Time passed.
Kane stood alone in the darkened sitting room long after Rhea's door had closed. The house had gone quiet, the kind of quiet that crept into bones. Only then did it hit her—slow, unwanted, sharp.
Rhea had just come back from the trip.
Four days. No luxury. No control. No armor.
And she had met her with steel.
Kane's jaw tightened.
She pressed two fingers to her temple, exhaled slowly. The memory came uninvited—Rhea as a child, small hands clutching her sleeve after nightmares, the way she used to sleep curled like she was afraid of space itself.
Kane, what if I get stuck?
Kane closed her eyes.
"Damn it," she murmured.
Her heels moved before her resolve could stop them.
Rhea's room was dark except for the bedside lamp.
Rhea lay curled on the bed, back to the door, knees pulled up, breathing uneven. She hadn't changed. Still in the clothes from the trip. Still holding herself like something fragile had cracked and she didn't know where.
Kane stopped at the threshold.
This—this—was why she hated seeing Rhea vulnerable.
Because it dismantled her.
She crossed the room quietly and sat on the edge of the bed.
For a moment, she only watched her daughter breathe.
Then Kane lay down beside her and pulled Rhea into her arms.
Rhea stiffened instantly.
"Mom—"
Kane tightened her hold.
"Don't," she said softly. "Just… don't."
Rhea went still.
Kane pressed Rhea's head against her chest, one hand cradling the back of her hair, the other firm around her waist. Protective. Possessive. Almost desperate.
"You just came back," Kane said quietly. "And I forgot that for a moment."
Rhea's throat tightened. She didn't move. Didn't pull away.
Kane swallowed.
"There was a man once," she began, voice low, distant. "Victor Kwong."
Rhea's body tensed.
Kane felt it.
"He wasn't cruel," Kane continued. "That's the worst part. Cruel men are easy to survive."
Her fingers threaded slowly through Rhea's hair.
"He was kind. Patient. He listened. He made me laugh when I forgot how." Her voice cracked—just barely. "He made me soft."
Rhea's breath hitched.
"I trusted him," Kane said. "I loved him."
The word tasted bitter and old.
"And when he broke me," Kane whispered, "there was nothing left to defend myself with."
Rhea's eyes burned.
"I rebuilt myself from that," Kane said. "I swore no one would ever make me small again."
Her grip tightened, almost fearful.
"And now," Kane said, voice hardening again, "I see his daughter doing the same thing to you."
Rhea finally turned in her arms, eyes wide, glassy.
"She didn't—" Rhea started.
"I don't care what she intended," Kane cut in softly. "Intent doesn't matter. Effect does."
Kane cupped Rhea's face, thumbs brushing away tears Rhea hadn't realized were falling.
"I will not let the Kwongs take softness from my daughter," Kane said fiercely. "I won't let you look at someone the way I once did."
Rhea's lips trembled.
"I'm not weak," she whispered.
"I know," Kane said immediately. "That's what scares me."
She pulled Rhea closer again, pressing her forehead to hers.
"You feel things deeply," Kane murmured. "And the world punishes women like us for that."
Rhea closed her eyes.
For the first time that night, she didn't fight the tears.
Kane held her until her breathing slowed.
Until the shaking eased.
Until Rhea finally fell asleep against her chest like she used to years ago.
Kane didn't move.
But as she stared into the darkness, one thought repeated like a vow and a threat intertwined:
I will destroy anything that makes my daughter choose feeling over survival.
Even if that thing was Ling Kwong.
Rhea slept.
Not the shallow, guarded sleep she'd learned to master—but the heavy kind, breath warm against Kane's collarbone, fingers loosely clutching the fabric of her mother's sleeve like she used to as a child.
Kane didn't move.
She couldn't.
The weight of Rhea in her arms anchored her to memories she had buried so deep they no longer had names—only scars.
She remembered the days after the betrayal.
How Victor's voice had still sounded gentle when he told her it was necessary.
How her hands had trembled when she realized kindness could be a blade.
How love hadn't screamed—it had smiled while it destroyed her.
Kane had survived by becoming unbreakable.
By burning softness out of herself until there was nothing left to take.
She remembered sleeping on cold floors, staring at ceilings that didn't belong to her anymore. Remembered learning how to negotiate without flinching, how to smile while bleeding, how to never need anyone again.
That was how she survived.
And now—this.
Rhea's face was peaceful in a way that terrified her.
Too trusting.
Too open.
Kane's arm tightened around her daughter instinctively, almost painfully, as if she could shield her just by holding her hard enough.
"What if you suffer like I did," Kane whispered into Rhea's hair, voice breaking for the first time in years. "What if someone makes you forget how strong you are."
Her chest ached.
Unconditional love was supposed to be gentle.
For Kane, it was fear sharpened into devotion.
She pressed a kiss to Rhea's temple—rare, fierce, almost desperate.
"I won't let them break you," she murmured. "Not him. Not his blood. Not anyone."
Her grip tightened again, possessive, protective, trembling beneath control.
Rhea shifted slightly in her sleep, curling closer, seeking warmth without knowing it.
The gesture shattered something in Kane's chest.
She closed her eyes and held her daughter tighter still—
not as a strategist,
not as a woman who had survived,
but as a mother who was terrified that love might cost her everything again.