Rhea turned sharply toward the door.
Ling's hand closed around her wrist.
Rhea froze.
Her eyes widened instantly, breath catching as a hundred possibilities rushed through her mind. She didn't pull away—not yet—but every muscle in her body went taut.
"Ling—"
Ling didn't tighten her grip. She didn't need to.
Instead, she stepped closer and slid her other hand to Rhea's waist, firm, possessive, anchoring her there. The heat of her palm seeped through fabric, undeniable.
Rhea's heartbeat spiked.
Ling leaned in just enough for her voice to drop, low and controlled.
"Relax."
Rhea swallowed. "Let go."
Ling didn't.
She turned Rhea gently—almost tenderly—until they were facing each other. Candlelight flickered between them, catching the sharpness of Rhea's gaze and the quiet certainty in Ling's.
"Just dance," Ling said softly. "That's all."
Rhea scoffed, though it came out weaker than she intended. "You think I'll—"
"One song," Ling interrupted. "Then the condition."
Rhea's jaw clenched. "You planned this."
Ling's lips curved—not smug, not cruel. Honest.
"I warned you."
For a moment, neither moved.
Then the music shifted—slow, steady, intimate.
Ling's hand remained at Rhea's waist. Her other loosened, sliding down until their fingers barely touched.
"Don't overthink," Ling murmured. "It's only a minute. Or maybe more if you want."
Rhea let out a sharp breath. Against her will, her body responded to the rhythm, to the closeness, to the warmth that shouldn't have mattered—but did.
They moved.
Close enough to touch fully.
Rhea stared past Ling's shoulder, counting seconds in her head, grounding herself.
Just a minute. End it. Leave.
Ling watched her instead.
The tension.
The restraint.
The way Rhea was fighting something she refused to name.
As the song faded, Ling stepped closer—slow, unmistakable.
"One minute," Ling said quietly.
Rhea lifted her chin, defiance flashing through the fear. "Then it's over."
Ling nodded.
"Yes," she agreed.
The music deepened—slow, low, heavy with intent.
Ling didn't ask again.
She pulled Rhea closer.
Not politely.
Not carefully.
Her hand tightened at Rhea's waist, fingers digging in just enough to make the message unmistakable: stay. Rhea's breath stuttered as her body was drawn flush against Ling's—hips aligned, torsos touching, heat bleeding through layers of fabric.
"This isn't dancing," Rhea whispered, voice strained.
Ling's forehead dipped briefly toward hers, close enough that their breaths tangled.
"It is," she murmured. "Just not the kind you're used to."
They moved.
Slow, controlled steps—Ling leading effortlessly, her grip firm, possessive. Rhea's hands hovered, unsure where to rest, until Ling caught one and placed it against her own chest, right over her heartbeat.
"Feel that?" Ling said softly. "That's not strategy."
Rhea tried to pull back.
Ling didn't let her.
She drew Rhea tighter, fingers pressing into the small of her back, thumb brushing the curve of her waist in a way that was anything but accidental. The candlelight traced the sharp line of Ling's jaw, the intensity in her eyes stripped bare.
"You always think everything is a game," Ling continued, voice low, almost confessional. "You think I planned every move."
Rhea's pulse thundered under her palm. "Didn't you?"
Ling shook her head slightly.
"I planned to win," she admitted. "I didn't plan to—"
She stopped herself, jaw tightening.
Rhea looked up despite herself. "To what?"
Ling's grip tightened again, just a fraction.
"To feel like this."
The words landed heavy—unfinished, dangerous. Like the opening scene of something that would ruin them both if it continued.
They swayed closer, bodies moving as one now, no space left to pretend there was distance. Ling's lips brushed near Rhea's ear—not touching, but close enough that the promise of it lingered.
"This," Ling whispered, "is the trailer."
Rhea's breath came shallow. "You're playing with fire."
Ling smiled faintly.
"So are you."
The music didn't stop.
Ling kept moving.
Slow. Deliberate.
Her hand still firm at Rhea's waist.
Rhea swallowed.
"Stop," she said quietly.
"Just… get the kiss done. I have to go."
Ling smiled.
Not teasing.
Not mocking.
Soft. Dangerous.
"No," she said. "Not yet."
Rhea frowned. "Ling—"
Ling stepped back.
Just one step.
The space felt louder than the music.
Then—
She knelt.
The room seemed to lose air.
Rhea froze. "What are you—"
Ling reached into her blazer.
Her hands were shaking.
Badly.
She pulled out a single flower—deep red, velvety, perfect. Somehow warm, like it had been close to her skin all evening.
"I planned the room," Ling said, voice low.
"I planned the dinner."
"I planned the condition."
She laughed once—short, breathless.
"I didn't plan this."
Rhea's fingers curled at her sides. "Stand up."
Ling didn't.
She looked up instead.
Her eyes weren't cold now.
They were terrified.
"I don't do this," Ling said.
"I don't kneel."
"I don't ask."
Her throat moved as she swallowed.
"But you make me forget rules."
Rhea whispered, "This is insane."
Ling nodded. "I know."
She held the flower out with both hands.
"I won't say big words," Ling said quickly.
"I won't promise futures."
"I won't lie."
Her voice softened.
"I just know this."
She took a breath.
"When you walk away," she said,
"I lose control."
Rhea's breath shook. "Ling…"
"I don't want the kiss," Ling continued.
"Not like that."
"Not because of a bet."
Her fingers tightened around the stem.
"I want you to choose to stay."
Silence stretched.
The music ended.
Ling added quietly, almost breaking—
"Even if it's just tonight."
Rhea stared at her.
At the strongest person she knew—
on her knees,
hands trembling,
waiting.