Ling cupped Rhea's face.
Both hands.
Her thumbs brushed the damp tracks of Rhea's tears.
"Please," Ling whispered.
Her voice broke completely.
"I'll fix it," she said.
"Whatever it is."
"Anything."
Rhea tried to turn her head away. Ling followed, desperate.
"I'll change," Ling continued, words tumbling out uneven.
"I'll slow down."
"I'll stop if you want."
"I'll be quiet if that's what you need."
Tears slipped freely now, unchecked.
"I can be exactly what you want me to be," Ling said.
"Just don't leave me like this."
Rhea's chest heaved.
Those words stabbed deeper than anger ever could.
Because Ling wasn't bargaining with power.
She was offering herself up—piece by piece.
Rhea pushed at Ling's wrists, trying to break free.
"Stop," she snapped.
But her hands trembled.
Ling held on—not tighter, just refusing to let go.
"I'm not asking you to promise anything," Ling said, voice raw.
"I'm asking you not to walk away like I disgust you."
That word—
disgust—
lit something sharp inside Rhea.
She hardened instantly.
Her face changed.
Her eyes went cold.
She shoved Ling's hands off her face and stepped back, wiping her tears violently as if they were a weakness.
"Don't," Rhea said, voice flat, cruel on purpose.
"Don't say things like that."
Ling froze.
Rhea lifted her chin, forcing contempt into her expression.
"I hate this," she said.
"All of it."
Ling's breath hitched.
"I hate confessions," Rhea continued, every word sharpened like a blade.
"I hate people begging."
"And I hate—"
She gestured between them.
"—whatever this is."
Ling stared at her.
As if struck.
"You think this makes you special?" Rhea said coldly.
"It doesn't."
The words landed.
Hard.
Ling's lips parted—but no sound came out.
Rhea grabbed her bag.
"This ends now."
She moved past Ling.
Ling didn't stop her this time.
She couldn't.
Because the hatred in Rhea's eyes looked real enough to destroy everything—
even though beneath it, Rhea's hands were shaking,
her chest was tight with grief she refused to name,
and every step away from Ling felt like ripping herself in half.
Her knees gave out.
She didn't sit—she collapsed.
The impact was dull, swallowed by the carpet, but the sound she made wasn't. It tore out of her chest, broken and helpless. She stayed there for a second that felt endless, breath strangled, hands clawing at the floor as if the ground itself had betrayed her.
Downstairs, Rhea appeared.
Her face was composed—too composed. Eyes dry, posture straight, chin lifted like armor. The family looked up instantly.
Eliza stood first. "Rhea?"
Rhea forced a small, polite smile. "I… don't feel well. I should go."
Dadi frowned, sensing the crack beneath the calm. "Child—"
"I'm sorry," Rhea said quickly, already stepping back. "Thank you for dinner."
Victor nodded, confused but gentle. "Of course. Take care."
Rhea didn't look up the stairs.
Not once.
She turned and walked out.
The door closed softly behind her.
Upstairs, Ling realized.
The silence told her before her mind caught up.
She pushed herself up violently, stumbling once, then sprinting. She flew down the stairs two at a time, breath tearing her chest apart.
"Ling—!" Rina called.
Dadi stood in her path instinctively. "Ling, wait—"
Ling didn't slow down.
"She's gone," Ling choked, eyes wild. "She's gone."
Eliza grabbed her arm. "Ling, listen to me—"
Ling shook her off, not angry at them—just drowning.
She burst through the front doors.
Outside, headlights were already moving.
Rhea's car rolled down the driveway.
"Rhea!" Ling screamed.
The name cracked in the night.
The car didn't stop.
Ling ran until her lungs burned, until the gate stood between them, until the taillights disappeared into the dark.
She stopped.
Stood there.
Empty.
Then she turned back inside.
The storm came all at once.
She swept a table clear with one violent motion—glass shattering, flowers crashing to the floor. A chair went next. Then another.
Tears streamed down her face unchecked, furious, helpless.
"I didn't mean to," she shouted to no one.
"I didn't— I didn't—"
Her voice broke.
She slammed her fist into the wall, pain blooming, ignored.
"I gave you everything," Ling whispered, collapsing against it.
"Everything I don't give anyone."
Her shoulders shook as she slid down, back to the floor, knees pulled to her chest like she was trying to hold herself together.
Outside, Rhea drove with her jaw clenched, nails biting into her palm, tears blurring the road.
Inside, Ling cried like the world had ended.
Because for her—
It had.
She stumbled back into her room.
The door slammed shut behind her with a sound that echoed like a gunshot.
She stood there for half a second—just one—staring.
At the candles.
At the roses.
At the table still set for two.
Her breath hitched.
Then she broke.
"No," Ling whispered.
"No—no—no."
She grabbed the table first.
With one violent shove, she sent it crashing to the floor. Wine spilled like blood across the carpet, glass shattering, the smell turning sour instantly.
"This wasn't supposed to happen!" she shouted.
She kicked the chair aside. It hit the wall hard enough to crack the wood.
Her eyes landed on the bed.
The roses.
She tore the petals off with both hands, ripping them apart, scattering red everywhere.
"Get it out," she sobbed.
"Get it all out."
She grabbed the curtains and yanked—rings snapping, fabric tearing down. Candles toppled, wax spilling, flames dying with a hiss.
Her hands went to her blazer.
She ripped it off her shoulders and threw it across the room like it had betrayed her.
"Liar," she said hoarsely—to the blazer, to herself, to the night.
The red vest followed. Then the tie.
She tore the tie in half with shaking hands.
"I dressed like a fool," Ling cried.
"I believed—"
She choked.
Her jewelry came next—lapel pin flung into the mirror. The glass cracked, a web of fractures spreading from the point of impact.
Ling stared at her reflection—eyes red, face ruined, control gone.
"I begged you," she whispered at the broken image.
"I never beg."
She slid down the wall, dragging her hands through her hair, a raw sound tearing out of her chest.
Outside the door—
"Ling!" Rina cried, knocking hard.
"Open the door!"
Dadi's voice followed, sharp with worry.
"Child, enough. You'll hurt yourself."
Eliza pressed her palm to the wood.
"Ling, please. Let me in."
Ling screamed back, voice broken, animal.
"GO AWAY!"
Her fist slammed into the door from the inside.
"I said GO!"
Silence fell outside.
Inside, Ling curled into herself on the ruined carpet, surrounded by the wreckage of a night she had built with shaking hands and broken hope.
She pressed her face into her knees.
"I wasn't joking," she whispered to the empty room.
"I wasn't."
Her sobs came hard, uncontrollable, echoing off the walls she ruled but could not protect her from.
The door stayed closed.
And for the first time in her life—
Ling Kwong was completely, terrifyingly alone.