Rhea stopped at the door.
She turned back sharply.
"Don't," Rhea shouted. "Don't do this."
Ling didn't look at her.
Her focus stayed locked on Roin.
"You think because she didn't pull away fast enough," Ling continued, voice shaking now, "that you were invited?"
Roin swallowed. "She didn't stop me."
That was it.
Ling grabbed a cup—not to throw.
She crushed it in her hand.
Ceramic cracked audibly.
Gasps rippled through the café.
Rhea's breath caught.
"Ling," she said again, voice breaking. "Stop. Please."
Ling finally turned.
Her eyes found Rhea.
And everything else disappeared.
"You left," Ling said quietly. "You walked past me."
Rhea's hands curled into fists. "Because you humiliated me. Because you wouldn't talk to me. Because you make me feel like I'm always one mistake away from losing you."
Ling laughed once—broken, bitter. "You never lost me."
She gestured violently behind her, at the wrecked tables, the spilled coffee, the terrified faces.
"I lost myself trying not to."
The café was silent now.
No whispers. No movement.
Everyone was watching the controlled, ruthless heiress unravel in real time—and no one knew what to do.
Rhea stepped forward despite herself. "I didn't let him," she said. "I swear I didn't. I was angry. I wasn't thinking."
Ling's shoulders rose and fell once.
"I know," she said.
That admission landed harder than the rage.
Roin tried to edge toward the exit.
Ling didn't even look at him this time.
"Get out," she said again. "Before I forget where I am."
Roin didn't argue.
He left.
The door slammed behind him.
Ling stood there, surrounded by broken cups and fear and the wreckage of her restraint.
Rhea stared at her—hurt, furious, shaken.
"You scare me when you do this," Rhea said softly.
Ling's gaze dropped.
"So do you," she replied.
Neither of them moved.
The café remained frozen, witnesses to something they were never meant to see—
Not dominance.
Not power.
But love stripped of control, and a woman who didn't know how to survive it without breaking everything around her.
Rhea saw the blood before she felt anything else.
It was smeared across Ling's knuckles, dark against pale skin, dripping slowly onto the café floor from where the crushed ceramic had cut deep.
Her anger collapsed instantly.
"Ling," Rhea said sharply—and grabbed her hand.
Ling didn't pull away.
That alone told everyone how far gone she was.
Rhea dragged her toward the counter, voice tight. "First aid. Now."
The barista—still pale—snapped out of his shock and nodded quickly. "Y-yes. One second."
Rhea pushed Ling onto a stool. "Sit."
Ling obeyed.
Silently.
The barista returned with antiseptic, gauze, bandages. His hands shook as he passed them over.
"I'll do it," Rhea said.
Her fingers trembled as she took Ling's injured hand.
Ling watched her like she was something fragile—like she was afraid to move, afraid to make it worse.
Rhea dabbed the wound carefully.
Ling hissed faintly.
Rhea's throat tightened.
"Don't," Rhea muttered. "You don't get to act tough now."
She cleaned the blood away slowly, methodically. Red smeared onto the tissue. More tears gathered in Rhea's eyes with every swipe.
Ling said nothing.
She just watched.
The bandage wrapped around her knuckles, white against red.
Rhea's vision blurred.
A tear slipped down and landed on Ling's wrist.
Ling flinched harder at that than she had at the antiseptic.
"Rhea—
Rhea's voice cracked. "You don't know anything except violence."
The words came out sharper than she intended—fear dressed up as anger.
"You scare people," Rhea continued, blinking hard. "You scare me. You think breaking things fixes everything."
Ling swallowed.
"I didn't touch him," Ling said quietly. "I stopped myself."
Rhea tied the bandage too tight.
Ling didn't complain.
"That's not the point," Rhea snapped. "The point is—you don't know how to stop before it gets there."
Silence stretched between them.
The café slowly began to breathe again around them—chairs shifting, whispers returning—but the space between Rhea and Ling stayed heavy.
Rhea finally let go of Ling's hand.
Her own hands were shaking now.
"You don't get to bleed for me like this," Rhea said, voice low and broken. "And you don't get to decide everything with your fists."
Ling looked at the bandage.
Then up at Rhea.
"I don't know how to protect you any other way," she admitted.
That confession hit harder than the shattered cups.
Rhea pressed her lips together, tears spilling freely now.
"That's not protection," she whispered. "That's fear."
Ling nodded once.
"I know."
They sat there—one bleeding, one crying—surrounded by the wreckage of anger neither of them knew how to hold without hurting the other.
Rhea wiped her cheeks quickly with the back of her hand, standing before Ling could say anything else. She slung her bag over her shoulder, movements stiff, practiced.
"I have to go home," Rhea said. "Mom must be waiting."
Ling looked up at her.
Panic flickered—just once—before she buried it.
She stood too fast, chair scraping softly.
"Rhea," Ling said.
Rhea turned away.
Ling reached out and caught her wrist.
Not hard.
Not possessive.
Careful.
"I'm sorry," Ling said.
It wasn't dramatic.
It wasn't loud.
It was the first time she'd said it like that—stripped of dominance, without condition.
Rhea froze.
Her back was still to Ling.
The café held its breath again.
Ling's grip loosened immediately, as if afraid she'd already gone too far.
"I shouldn't have done that," Ling continued quietly. "I shouldn't have scared you."
Rhea looked down at Ling's bandaged hand.
Her throat tightened.
She didn't pull her wrist away.
But she didn't turn back either.
"I really have to go," Rhea said.
No answer to the apology.
No forgiveness.
Just distance.
Ling let go.
Rhea walked to the door without looking back this time.
The bell chimed softly as she left.
Ling remained standing where she was, hand still half-raised, apology hanging uselessly in the air.
The café felt colder.
Empty.
And for the first time in a long time, Ling understood something terrifying—
Control could shatter everything.
And saying sorry didn't mean it could be fixed.