The door creaked.
Rhea froze.
Her head snapped up—eyes wide, breath stuck in her throat.
Kane stood there.
Still.
Silent.
Every word hanging between the walls had reached her.
"Mom—" Rhea started, scrambling up from the bed. "I—"
Kane raised a hand.
"Enough."
Her voice was low. Too calm.
Shyra stood immediately.
"Mom, listen—"
"Leave," Kane said, not even looking at her.
Shyra stepped forward. "She's already broken, don't—"
"I said leave." Kane finally turned, eyes sharp. "This is not your place."
"She's my sister," Shyra shot back. "And you don't get to—"
Kane's voice cracked like a whip.
"OUT."
Amaya stirred, startled.
Shyra clenched her jaw, looked at Rhea once—helpless, furious—then placed Amaya gently on the bed.
The door shut.
The silence screamed.
Rhea swallowed hard.
"Mom… please let me explain."
Kane laughed once—bitter, hollow.
"Explain what?" she asked.
"That you fell for her?"
"That you humiliated yourself?"
"That you forgot everything I taught you?"
"I didn't forget," Rhea cried. "I tried not to—"
A sharp sound cut her off.
The slap echoed.
Rhea stumbled back, shock freezing her body before pain even arrived.
Her cheek burned.
Her ears rang.
Kane's hand trembled as she lowered it.
"Look at you," Kane said, voice shaking now.
"Crying for someone who will ruin you."
Rhea touched her cheek slowly.
"I didn't choose this," she whispered.
Kane's eyes filled—but hardened immediately.
"You chose it the moment you let her touch you," she said.
"The moment you let her weaken you."
Rhea shook her head, tears pouring.
"She wasn't weak," she cried.
"She was begging."
Kane's breath hitched.
"Don't," she warned.
"Don't make me hate you for this."
Rhea straightened despite the tears.
"I already hate myself," she said softly.
"So go ahead."
Kane turned away abruptly, pressing her hand to her mouth, fighting something dangerous and breaking inside her.
"This ends," Kane said without looking back.
"Tonight."
Rhea's voice trembled—but it didn't retreat.
"I can't promise that."
Kane looked back then.
"I'm not asking," she said.
"I'm telling you. This ends."
Rhea stood still. Too still. Her hands clenched at her sides, jaw tight, eyes refusing to meet her mother's.
Kane watched her for a long second—then her gaze dropped.
To Rhea's thigh.
Where the slit of the dress had shifted just enough.
Faint marks.
Not bruises.
Pressure.
Finger-shaped, careless, intimate.
Rhea noticed too late.
She moved instinctively, pulling the fabric down.
Kane laughed.
A low, humorless sound.
"So," Kane said softly, stepping closer.
"That's how far you went."
Rhea's throat tightened.
"They're nothing."
"Nothing?" Kane repeated, amused.
"You don't get marks from nothing, Rhea."
Rhea looked away.
Kane circled her slowly, like she always did when she was about to dismantle something.
"You fell for her," Kane continued.
"And you forgot me."
Rhea snapped her head up.
"That's not—"
"You forgot," Kane cut in sharply.
"You forgot why you went there. You forgot whose pain you're carrying."
Rhea's voice shook.
"I didn't forget you."
Kane stopped in front of her.
"Then why do her fingers exist on your skin?" she asked quietly.
"Why does your body remember her before it remembers me?"
Rhea swallowed hard.
"I was in control."
Kane smiled—cold, precise.
"If you were," she said,
"you wouldn't be standing here hiding evidence."
Rhea's eyes burned.
"I didn't betray you."
Kane leaned in, her voice dropping.
"You did the moment you felt something and didn't punish yourself for it."
Silence fell heavy between them.
Kane straightened.
"You will finish what you started."
Rhea's fists trembled.
"And when she breaks," Kane added, almost gently,
"you'll remember who you belong to."
Rhea didn't answer.
But her silence screamed louder than any denial ever could.
Kane reached out and caught Rhea's chin between her fingers.
Not hard.
Not gentle either.
She tilted Rhea's face up, forcing her to look.
For a moment, Kane's control slipped.
Her eyes filled.
Not clean tears—heavy ones, practiced ones. The kind that blurred truth and weaponized pain.
"I know," Kane said softly.
"I know you've fallen."
A tear slid down her cheek.
Another followed.
"So go on," she continued, voice trembling just enough to sound broken.
"Do whatever you want."
Rhea's breath hitched.
"I've always been hurt," Kane said, a sad smile forming through the tears.
"What's one more wound?"
Her thumb brushed Rhea's jaw, almost affectionate.
"I'll survive this too," Kane whispered.
"I always do."
She let go of Rhea's chin and turned away, shoulders slightly slumped, steps slow—as if each one cost her something.
"I don't matter," Kane added quietly.
"You be happy."
She walked toward the door.
Rhea stood frozen.
Her chest burned.
Her head screamed.
Her heart split in two directions.
"Mom—"
The name left her mouth before she could stop it.
Kane paused.
Didn't turn.
A faint, satisfied breath escaped her—as if she'd been waiting for exactly this.
"Yes?" Kane asked softly.
Rhea's voice cracked.
"I… I won't forget you."
Kane finally looked back.
Her tears were gone.
Replaced by calm.
"I know," she said.
"You never do."
Rhea wrapped her arms around herself, nails digging into her sleeves, and forced her voice to steady—loud enough for the door, loud enough for the woman who had already decided not to listen.
"I'll continue this," Rhea said.
"I have no feelings for her."
"It's just… for a time."
"That's all."
The words tasted false the moment they left her mouth.
The door didn't open again.
Kane didn't answer. But she heard.
Footsteps faded.
Rhea's strength went with them.
She sank onto the bed slowly, like her bones had forgotten how to hold her up. Her back hit the mattress, and she stared at the ceiling—unblinking, unmoving.
Then her chest cracked.
Tears slid from the corners of her eyes, silent at first, soaking into her hairline, tracing down toward her ears. She didn't wipe them away. She didn't sit up.
She just lay there.
"I feel nothing," she whispered to no one.
"I feel nothing."
Her lips trembled.
Her hand curled into the fabric near her thigh—right where the marks had been—and she let out a broken breath that sounded too much like a sob.
The tears kept coming.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just endless.
Rhea turned onto her side, pulling her knees up, shrinking into herself as if she could fold the feelings away with her body.
Ling's face came uninvited.
Ling's voice.
Ling's hands—steady, pleading, terrified.
Rhea squeezed her eyes shut.
"This is revenge," she whispered again, shaking.
"This is revenge."
But the bed felt cold.
And for the first time, revenge didn't feel like power.
It felt like loss.