The knock never came.
Ling opened the door and walked in like it was already hers.
Professor Halvorsen was standing behind his desk when she entered. He straightened instinctively, the way people always did around her—muscle memory learned the hard way.
Ling didn't greet him.
She crossed the room in measured steps and sat down in his chair.
His chair.
Leather. High-backed. Authority stitched into its seams.
For a second, he simply stared.
"Ms. Kwong," he said carefully, forcing a smile, "You -- here—"
Ling leaned back, one ankle resting over her knee, hands relaxed on the armrests. Calm. Almost bored.
"You're still standing," she said.
He didn't sit.
That was the first admission.
Silence stretched.
Ling's gaze moved over the certificates on the wall, the glass awards, the carefully curated proof of respectability. She knew exactly how this worked. Her mother could make one call and erase a career. Everyone in this building knew it too.
She looked back at him.
"Explain," Ling said.
"Explain what?" he asked, feigning confusion.
"The sudden academic fascination with Rhea Nior," Ling replied. "Why professors are pointing at her like she's a warning label."
He folded his hands. "Miss Nior has displayed questionable conduct. Irregular submissions. Attitude issues. Influence where it doesn't belong."
Ling tilted her head slightly.
"That's interesting," she said. "Because she hasn't failed a single metric you people worship."
"She's disruptive," he insisted. "She challenges authority."
Ling smiled faintly.
"So do I."
He swallowed.
"Your matter is different, this is not about you" he said quickly.
Ling leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk now, eyes sharp.
"Everything in this university is about me," she said quietly. "You just forget that when you're feeling brave."
The professor cleared his throat. "With respect, we cannot show favoritism simply because you—"
Ling cut him off.
"Say her name again," she said. "But this time, don't lie."
He hesitated.
"She creates… discomfort," he said finally. "Among staff. Among students."
"Because she doesn't bend?" Ling asked.
"Because she doesn't know her place," he snapped—and immediately regretted it.
Ling's expression didn't change.
But the room went cold.
"You don't get to decide her place," she said. "You barely deserve yours."
He straightened defensively. "This is academic process. If your mother wishes to discuss—"
Ling stood up.
Slowly.
She stepped around the desk until she was standing directly in front of him. Not touching. Not threatening.
Just close enough.
"My mother doesn't need to call," Ling said softly. "I came."
He could smell her cologne. Clean. Expensive. Unforgiving.
"You will stop," she continued. "Whatever this is."
"I can't," he said quickly. "The review is already in motion."
Ling studied his face.
Then she nodded once.
"Good," she said. "Then I'll watch."
She turned to leave, paused at the door, and glanced back over her shoulder.
"One more thing," she added. "If Rhea Nior is wrong, prove it."
Her eyes hardened.
"Because if she isn't—and you keep pretending she is—I won't involve my mother."
That was the threat.
She walked out without another word.
The professor remained standing long after the door closed, sweat cooling at the back of his neck, one truth ringing louder than any policy he could hide behind:
This wasn't Eliza yet.
This was Ling Kwong asking questions.
And that was worse.
Nior Mansion
The mansion was quiet in the way money makes silence feel heavy.
Rhea walked in without greeting anyone. Her heels echoed once on marble, then stopped. She handed her bag to the staff automatically and went straight toward the inner sitting room.
Kane was already there.
Seated perfectly. Tea untouched. Spine straight. Eyes sharp enough to cut through pretense.
"You're early," Kane said.
Rhea didn't sit. She stood near the window, arms crossed loosely, gaze fixed on the garden outside. Her reflection in the glass looked intact. Untouched.
"How was university?" Kane asked, lightly. Too lightly.
Rhea exhaled through her nose. "Interesting."
Kane watched her for a moment.
"They're targeting me," Rhea said calmly.
"And Ling?" Kane asked. "What did she do?"
Rhea's jaw tightened. Just once.
"She interfered," she said. "Without me asking."
Silence settled.
Then Kane said, "You should accept her proposal."
Rhea turned so fast it almost broke her composure.
"What?"
Kane stood now, slow and deliberate. "Accept it."
Rhea stared at her mother, disbelief flickering dangerously close to emotion. "Are you listening to yourself?"
"I am listening very carefully," Kane replied. "You're losing control."
"No," Rhea said sharply. "She is."
Kane stepped closer. "Exactly."
Rhea laughed once. Short. Bitter. "She already loves me. She's drowning in it. She doesn't sleep. She doesn't eat. She's unraveling in public."
Her voice dropped. Honest despite herself.
"It's hurting her. Exactly as you wanted."
Kane's face didn't soften.
"That's because you're doing it wrong."
Rhea's breath caught. "Wrong?"
"Yes," Kane said calmly. "You're resisting her. You're making her chase. That keeps her sharp."
Rhea shook her head. "You don't understand—"
"I understand perfectly," Kane cut in. "You don't break someone by starving them of love when they're strong."
She reached out and lifted Rhea's chin—not roughly, but possessively. A mother's touch. A general's grip.
"You break them by giving them safety."
Rhea's throat tightened.
"Accept her," Kane continued. "Let her feel secure. Let her believe she's finally won. Let her relax."
Rhea's voice dropped to a whisper. "That's cruel."
Kane's eyes darkened. "That's precise."
She moved closer, forehead almost touching Rhea's.
"Become her anchor," Kane said. "Make yourself essential. Let her depend on you—emotionally, mentally, publicly."
Rhea swallowed.
"And then?" she asked, even though she already knew.
Kane smiled faintly. Not happy. Certain.
"Then you leave."
Rhea's chest felt tight now. Not panic. Pressure.
"You leave," Kane repeated softly, "when she cannot stand without you."
Rhea closed her eyes.
For a moment—just a moment—Ling's face surfaced in her mind. The way she had stood on the court. The way she had looked lost when Rhea walked away. The way her hands had trembled during the proposal.
"She's not Victor," Rhea said quietly. "She's not him."
Kane's expression cracked.
Just a hairline fracture—but enough.
"She is his daughter," Kane said. "And love didn't spare me."
Rhea opened her eyes. They were dry. Sharp. Ruined in a way Kane recognized too well.
"And if I break her completely?" Rhea asked. "What's left of me?"
Kane cupped Rhea's face now. Gentle. Almost desperate.
"You survive," she said. "That's all that matters."
Rhea nodded slowly.
Obedient. Controlled. Devastated.
That night, alone in her room, Rhea sat on the edge of her bed and stared at nothing.
Accept her.
Make her feel safe.
Then leave.
Her hands curled into the sheets.
For the first time, revenge didn't feel powerful.
It felt heavy.
And love—love felt like the sharpest weaponshe'd ever been asked to hold.