Ling left the café without another word.
The afternoon sun hit too bright, too sharp. Her jaw was tight, expression unreadable again—control dragged back over the cracks like armor.
She reached her car and unlocked it.
That was when Roin's voice came from behind her.
"Ling."
She didn't turn.
"Say what you came to say," Ling replied flatly.
Roin stepped closer, careful to keep his distance. Smart. "I'm not here to fight."
Ling opened the driver's door. "Then don't."
Roin swallowed, then smiled faintly. "You know… Rhea didn't want you to see that."
Ling paused.
Not because she believed him.
Because the words were designed to land.
"What," Ling asked, still calm, "are you implying?"
Roin shrugged lightly. "She's been pulling away. Slowly. I thought you'd noticed."
Ling finally turned.
Her gaze was cold. Assessing. Unimpressed.
"She was angry," Ling said. "So was I."
Roin nodded as if agreeing. "Of course. But anger doesn't make someone sit and let another person touch them."
Ling's fingers tightened around the car door.
Roin kept going—soft, reasonable, poisonous.
"She talks differently now," he said. "About you. Less fire. More… tired."
Ling's mouth curved into something that wasn't a smile. "You talk too much."
Roin lifted his hands. "I'm just saying—maybe she's outgrowing the intensity."
Ling scoffed quietly. "You mistake survival for disinterest."
Roin watched her closely. "Or maybe she's choosing peace."
Ling laughed once. Low. Dismissive.
"You're not peace," Ling said.
Roin's smile thinned. "Neither are you. That's the point."
Ling stepped into the car.
But the words followed her.
"She didn't answer your apology," Roin added gently. "That should tell you something."
Ling closed the door.
The sound cut Roin off—but not the thought.
She sat behind the wheel, hands steady, breathing even.
She hadn't reacted.
She hadn't threatened.
And yet—
Each sentence lodged somewhere quiet.
Not as truth.
As possibility.
As distance.
Ling started the engine and pulled away, expression composed, posture flawless.
But beneath the control, something had shifted.
A small, dangerous space had opened—
Where misunderstanding could grow.
And Roin, watching the car disappear, smiled to himself.
He didn't need Ling to believe him.
He only needed her not to be sure.
The Kwong mansion gates closed behind Ling without a sound.
Evening settled heavy and slow, the kind that pressed against the chest. Ling handed the keys to the driver and walked in alone, steps measured, face perfectly composed.
Rina was already in the living room, sprawled across the couch with her phone.
She looked up the second Ling entered.
One glance was enough.
"What happened?" Rina asked.
Ling shrugged out of her jacket and set it neatly aside. "Nothing."
Rina sat up. "That wasn't convincing."
Ling didn't respond. She moved toward the stairs, then stopped halfway.
Her voice came out quieter. "Tonight is Rhea's birthday."
Rina blinked. "Tonight?"
Ling nodded once.
"I want to surprise her," Ling said. "At twelve."
Rina's expression softened immediately. "Of course."
She stood. "What do you need?"
Ling exhaled—a slow breath that might have been relief.
she said. "Just me."
Rina nodded firmly. "I'll help."
Ling continued upstairs, leaving Rina watching her go—aware, for once, that "nothing" was Ling's most dangerous answer.
Up in her room, Ling closed the door and leaned back against it.
She pulled out her phone.
No new messages.
She didn't text.
Not yet.
Midnight was close.
And despite everything—despite anger, blood, silence, and seeds of doubt—
Ling was still planning to show up.
As if love, once decided, did not retreat.
By nightfall, she was already at her private apartment—the one no one spoke about publicly, the one suspended above the city like a crown. Entire floors. Private elevator. Glass walls that drank the skyline whole.
A place built for solitude.
Tonight, it was being remade for obsession.
The moment Ling stepped inside, the staff straightened.
Not because she raised her voice.
Because she didn't need to.
"Status," Ling said calmly, shrugging out of her coat.
"Eighty percent complete," the head attendant replied. "Final lighting adjustments pending."
Ling nodded once and turned to the squad.
Rina cracked her knuckles. "Alright, assignments."
Ling spoke with quiet precision.
"Rina—flowers. Replace anything that isn't perfect. Red roses only. No white."
Rina grinned. "Possessive theme. Got it."
"Zifa—music. Nothing loud. Strings, piano. Something that doesn't demand attention."
Zifa raised a brow. "Romantic but restrained. You're hurting."
Ling didn't answer.
"Jian," Ling continued, "security. No surprises. No names logged."
Jian nodded immediately. "Already handled."
"Rowen," Ling said last, "lights. Warm. No harsh angles."
Rowen whistled softly. "You're really doing this."
Ling met his eyes. "It's her birthday."
That was the end of discussion.
She walked deeper into the apartment.
Servants moved around her like a choreographed storm—silent, efficient, flawless. Crystal vases were replaced. Silk runners laid across marble. Curtains adjusted to frame the city lights like art.
The living area had been transformed.
Thousands of balloons—not childish, not loud—but matte blacks, deep crimsons, soft golds. They floated at varying heights, tethered with thin metallic threads that caught the light subtly. No clutter. No excess.
Just abundance done with control.
An entire wall had been converted into glass shelving, each tier holding candles—hand-poured, imported, custom-scented. Rose, amber, something warm and intimate that clung to skin.
The dining table wasn't set for many.
Two seats.
Italian marble beneath, gold-veined and flawless. Cutlery custom-forged. Crystal glasses thin as air.
In the center: a velvet-lined box.
Inside it, hidden for now, rested a gift no one else was allowed to see.
Ling moved to the bedroom.
The bed had been stripped and remade—charcoal silk sheets, deep and cool. Pillows arranged with precision. At the foot, a folded shawl—cashmere, soft enough to disappear between fingers.
On the far wall, the windows had been cleared completely.
The city lay bare beneath them.
Ling stood there for a long moment.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone.
Still nothing.
The seed Roin had planted stirred.
Ling crushed it immediately.
She straightened.
"Change the flowers," Ling said to the attendant behind her. "If any wilt, remove them."
"Yes, Miss Kwong."
Ling returned to the main space.
Rina watched her quietly. "You didn't have to do all this."
Ling adjusted one balloon herself—just slightly.
"I know," she said.
Her voice was steady.
That was what made it dangerous.
"I want her to walk in," Ling continued, eyes scanning every detail, "and forget everything that hurt her today. Even for one night."
Zifa studied her. "And if she doesn't come?"
Ling didn't look at her.
"She will," Ling said.
Not hope.
Decision.
The lights dimmed as programmed. The music began—soft, slow, intimate.
A trillionaire heiress, capable of owning cities, shifting markets, ending lives if she chose—
Was here, personally aligning candles and balloons.
Because love, to Ling Kwong, was not spoken.
It was built.
Brick by brick.
Floor by floor.
Until the world itself bent to make room for one person.
Midnight was approaching.
And Ling was ready to kneel the entire city if it meant Rhea would feel wanted.