Rina woke up to noise.
Not the usual quiet, disciplined hum of the Kwong mansion—but chaos.
Voices. Footsteps. Instructions being snapped in Ling's unmistakable tone. The sound of glass being set down, fabric unfurling, crates opening.
Rina frowned, pulled on a robe, and stepped out.
She froze.
The corridor was crowded with staff.
Servants moved briskly, carrying tall boxes stamped with foreign labels—Italy, France, Switzerland. Florists wheeled in refrigerated carts overflowing with roses so dark they were almost black-red. Tailors stood with garment bags sealed in silk covers. Someone argued softly about lighting angles. Someone else was on the phone discussing wine temperatures.
The mansion—normally immaculate, restrained—looked alive.
Messy.
Uncontrolled.
And at the center of it all—
Ling.
Hair tied back carelessly. Sleeves rolled up. Tablet in one hand, finger slicing through the air as she gave orders.
"No. Those curtains go in my room, not the lounge."
"The chandelier needs to be lowered by three inches."
"Change the carpet. I said Persian silk blend, not wool."
"And don't touch the roses until evening."
Rina stared, mouth open.
Ling Kwong never did this.
She delegated. Always. Perfectly.
She never hovered. Never checked details. Never cared about aesthetic emotions.
Yet here she was—checking the shade of red against black walls, brushing her fingers against fabric, adjusting candle placements herself.
Rina walked closer, incredulous. "What the hell happened while I was asleep?"
Ling didn't look at her. "You're awake early."
"That's your concern?" Rina gestured wildly. "The house looks like it's hosting a royal wedding."
Ling finally glanced at her. "It's dinner."
Rina burst out laughing. "You're lying."
Ling's jaw tightened. "Rina."
Rina stopped laughing slowly.
"Oh," she said softly. "You're serious."
Ling returned to her tablet. "Very."
That was when footsteps echoed behind them.
Victor entered first, stopping short at the sight. His brows rose. "Did we sell the house and I missed the memo?"
Dadi followed, eyes sparkling instantly. "Oh ho."
She scanned the roses, the candles, the velvet boxes. "So this is how far she's gone."
Eliza stepped in last.
She took everything in quietly.
The disorder.
The extravagance.
Her daughter—personally involved.
Ling noticed them and straightened instinctively. "Good morning."
Victor smiled slowly. "Morning, Captain."
He looked around again. "Care to explain?"
"It's nothing," Ling said too quickly.
Dadi laughed. "She says that as if nothing here costs more than a small country."
Ling shot her a look. "Dadi."
Eliza said nothing.
Her eyes stayed on Ling's hands.
They were shaking—just slightly—as Ling adjusted a candle's distance from the roses.
Eliza had never seen that before.
Rina crossed her arms, grinning. "She's checking every detail herself. Like—every detail."
Victor chuckled. "You've never done that. Even for business dinners."
Ling's voice lowered. "This isn't business."
Silence fell.
Dadi smiled wider.
Eliza's stomach tightened.
Ling turned to a servant. "The table—Italian marble. Gold-rim cutlery. Crystal glasses only. I want the candles low, warm light. No white light."
"Yes, Miss Kwong."
"And the wine—" Ling paused, thinking. "Two reds. One bold. One softer. Let her choose."
Let her choose.
That phrase lodged itself painfully in Eliza's chest.
Victor glanced at Eliza. "She's thoughtful."
Eliza smiled. Perfectly. "She always has been."
But inside, something cold settled.
This wasn't preparation.
This was infatuation.
Ling wasn't trying to impress.
She was creating a space where someone could stay.
Dadi leaned toward Rina and whispered loudly on purpose, "If this girl walks away after all this, I'll personally adopt her for the drama."
Ling snapped, flustered. "Dadi!"
Rina laughed. "You're doomed."
Ling ignored them all and turned back to the staff. "No interruptions tonight. Clear the west wing. I want privacy."
Eliza watched her daughter command the house—their house—without hesitation.
Fire, she thought again.
And Ling wasn't trying to contain it.
She was inviting it inside.
Rina leaned against the railing, still watching servants rush past like the mansion had been declared a war zone.
"So," she said casually, "what about university?"
Ling didn't even look up from the layout on her tablet. "I'm not going today."
Rina blinked. "You skipped uni?"
Ling's finger paused mid-scroll. "I have to finish all this before night."
Rina stared at her like she'd just announced the end of the world. "You? Skipping class? Wow. She really is fire."
Ling shot her a warning look. "Don't start."
Before Rina could continue, Eliza spoke, voice calm but firm.
"At least have breakfast."
Ling shook her head immediately. "I'm not hungry. I have work to do."
Eliza's jaw tightened—just slightly.
"No," she said. "You're eating."
Ling sighed. "Mom—"
Eliza was already signaling a servant. "Plate. Now."
Within seconds, a carefully arranged breakfast appeared—toast, fruit, eggs, tea. Eliza took the plate herself.
Victor watched from the table, amused. "This should be interesting."
Ling turned to walk away.
Eliza followed.
Literally.
Ling stopped near the stairs to correct someone about curtains. Eliza appeared beside her, fork raised.
"Bite," Eliza said.
Ling frowned. "I said I'm not—"
Eliza held the fork closer. "Ling."
The tone left no room for argument.
Ling sighed and took a bite, chewing while pointing at a chandelier. "Lower it. Two inches."
Eliza nodded approvingly and waited.
Ling swallowed.
Eliza immediately lifted the fork again. "Another."
Rina covered her mouth, trying not to laugh. "Oh my god, she's being handheld-fed like a stressed CEO."
Ling shot her a glare. "Rina."
They moved through the house—hallway to lounge, lounge to stairs, stairs to west wing. Like she used to do when Ling was child.
Every few steps—
"Bite."
Ling stopped to argue with a florist.
Bite.
Ling checked the wine list.
Bite.
Ling adjusted the placement of roses herself.
Bite.
By the time they reached the bedroom, Ling was chewing mechanically, eyes still scanning the room like a general inspecting a battlefield.
"This is ridiculous," Ling muttered.
Eliza smiled softly. "You haven't eaten since yesterday."
Ling paused, then frowned. "How do you know?"
"I'm your mother."
She guided Ling to sit briefly on the edge of the bed—black silk sheets still bare, waiting for roses.
"Sit," Eliza ordered.
Ling sat.
Eliza fed her three proper bites in silence.
Victor watched from the doorway, arms crossed, smiling faintly. "She's never let anyone take care of her like this."
Eliza didn't look at him. "She's letting me."
Ling swallowed and finally looked at her mother. "You didn't have to follow me everywhere."
Eliza brushed a crumb from Ling's lip with her thumb—gentle, intimate. "You're doing too much."
Ling lowered her gaze. "It has to be perfect."
Eliza's hand stilled.
"For her?" she asked lightly.
Ling didn't answer.
That was answer enough.
Eliza straightened, mask sliding back into place. "Finish this and rest."
She handed the plate to a servant and walked away, composed as ever.
But inside, her chest ached.
She hadn't liked breakfast without her daughter at the table.
And she liked even less the realization that soon—
someone else would be the reason Ling forgot to eat at all.