Ling did not go home after the hospital.
She drove.
Aimlessly at first, then faster — streets blurring, city lights smearing into meaningless streaks. Her hands were tight on the steering wheel, knuckles white, jaw locked so hard it ached.
She didn't even need me.
Kane's voice replayed again and again in her head.
You did this to her.
Leave now or you'll break her more.
And then the worst part — the part Ling didn't know was a lie:
She didn't ask for you.
She didn't want you there.
Ling laughed once, harsh and broken, the sound tearing out of her throat.
"So that's it," she muttered to herself. "That's how easily I became nothing."
She reached her private gym in the mansion long past midnight.
The lights came on automatically.
Cold. Bright. Merciless.
Ling stripped off her jacket and threw it aside. The smell of sweat and metal filled the room — familiar, punishing, safe. She wrapped her hands, not carefully, not fully, and walked straight to the heavy bag.
The first punch landed wrong.
Pain shot through her knuckles.
She didn't stop.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Each hit carried a memory.
Her blood on Ling's fingers.
Rhea's silent tears.
That soft, broken "please don't" in the bathroom.
"Why didn't you scream?" Ling shouted suddenly, voice echoing off the walls. "Why didn't you stop me?"
She punched harder.
"You always let me hurt you."
Her breath grew ragged. Sweat dripped into her eyes. Her arms began to shake, but she didn't slow down.
"You used me," she hissed. "You let me destroy myself for you. And you re still doing doing by hurting yourself."
The bag swung back and hit her shoulder.
She welcomed it.
She dropped to the floor eventually — not because she wanted to stop, but because her legs gave out. She sat there, back against the wall, chest heaving, hands trembling and scraped raw.
Her phone buzzed once.
She didn't check it.
If she needed me, Ling thought bitterly, she would have asked.
Her eyes burned, but she refused to cry.
"I won't beg," she whispered into the empty room. "Not anymore."
For the first time in years, Ling Kwong didn't feel powerful.
She felt unnecessary.
Rhea
Rhea woke again hours later.
The pain was quieter now — dulled by medication — but the emptiness was louder.
She stared at the ceiling without blinking.
Kane's words had rooted themselves deep inside her.
Ling said she doesn't care.
Rhea repeated it silently, over and over, like punishment.
She doesn't care.
She doesn't care.
She doesn't—
Her chest tightened, but she forced herself not to react.
No tears this time.
She turned her face slightly and saw her phone on the side table. No missed calls. No messages.
Nothing.
A slow, numb acceptance settled in.
"So this is it," she murmured weakly. "This is what being discarded feels like."
She remembered Ling's anger — the way her eyes had burned during the dance, the way her grip had tightened without mercy.
Maybe Kane was right.
Maybe Ling's obsession had burned out the moment it cost her something real.
Rhea swallowed painfully.
"She never loved me," Rhea whispered to herself. "She just wanted to win."
The thought hurt — but it also hardened something inside her.
When Kane entered again, Rhea didn't look at her.
"You should rest," Kane said.
Rhea nodded faintly.
No arguments. No questions. No defiance.
That worried Kane — but she hid it well.
"I won't see her again," Rhea said suddenly, her voice flat.
Kane paused. "Who?"
"Ling," Rhea replied. "I won't wait for someone who doesn't come."
Kane's lips curved — just slightly.
"That's wise," she said. "You'll heal faster this way."
Rhea closed her eyes.
Inside, something essential shut down.
Not anger.
Not hatred.
Hope.
She stopped replaying memories. Stopped expecting footsteps. Stopped imagining Ling bursting through the door, furious and worried and real.
"She chose herself," Rhea whispered, as if sealing a decision. "I choose silence."
And for the first time since Ling Kwong entered her life, Rhea did not feel desperate.
She felt empty.
Parallel Truth
Two women breaking in opposite directions.
Ling punishing herself, believing she was never needed.
Rhea numbing herself, believing she was never loved.
And between them stood Kane —
watching the damage deepen,
knowing the lie had finally done its job.
Rhea lay back against the hospital pillows, phone pressed to her ear. The room was quiet except for the steady beep of the monitor and Shyra's worried breathing on the other end of the call.
"Rhea," Shyra said softly, carefully, as if one wrong word might shatter her. "Listen to me. You're not thinking straight. Ling didn't just disappear. Something is wrong."
Rhea let out a hollow laugh, eyes fixed on the blank wall.
"Don't," she said. "Don't do this, Shyra. Don't try to pull me back."
"I'm not pulling you back," Shyra replied urgently. "I'm asking you to see clearly. Ling would never—"
"She did," Rhea cut in sharply. Her fingers tightened around the phone. "She didn't come. She didn't stay. She didn't fight."
Shyra swallowed. "Mom told you that, didn't she?"
Rhea's jaw clenched.
"She said Ling didn't care. And you know what?" Rhea said, voice lowering, hardening. "It makes sense. Everything makes sense now."
"Rhea—"
"I don't love her anymore," Rhea said suddenly, forcing the words out like a blade through her own chest. "So stop. Don't make me weak."
There was silence on the line.
Shyra's voice cracked when she spoke again. "You don't just stop loving someone like that. Not her. Not after everything."
Rhea closed her eyes.
"You think I don't know that?" she whispered. "You think I don't feel it tearing me apart?"
Her voice rose, shaking now. "That's exactly why I'm stopping. Because loving her made me bleed. Loving her made me lie. Loving her destroyed me."
Shyra tried again, desperation seeping through. "You're saying this because you're hurt, not because it's true."
Rhea shook her head slowly, even though Shyra couldn't see her.
"No," she said. "I'm saying this because if I admit I still love her… I'll wait. I'll hope. I'll break all over again."
Her voice went flat, almost frighteningly calm.
"I won't beg for someone who walked away."
Shyra's breath hitched. "What if she didn't walk away?"
Rhea opened her eyes, tears finally spilling but her tone remained cold.
"Then she should have stayed," she said. "I was dying, Shyra. And she wasn't there."
Another silence.
Shyra whispered, "You're shutting yourself down."
"Yes," Rhea replied. "On purpose."
She wiped her tears roughly with the back of her hand.
"I don't love her anymore," she repeated, slower this time, as if convincing herself. "And even if I do… I won't."
Shyra's voice broke. "This isn't strength."
Rhea exhaled shakily.
"It's survival."
She ended the call before Shyra could say anything else.
The phone slipped from her hand onto the bed.
Rhea stared at the ceiling again, chest tight, heart aching — but her face was blank.
She had chosen numbness.
And somewhere else in the city, Ling Kwong was choosing pain.
Both believing the other had already let go.