasn't—"
She stopped.
There was no word she would allow herself to finish with.
She set the ring back down, aligned it perfectly with the others. Control even in denial.
Her eyes drifted to the bed side again.
To the space beside her pillow.
She remembered how Rhea had shifted in her sleep. How she'd moved closer without waking. How Ling's arm had tightened automatically, possessively, before her mind could intervene.
That part scared her.
Ling stood abruptly, pacing once, then stopping. She scrubbed a hand over her face, irritation sharp and directionless.
"This changes nothing," she muttered.
But she didn't put the jewellery away.
She left it there.
Like proof.
Like a reminder she refused to interpret.
Ling lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, heart steady now — too steady.
Control restored.
Mostly.
And somewhere between the silence and the memory, Ling Kwong did the one thing she never did:
She let herself remember without permission.
Just this once.
Without a name.
Two women.
Two mansions.
Two denials running parallel.
And neither of them willing to say the one thing that would shatter everything.