Rhea stood in the middle of her room, the doors locked, curtains half-drawn, soft golden lights reflecting off glass and polished wood. The room already looked nothing like her usual self—too deliberate, too styled, too planned. This wasn't comfort. This was intention.
Her phone lay on the bed, screen dark now, but Ling's words from the afternoon still echoed in her head.
> Emerald.
Rhea had rolled her eyes when she read it.
Of course Ling would choose emerald—bold, arrogant, possessive in the quietest way.
And of course Rhea had obeyed.
She lifted the dress from the hanger slowly.
Emerald green. Deep. Rich. The kind of color that didn't ask for attention—it claimed it.
The fabric slid through her fingers like water as she stepped into it.
No sleeves.
No mercy.
The back was completely bare, dipping dangerously low, held only by delicate straps crossing her spine like intentional sin. The front was deceptively simple, hugging her waist before flowing down, but when she turned sideways, the cut revealed just enough curve to feel like a challenge.
She slipped into her heels next—emerald stilettos, thin straps wrapping around her ankles, lifting her posture instantly. They weren't shoes meant for walking far. They were meant for standing still and being looked at.
Rhea moved to the mirror.
She fastened the waist chain next—gold, fine, resting against her skin, curving over her hips like it belonged there. When she lifted her dress slightly to adjust it, the navel piercing caught the light, a small glint of defiance.
Kane hated it.
But Ling loved it.
Rhea had gotten it anyway.
Her nose ring went in next. Tiny. Gold. Almost innocent.
She leaned closer to the mirror and picked up the lipstick.
Maroon.
Not red. Red was loud.
Maroon was controlled hunger.
She applied it carefully, no rush, tracing the shape of her lips with precision. One layer. Then another. When she pressed her lips together, the color settled perfectly—dark, rich, mature.
She didn't smile.
Her hair was left loose, glossy waves falling down her back, deliberately exposing every inch of bare skin the dress allowed. No necklace—simple golden chain.
Earrings. Small. Sharp.
Rhea took a step back and looked at herself fully.
This wasn't the girl who wore skirts out of habit.
This wasn't the daughter following a script.
This wasn't someone pretending.
This was someone choosing.
Her phone buzzed.
> Ling:
Ready yet?
Rhea stared at the screen, heart steady, expression unreadable.
She typed back.
> Rhea:
Don't rush me.
A pause.
> Ling:
I won't.
But I warned you—
emerald makes me forget how to behave.
Rhea scoffed softly, heat crawling up her neck despite herself.
"Get in line," she muttered, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her.
She grabbed her clutch, took one last look at the room—at the closed door Kane still wasn't allowed behind—and straightened her spine.
Tonight wasn't about fear.
It wasn't about revenge.
It wasn't even about Control.
Tonight was about Love.
And Rhea stepped out of the room knowing one thing with absolute certainty:
Ling was not ready for her.
The black car slowed near the gates, the mansion lights still distant, not yet claiming the night.
Ling leaned back in her seat, emerald blazer sharp against her shoulders, lapels catching the streetlight just right—clean cut, structured, tailored to dominance. The fabric hugged her frame without excess, the inner lining a darker shade, almost black, deliberate contrast. Even her cuff buttons had been changed—onyx instead of silver. Intentional. Everything tonight was.
She adjusted her sunglasses, resting them on her nose, and spoke casually, as if she hadn't been rehearsing this sentence in her head for ten minutes.
"You all go ahead."
Victor turned slightly from the front seat.
"What?"
"I'll come in a few minutes," Ling repeated. "I've got something to do."
Rina narrowed her eyes instantly.
"Something… or someone?"
Ling smirked, slow and unapologetic.
"Mind your business."
Dadi chuckled, tapping her cane lightly against the floor of the car.
"Let her be. This is not a business delay."
Eliza frowned.
"Ling, this is not appropriate. We were invited together."
"I know," Ling said calmly. "I won't be late."
Victor studied her face—the certainty, the stillness.
"She's decided," he said finally.
Rina leaned closer, whispering with a grin,
"If you're doing something romantic, I swear—"
Ling cut her off with a glance.
"Don't swear. You'll ruin it."
Dadi laughed softly.
"Go. Don't keep the girl waiting too long."
The driver opened the door for the family. One by one they stepped out, the other car already waiting to take them forward.
Eliza paused before leaving, looking back at Ling.
"Don't create unnecessary attention."
Ling met her eyes evenly.
"I won't. I promise."
The doors closed.
The car moved.
Ling was alone now.
She exhaled, sliding her sunglasses fully onto her face, jaw tightening just a fraction—not nervous, not hesitant, just… deliberate.
"Take me to the florist on Crescent," she told the driver.
He nodded and turned the wheel.
Flower Shop
The shop was quiet, warm light spilling onto the pavement. Ling stepped out, hands in her pockets, blazer shifting slightly with her movement.
Inside, the scent hit her immediately—fresh, sharp, alive.
A young florist looked up, startled.
"Uh—hi. We're about to close—"
"I won't take long," Ling said smoothly. "I need a bouquet."
"For…?" the florist asked, reaching for wrapping paper.
Ling didn't answer immediately.
Her eyes moved over the flowers with careful attention—she wasn't guessing. She wasn't grabbing something loud. This wasn't a performance.
"White lilies," she said finally.
"And deep red roses."
The florist blinked.
"That's… an intense combination."
Ling smiled faintly.
"So is she."
The florist hesitated.
"Any filler? Baby's breath? Greenery?"
"No," Ling said immediately. "Nothing soft. Nothing fragile."
She paused, then added, quieter,
"Wrap it clean. Simple paper. No ribbon."
As the florist worked, Ling leaned against the counter, phone vibrating in her hand.
A message from Rhea.
> Rhea:
Don't be late.
Ling's lips curved slowly.
She typed back.
> Ling:
I won't.
I'm just making sure I don't come empty-handed.
She didn't wait for a reply.
The florist handed her the bouquet—sharp whites, deep reds, stark contrast, controlled chaos.
Ling took it, fingers tightening around the stems.
"How much?" she asked.
"On the house," the florist said quickly, eyes wide. "You look like someone who doesn't like waiting."
Ling glanced up, amused.
"You have no idea."
She stepped back into the car, placing the bouquet carefully on the seat beside her—not crushed, not exposed. Hidden enough.
"Now," she said calmly, "we wait."
The engine stayed off.
Ling leaned back, staring through the windshield, emerald blazer dark against the leather, jaw set, thoughts quiet but heavy.
This wasn't for the party.
This wasn't for her family.
This wasn't even for the world watching.
This was for Rhea.
And no one—
not the mansion,
not the guests,
not the past—
would see it until Ling decided.