Ling's body finally gave up.
The fight drained out of her all at once—shoulders sagging, fingers loosening, breath turning shallow and uneven. Tears still slid from the corners of her eyes even as her lids fluttered closed.
Victor noticed first.
"Elle," he said quietly, voice tight,
"she's done."
Before Ling could slip further, Victor bent and lifted her into his arms. She barely stirred—only a soft, broken sound leaving her throat as her head fell against his shoulder.
Eliza wiped her face quickly, forcing herself steady.
"Our room," she said at once.
"Not here."
"She shouldn't be alone tonight."
Victor nodded and carried Ling down the hall, careful, slow, as if she were made of glass. The servants stepped aside in silence. Dadi turned away, unable to watch.
In their room, Victor laid Ling gently on the bed.
Eliza climbed in immediately, pulling Ling against her chest, wrapping herself around her like a shield. She brushed Ling's damp hair back, kissing her forehead again and again.
"It's okay," Eliza whispered.
"You're safe."
"Sleep."
But sleep didn't come easy.
Even unconscious, Ling's face twisted.
A soft cry slipped out.
"No…" she murmured, voice breaking.
"Don't go."
"Please…"
Eliza froze.
Her arms tightened instantly.
"I'm here," she whispered urgently.
"Mom's here."
Ling's hand fisted in Eliza's dress, gripping as if she were drowning.
"I'll be good," Ling sobbed in her sleep.
"I promise."
"Just don't look at me like that…"
Eliza's breath hitched.
Tears spilled freely now, unstoppable.
"Oh God," she whispered, pressing her lips to Ling's hair.
"My baby…"
Victor stood beside the bed, one hand braced on the headboard, jaw clenched so hard it ached. He turned away, unable to watch his daughter beg in her dreams.
Ling shifted again, face buried against Eliza's chest.
"I won't touch," she cried softly.
"I won't scare you."
"Just stay…"
That broke Eliza completely.
She curled tighter around Ling, rocking her gently as her own sobs shook her body.
"Hush," Eliza whispered through tears.
"You never scared anyone."
"You were only brave enough to love."
Ling's breathing eventually slowed, cries fading into broken whimpers.
But Eliza didn't sleep.
She stayed awake, holding her daughter all night, listening to every fragile breath—
and promising herself that no one would ever make Ling feel unworthy of love again.
Victor gently touched Dadi's shoulder.
"Mama," he said softly,
"you should rest now."
Dadi looked at Ling one last time—her face pale, lashes wet, mouth trembling even in sleep. She nodded, wiping her tears with the edge of her shawl.
"I'll pray," she whispered.
"All night."
Rina slipped an arm around Dadi's waist and guided her out. Before leaving, Rina turned back once, eyes lingering on Ling, guilt and worry tangled on her face.
"Take care of her," Rina said quietly.
The door closed.
Silence fell.
Only Ling's uneven breathing and Eliza's broken sobs filled the room.
Victor sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing Eliza's back gently.
"She's sleeping," he murmured.
"She's safe."
Eliza shook her head violently.
"No," she cried.
"No, she's not."
She clutched Ling tighter, as if afraid she might disappear.
"Do you hear her?" Eliza whispered hoarsely.
"She's begging in her sleep."
"What kind of pain makes my child apologize for loving?"
Victor swallowed hard.
"Ell—"
"She reduced her to this," Eliza cut in sharply, lifting her tear-filled eyes.
"She made my Ling feel ashamed of her heart."
Victor tried again, voice low, careful.
"Maybe Rhea is hurting too—"
Eliza laughed bitterly through tears.
"Hurt?"
"Hurt doesn't give someone the right to shatter another person and walk away."
Her face hardened.
The grief was still there—but beneath it, something far colder was forming.
"No one," Eliza said slowly, each word deliberate,
"gets to make my daughter cry like this and live peacefully."
Victor stiffened.
"Ell…"
She gently laid Ling's head more securely against her chest, kissing her hair with trembling lips.
"I carried her for nine months," Eliza whispered.
"I watched her fall, fight, bleed, win."
"And tonight I watched her break."
Her eyes lifted to Victor—no tears now, only fury.
"I swear," Eliza said, voice deadly calm,
"I will destroy her."
Victor said nothing.
Because he knew that look.
It wasn't anger.
It was a vow.
And Eliza never made empty ones.
She sat up and moved carefully, as if even the air might hurt her daughter.
She slipped Ling's shoes off first, setting them aside neatly. Then her hands went to the buttons of Ling's shirt—slow, gentle—undoing the top ones so her chest could rise without restraint. She loosened the belt, easing it away, letting Ling's body relax into the mattress at last.
"There," Eliza whispered.
"Breathe, baby."
Ling shifted faintly, a soft sound leaving her throat, then stilled.
Eliza reached for Ling's wallet on instinct—to move it away, to make sure nothing hard pressed against her while she slept. The leather opened in her hands.
And Eliza froze.
Inside—tucked carefully, as if it belonged there more than money—
Rhea.
A small photo. Worn at the edges. Folded once, then unfolded again too many times.
Eliza's breath left her in a sharp, silent pull.
Her fingers trembled as she closed the wallet and placed it gently on the bedside table. No anger touched her daughter in that moment—only sorrow so heavy it bent her shoulders.
She climbed back onto the bed and pulled Ling into her arms, cocooning her in the blanket, wrapping herself around her like a shield. Ling's head fit beneath Eliza's chin as if it had always belonged there.
Eliza kissed Ling's hair, again and again.
"I won't let anyone take your softness," she whispered.
"Not ever."
Behind her, Victor stepped closer and wrapped his arms around Eliza, holding them both. He rested his chin against her shoulder, steady, grounding.
"We'll get through this," he said quietly.
"Together."
Eliza leaned back into him, eyes never leaving Ling's face.
"I know," she replied softly.
"But tonight—she's mine."
Victor tightened his hold, the three of them breathing together in the dim light—
a fragile circle of love, grief, and promises that would not be broken.