Dinner ended the way it had begun—too many eyes, too many words hiding what none of them wanted to say aloud.
Ling noticed it instantly.
Rhea shifted slightly in her chair, polite smile ready, body angled the way people did when they were about to leave. She wasn't rushing—but she was preparing.
Ling wasn't going to let the remaining time dissolve into family conversations and forced warmth.
She stood.
"Come," Ling said, her voice casual but decisive, eyes fixed on Rhea. "I'll show you my room."
The table went quiet for half a second.
Dadi raised an eyebrow. "She's seen it once already."
Ling turned slowly.
Her glare was sharp enough to cut glass.
Dadi blinked—then chuckled. "Alright, alright. Silent. I'm silent."
Rhea rose as well, smoothing her dress, aware of every gaze on her back. She didn't look at anyone except Ling.
Eliza watched closely, unreadable.
Victor pretended to focus on his drink.
Rina bit her lip, grinning.
Ling didn't wait for permission. She turned and walked, confident, unhurried—knowing Rhea would follow.
And she did.
The hallway felt longer than it was. The lights were softer here, warmer, casting shadows that moved with them. Their footsteps echoed in sync, close but not touching.
Ling didn't look back.
Rhea watched her instead.
The red blazer caught the light with every step—tailored, sharp, dangerous. The black shirt beneath hugged Ling's frame, the red tie patterned subtly, almost indecent in how deliberately it drew the eye downward. The vest beneath the blazer added structure, weight—authority layered over temptation. The lapel jewelry gleamed softly, understated but unmistakably expensive.
Rhea swallowed.
Her own reflection flickered in the glass panels lining the corridor. Dark fabric, elegant cut. Jewelry chosen carefully—rings slim and precise, earrings catching light when she moved. A fine chain rested against her collarbone, disappearing lower, where only Ling's eyes would ever notice. The navel piercing lay hidden beneath silk and confidence, a quiet defiance only she knew she carried.
They stopped at the staircase.
Still no door crossed.
Still no room entered.
Ling paused, finally turning just enough that Rhea had to stop as well.
For a moment, neither spoke.
The air between them tightened—charged, restrained, dangerous.
"This way," Ling said softly.
And Rhea followed.
Her fingers closed around the handle.
The moment the door opened, everything changed.
Warm, dim light spilled out first—not harsh, not bright—soft amber and deep crimson layered together, as if the room itself was breathing. The overhead lights were gone. Instead, recessed lamps glowed along the walls, their light filtered through sheer panels that softened every edge.
Rhea stepped inside.
Her breath caught.
Ling's room was no longer the controlled, minimalist space Rhea remembered. It had transformed into something deliberate—intimate, dangerous in its beauty.
The walls, once dark and severe, were draped with flowing curtains—black velvet layered with deep red silk, falling from ceiling to floor. The fabric moved slightly with the air, creating shadows that shifted like quiet secrets. Gold accents traced the edges of shelves and frames, subtle but unmistakably luxurious.
The bed dominated the room.
Not just a bed—an invitation.
It was wide, low, dressed in rich black sheets that absorbed light, with crimson throws folded neatly at the foot. Roses—real, fresh—were scattered across the surface, their deep red petals stark against the dark fabric. More petals trailed from the doorway to the bed like a path Rhea hadn't been asked to follow—but clearly meant to notice.
Candles were everywhere.
Not clustered carelessly, but arranged with precision—on side tables, along the window ledge, near the dresser. Tall, thin candles burned steadily, their flames reflected in polished surfaces, multiplying the light until the room felt alive. The scent was faint—something expensive and warm, sandalwood and spice, unmistakably Ling.
A small table stood near the window.
Crystal glasses.
A bottle of wine resting in silver.
Two chairs, close enough that distance would be impossible.
Soft music played—low, slow, almost imperceptible unless one listened for it. A rhythm that settled under the skin rather than announcing itself.
Rhea understood It can't be she thought.
Completely.
She didn't speak.
She didn't turn around.
She only stood there, taking it in, pulse steady but heavy, mind sharp and fully aware of what this night was meant to be.
Behind her—
click.
The sound was quiet.
Final.
Ling locked the door.
The echo of it settled into the room like a promise neither of them had yet dared to name.
Ling tilted her head slightly, then gestured toward the small table near the window.
"Sit," she said—not commanding, not gentle. Just certain.
Rhea didn't argue.
She walked over and sat, spine straight, hands resting neatly on her lap, eyes scanning anything except Ling. The candlelight reflected off the glass tabletop, catching the sharp line of her jaw, the quiet tension in her shoulders.
Ling moved unhurriedly.
She picked up the bottle, uncorked it with practiced ease, and poured. The wine slid into the crystal glass with a soft, dangerous sound. She filled one, then the other—perfectly even.
She placed a glass in front of Rhea.
Rhea didn't wait.
She lifted it and drank—too fast, too much. The wine burned slightly going down, warmth spreading through her chest. She swallowed again, then finished it in one go, setting the glass down with a controlled thud.
Ling noticed everything.
An eyebrow lifted. "In a hurry?"
Rhea avoided her gaze. "Just thirsty."
Ling said nothing. She only picked up her own glass, took a slow sip—eyes never leaving Rhea's face. Deliberate. Patient. As if time itself bent to her will.
Rhea reached for the bottle. "I should go soon."
"Soon," Ling echoed, amused. She leaned back in her chair, one arm resting casually, posture relaxed in a way that felt unfair. "You just arrived."
Rhea stood abruptly, chair scraping softly against the floor. "I came because I had to. Not because I wanted—"
Ling stood too.
The distance between them shrank without either meaning to.
"You're drinking like you're trying to escape," Ling said quietly. "From what?"
Rhea's fingers curled at her sides. "From you."
Silence fell—thick, electric.
Ling smiled then—not teasing, not playful. Something softer. Something far more dangerous.
"You're bad at running," she said.
Rhea's breath hitched.