Sometime deep into the night, Ling jerked awake.
Her body surged forward violently, breath ripping out of her chest like she was drowning. Her hands clawed blindly, fingers gripping fabric hard enough to wrinkle it.
"Rhea—"
The name tore out of her throat, raw and desperate.
Her eyes were unfocused, wild, searching. Her heart slammed against her ribs as if trying to escape. She pulled the body holding her closer, burying her face into a familiar chest, shaking.
"Don't," Ling gasped. "Don't leave. I didn't mean— I didn't—"
Eliza froze.
For one unbearable second, she didn't move at all.
Ling clutched her tighter, nails digging in, voice breaking completely.
"Please," Ling sobbed into her, words tumbling out without control. "I'll fix it. I'll be better. I won't question you. Just don't laugh at me again."
Eliza's throat closed.
She wrapped her arms around Ling instantly, holding her firmly, grounding her before the panic could tear her apart.
"Ling," Eliza said softly, carefully. "Look at me."
Ling shook her head violently, face still pressed against her chest.
"She promised," Ling cried. "She promised she was mine. She promised she wouldn't hurt me."
Eliza's hands trembled as she cupped the back of Ling's head, forcing no pressure, only presence.
"Ling," she said again, firmer now. "It's me."
Ling's breathing hitched.
Slowly — painfully slowly — she pulled back.
Her eyes lifted.
Recognition crashed in.
The moment stretched, fragile and cruel.
Her face crumpled instantly.
"Oh," Ling whispered.
Shame flooded her expression so fast it hurt to watch. She pulled away as if burned, trying to sit up, trying to put distance between them.
"I'm sorry," Ling said quickly, panic turning inward now. "I— I thought—"
Her voice broke again.
"I thought it was her."
Eliza didn't let her go.
She tightened her hold, pulling Ling back against her chest despite the resistance.
"There's nothing to be sorry for," Eliza said, voice unsteady despite herself. "You're safe."
Ling laughed weakly, bitterly.
"No," she whispered. "I'm not."
Her hands fell limply into her lap. Her shoulders slumped like something inside her had finally given up holding itself together.
"I still reach for her," Ling said quietly. "Even after everything."
Eliza pressed her cheek against Ling's hair.
"That doesn't mean you're weak," she said. "It means you loved."
Ling shook her head slowly.
"I trusted," she corrected. "And trust is expensive."
Her eyes filled again, but the tears didn't fall this time. They just sat there, burning.
"I gave her everything I never gave anyone," Ling continued, voice hollow. "My control. My silence. My fear."
She swallowed hard.
"And she made it a joke."
Eliza's arms tightened imperceptibly.
"You are not broken," Eliza said. "You are wounded."
Ling leaned back into her despite herself, exhaustion dragging her down again.
"I don't want to dream," Ling murmured. "Every time I close my eyes, I'm back there. I'm still believing."
Eliza rocked her slowly, barely noticeable, the way she used to when Ling was younger and nightmares came too often.
"Then don't sleep yet," Eliza whispered. "I'll stay awake."
Ling's breathing slowly evened out again.
Her grip on Eliza's sleeve loosened, though her body stayed close, seeking warmth she didn't want to admit she needed.
Just before sleep took her again, Ling whispered — so softly it almost wasn't there:
"She was my home."
Eliza closed her eyes, holding her daughter tighter.
Nior Mansion
Rhea stayed on her bed, knees pulled to her chest, Ling's emerald blazer crushed against her heart.
She cried until her throat hurt, until tears soaked into the fabric she kept pressing to her face like it might forgive her if she held it hard enough. The blazer still smelled faintly like Ling — clean, sharp, familiar — and that made everything worse.
"I ruined you," Rhea whispered brokenly, voice shaking. "I ruined everything."
Her fingers twisted into the sleeves, knuckles white, as if she could pull Ling back through the cloth if she tried hard enough. She rocked slightly, the room spinning with regret and fear and images she couldn't escape — Ling's eyes, wet and empty, the way her voice had sounded when she said she was destroyed.
Rhea squeezed her eyes shut.
"I was going to tell you," she cried. "I swear I was going to tell you."
The words felt useless now. Too late. Worthless.
She pressed her face into the blazer and sobbed harder, anger turning inward, sharp and merciless.
"How could I be so stupid?" she hissed to herself. "How could I let her think that?"
Her chest felt tight, like something was sitting on it, crushing every breath. She remembered the lights, the wine, the quiet hope she'd built so carefully in that room — the future she'd imagined Ling stepping into, smiling.
Now the room felt empty. Cold. Mocking.
Rhea dragged the blazer closer, wrapping it around herself like armor that couldn't protect her anymore.
"I didn't laugh at you," she whispered desperately, as if Ling could hear her through walls and distance and betrayal. "I loved you. I still do."
But the silence answered back, heavy and unforgiving.
Rhea's sobs slowly dulled into quiet, shaking breaths. She lay back against the pillows, eyes swollen, staring at the ceiling while guilt gnawed at her relentlessly.
Outside, the mansion stood calm and untouched.
Inside that room, Rhea mourned something she had broken with her own hands — knowing that no amount of crying could undo the moment Ling stopped believing her.