Ling drove.
Too fast. Too clean. Too controlled for someone unraveling inside.
The city blurred past the windshield, lights smearing into long, cruel lines, but she didn't slow down. Her hands were locked on the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles had gone white—then red—then raw.
And then she broke.
"Fuck—" Her voice tore out of her throat, sharp and hoarse. "Fuck."
She slammed her palm against the steering wheel once.
Then again.
The horn screamed into the night, wild and ugly, echoing off empty streets.
Her vision blurred—not from speed, but from tears she refused to let fall properly. They spilled anyway, hot and furious, tracking down her face as her jaw clenched hard enough to ache.
On loop.
Again and again.
The video.
Rhea.
Bare thighs.
That shirt.
Roin's hand on her.
Ling's chest seized violently.
"No," she shouted into the car, voice cracking. "No—don't—"
Another memory crashed in without mercy.
The café.
Cups shattering.
Rhea pulling her back.
Blood on her own hand.
You don't know anything except violence, Ling.
Her breath stuttered.
She hit the steering wheel again, harder this time. Pain flared, but she welcomed it.
"Idiot," she spat—to herself. "You fucking idiot."
Her mind betrayed her, replaying everything she had sworn not to obsess over.
Rhea laughing earlier that day.
Rhea asking, shall we?
Rhea saying she'd go with him otherwise.
Ling squeezed her eyes shut for half a second—just long enough for the image to burn deeper
"She didn't pull away," Ling whispered, the words poisonous. "She didn't—"
Her voice shattered completely then.
"She didn't pull away."
The car swerved slightly as her breathing turned uneven, broken gasps clawing out of her chest. She forced it straight again, discipline barely holding.
Another curse ripped from her, raw and furious. "Why didn't you just wait—why didn't you answer—why didn't I stay—"
She laughed suddenly, sharp and hysterical, tears streaming freely now. "Birthday," she choked. "I planned a fucking palace for you."
Her thumb twitched, muscle memory almost dialing Rhea's number again.
She stopped herself.
Her hand dropped, trembling.
"Control," she muttered bitterly. "You chose control."
The irony tasted like blood.
She remembered Rhea's face every time she had stopped things. Every time she had held back, thinking restraint was love. Thinking patience would protect them.
"What if I was wrong?" Ling whispered, voice barely audible now. "What if I waited too long?"
Her chest hurt—physically hurt—tight, suffocating, like something was crushing her from the inside.
The road stretched endlessly ahead.
No destination.
No comfort.
Just motion.
Ling wiped her face roughly with the heel of her hand, furious at herself for crying, for losing control, for wanting to turn the car around even now.
She didn't.
She kept driving.
Because if she went back—
if she saw Rhea again tonight—
she knew exactly what would happen.
She wouldn't yell.
She wouldn't fight.
She would beg.
And that—
that was the one thing Ling Kwong had never allowed herself to do.
So she drove through the night, screaming into the empty car, breaking in silence, replaying every moment she loved too fiercely to survive—
While the city watched the controlled, ruthless heiress finally fracture behind glass and steel.
Before Ling could lose what little restraint she had left—before her hand could slam the wheel again, before the speed could climb higher—
Rhea's voice cut through everything.
Clear. Sharp. Unforgiving.
You're selfish, Ling.
You don't know anything except violence.
Ling froze.
The car stayed straight, but something inside her finally snapped loose.
She let out a laugh.
Not loud.
Not amused.
Broken.
A breathless, hollow sound tore out of her chest, halfway between a scoff and a sob. She shook her head slowly, eyes burning, tears still slipping down despite her effort to stop them.
"Yeah," she muttered to the empty car. "Yeah… you're right."
Another laugh followed—shorter, uglier.
"All I know," she said hoarsely, "is how to break things."
Her grip loosened on the steering wheel at last. Not in relief—
in exhaustion.
She remembered Rhea pulling her back in the café.
Rhea scolding her while crying.
Rhea still holding her bleeding hand instead of letting her burn everything down.
Ling swallowed hard.
"She was shaking," Ling whispered, voice low, raw. "And I still made it worse."
The laugh died completely.
Her shoulders sagged for the first time that night, control draining away not into rage—but into something heavier.
Guilt.
"I keep saying I protect you," she said softly, almost to herself. "But maybe I only protect what's mine."
Her chest tightened again, but this time she didn't hit anything. She just breathed—uneven, shallow breaths—forcing the car to slow, forcing herself to stay present.
"I walked away," Ling admitted quietly. "Again."
The city lights reflected in her tear-blurred vision, warping, distant.
She wiped her face with trembling fingers, then let her hand fall limply to her lap.
"No wonder you're tired," she murmured. "No wonder you asked for space."
Silence filled the car—thick, suffocating, deserved.
Ling didn't curse anymore.
She didn't shout.
She just drove slower now, laughter gone, rage cooled into a painful, aching clarity.
For the first time, she didn't see Rhea slipping away to someone else.
She saw herself—
Standing too rigid.
Holding too tight.
Ling exhaled shakily.
"I don't want to be that," she said, voice barely audible.
The road stretched on, darker now, quieter.
And as the echo of Rhea's words faded, it left something behind—not fury, not denial—
A realization that hurt worse than any accusation:
Love without softness had finally taught her its cost.