The house was too orderly.
Eliza noticed it first, though she would never admit that meant anything.
The servants moved efficiently, meals arrived on time, nothing was misplaced. Ling had trained them well. Too well. Even without her presence, the house ran exactly as it always had.
Eliza sat at the breakfast table, porcelain cup untouched. Across from her, Victor read the news on his tablet, scrolling slower than usual.
"She didn't call," Eliza said, finally.
Victor didn't look up. "She sent a message."
Eliza scoffed. "A message isn't a call."
"It's more than nothing."
That earned him a look. Sharp. Accusing. As if he had chosen Ling's absence himself.
"She used to at least pretend to need us," Eliza said. "Now she barely speaks."
Victor set the tablet down. His voice stayed calm, but something underneath it had gone rigid. "She speaks when it's necessary."
"And when was the last time her parents were necessary?" Eliza snapped.
Silence settled between them, thick and practiced.
From the doorway, Dadi watched them with narrowed eyes, leaning heavily on her cane.
"You both talk like she left to punish you," Dadi said. "As if she planned her pain neatly, like a business trip."
Eliza turned. "Mother—"
"She didn't leave because she wanted distance," Dadi continued. "She left because staying would have killed her."
Victor's jaw tightened.
Rina stood near the staircase, pretending to scroll on her phone. She hadn't gone upstairs since Ling left. The rooms felt… guarded now. Like they might bite.
"She won't even argue with me anymore," Rina said suddenly. "You know how bad it is when Ling Kwong stops arguing?"
Dadi huffed. "That's when she's done."
Rina swallowed. "She answers my calls. Sometimes." Her smile was crooked. "Three minutes max. If I joke too much, she hangs up."
Eliza pressed her lips together. "She's always been cold."
"No," Dadi said sharply. "She's always been controlled."
A pause.
"This is different."
Victor stood and walked to the window. The garden outside was immaculate. Ling had redesigned it years ago. Every stone placed with intention.
"She doesn't ask for advice anymore," he said quietly. "She used to. Even if she ignored it."
Eliza's voice softened despite herself. "She doesn't tell me when she's sick. Or tired. Or—" She stopped.
Or lonely.
The word stayed unspoken.
A servant entered hesitantly. "Madam… Miss Kwong's call log came through."
Everyone looked up.
"Was it to us?" Rina asked too fast.
The servant shook his head. "A missed call. Late night. No voicemail."
Eliza exhaled, frustrated. "She shouldn't be calling anyone at night."
Dadi smiled without humor. "She shouldn't be alone at night either."
That landed.
Victor closed his eyes for a moment. "We did what we thought was right."
Dadi tapped her cane once against the floor. "Right doesn't mean clean."
No one argued.
Somewhere far away, in another city, Ling Kwong was waking up alone.
And in the Kwong house—full, warm, alive—
there was a space no one sat in anymore.
Not because it was empty.
Because it hurt to look at.
Other side of city.
The Nior mansion was already awake before the sun finished rising.
Security stood straighter than necessary. Staff moved softly, efficiently, like the walls themselves were listening. Kane Nior liked control in the morning. It set the tone.
Roin sat at the dining table, posture perfect, hands folded, untouched breakfast cooling in front of him. He wore his university jacket, crest sharp, reputation intact. From the outside, he looked like discipline.
Inside, he was waiting.
Kane entered without announcing herself.
Her presence didn't demand attention. It took it.
She poured herself tea, unhurried, eyes scanning the room once before settling briefly on Roin.
"You're going to campus," she said, not a question.
"Yes," Roin replied. "Classes resumed."
"Mm." She stirred her tea. "Things have changed there."
Roin didn't respond immediately. He had learned that silence made Kane talk more.
She smiled faintly. "Power hates vacuums. Universities most of all."
Roin's fingers tightened slightly around his fork.
"She left chaos behind," Kane continued. "Some people mistake that for tragedy. I call it opportunity."
Roin looked up. "You think it will last?"
Kane finally met his eyes. Hers were sharp, assessing. "Absence always lasts longer than love."
She took a sip of tea.
"You were patient," she said after a moment. "I noticed."
Roin's jaw flexed. "I did what you asked."
"No," Kane corrected calmly. "You did more."
That landed heavier.
"You stayed," she went on. "You watched. You waited. You never forced yourself where you weren't wanted." Her lips curved slightly. "Men like that usually don't exist. Or they grow bitter."
Roin swallowed. "I'm not bitter."
Kane hummed, unconvinced. "Not yet."
She set her cup down. "You go to campus every day. You maintain your position. You don't chase what refuses to look back."
Roin hesitated. "And if… things don't change?"
Kane stood, smoothing the sleeve of her robe. "They already have."
She paused at the doorway, then added, voice almost kind:
"Some people only understand loyalty once they've lost the person who inspired it."
Roin nodded slowly.
Kane left without another word.
Roin stared at his untouched breakfast for a long moment before standing. He straightened his jacket, adjusted his expression into something respectable, composed.
On his way out, he glanced once—briefly—toward the upper floor.
The door remained closed.
Good.
He didn't need presence.
He had patience.
And patience, he believed, always won in the end.
Roin stood in university now, hands clenched, still watching her disappear into a crowd that would never see him the way it had seen Ling.
Around him, the university whispered again—
About LiRhea.About absence.About a crown no one else could wear.
Roin exhaled slowly.
He had ruined Ling Kwong's life.He had helped break Rhea Nior's heart.
And still—
She had chosen no one.
Roin smiled to himself, sharp and wrong.
That's fine, he thought. If she won't choose me…
Then no one will be chosen too.
And somewhere far away, Ling Kwong breathed—
unaware that the man who failed to replace her had learned something far more dangerous than patience.