Eliza woke up with a sharp intake of breath.
Sleep hadn't held her for long — it never did when Ling was hurting. After barely five hours, at 10 p.m., her eyes opened again, heart racing as if something had called her back.
The room was dim and quiet.
Ling was still there.
Curled close, awake, her eyes open and distant, as if sleep had never truly touched her either.
Eliza lifted a hand and brushed her thumb gently along Ling's arm. "You didn't sleep."
Ling gave a small, tired smile. "I said I'd stay."
Eliza's chest tightened.
She shifted slightly, propping herself up despite the ache in her body, and looked at her daughter properly. Ling's face looked calmer than before — but emptier too, like something essential had been stripped away.
They sat in silence for a moment.
Then Eliza spoke.
Her voice cracked immediately.
"She is the one who broke you," Eliza said quietly. "She is the one who was wrong."
Tears slid down her cheeks, unrestrained now.
"And still," Eliza continued, voice trembling, "you are the one punishing yourself."
Ling's jaw tightened. She looked away.
"I let it happen," Ling said. "I ignored you. I ignored everyone."
Eliza reached out and cupped Ling's face firmly, forcing her to meet her eyes.
"Listen to me," Eliza said, tears falling freely now. "Being deceived does not make you guilty. Loving does not make you weak."
Ling's lips trembled.
"I feel stupid," Ling whispered. "I feel like everything I was… disappeared."
Eliza shook her head fiercely.
"No," she said. "What disappeared was the lie you were living in. You are still here."
She pressed her forehead to Ling's.
"You were strong enough to trust," Eliza said. "And you will be strong enough to heal — but not if you keep bleeding yourself for someone who doesn't even look back."
Ling's eyes filled again.
"I don't know how to stop," she admitted.
Eliza wrapped her arms around her once more, holding her tightly.
"Then don't stop alone," she said. "Let us carry you until you can stand again."
Ling's breath broke as she leaned into her mother, finally letting herself cry without fighting it.
Eliza held her, tears soaking into Ling's hair, her voice low but unwavering.
"She does not get to destroy you twice," Eliza whispered. "Not in my house. Not in your life."
The room stayed quiet after that.
No shouting.
No promises of revenge.
Just a mother and daughter, holding onto each other in the aftermath —
and choosing, slowly, painfully, to pull Ling back from the edge.
Ling had never seen her mother like this.
Never.
Eliza Kwong — the woman who ruled rooms with silence, who never let her voice shake, who carried empires on her back without bending — was crying openly in front of her.
Not controlled tears. Not restrained ones.
These were helpless.
That realization hit Ling harder than betrayal ever had.
Ling moved closer immediately, instinct overriding everything else. She reached out and gently wiped Eliza's tears with her thumb, the way Eliza had done for her countless times growing up.
"Don't," Ling said softly, voice firm despite the tremor in her chest. "Don't cry like this."
Eliza tried to speak, but her breath broke again.
Ling shook her head and leaned in, resting her forehead against Eliza's.
"I've never seen you weak," Ling whispered. "Not once in my life."
Her own eyes burned, but she didn't let the tears fall.
"And I won't be the reason you ever are."
Eliza looked at her, stunned.
Ling straightened slowly. Something in her posture changed — not coldness, not arrogance — but resolve. Quiet, grounded, deliberate.
"I won't destroy myself," Ling said. "Not anymore."
Eliza's lips trembled. "Ling—"
"Not for me," Ling continued, cutting in gently. "For you."
She took Eliza's hands in hers, squeezing them tightly.
"I'll be strong," Ling said. "I promise you that. I won't grieve like this. And I won't let you grieve because of me."
Eliza searched her face desperately. "You don't have to pretend."
"I'm not pretending," Ling replied. "I'm choosing."
Her voice softened.
"I already lost too much," she said. "I won't lose myself. And I won't lose you."
Eliza pulled Ling into her arms again, this time not to protect — but to hold on.
Ling hugged her back just as tightly, anchoring her mother the way Eliza had anchored her all night.
Ling held Eliza's hands tighter, her grip steady now — no tremor, no hesitation.
"I promise you," Ling said quietly. Her voice wasn't loud, but it carried weight — the kind it used to before everything fell apart. "We won't cry anymore. We won't grieve."
Eliza searched her face, worried, afraid of what she heard beneath the calm.
"They will," Ling continued, eyes darkening. "They will grieve. They will regret this."
Her jaw tightened.
"She will regret it."
Eliza's breath caught. "Ling…"
"I won't destroy myself," Ling said firmly, cutting her off. "I won't bleed for her. I'll destroy what deserves to be destroyed."
Eliza shook her head slightly, fear mixing with relief. "You will slip again," she said softly. "This path— it pulls you back. You get weak with her name only."
Ling didn't raise her voice. She didn't smile.
She simply said, "I'm your daughter."
That stopped Eliza completely.
Ling leaned in closer, forehead resting against her mother's.
"I was lost," Ling said. "Not weak. And I won't be lost again."
Eliza studied her — the straight spine, the controlled breathing, the absence of chaos behind her eyes. Not numbness. Not rage.
Control.
Slowly, Eliza's expression softened. A small, fragile smile appeared through the tears.
"My tiger is back," Eliza asked quietly. "Right?"
Ling nodded once.
"Yes," she said. "I'm back."
Eliza pulled her into her arms, this time with relief instead of fear. She kissed Ling's hair gently, lingering.
"Then we'll do this the right way," Eliza murmured. "No self-destruction. No mercy for lies."
Ling closed her eyes briefly, absorbing the warmth, the certainty.
Outside the room, the world still believed Ling Kwong had fallen.
Inside, she was standing up again —
calm, deliberate, and far more dangerous than before.