Rhea Nior stood in front of the mirror, tying her hair with practiced, almost gentle movements.
There was no rush. No anger. No drama.
Just control.
Her face was calm—too calm. The kind of calm that came from learning how to keep everything locked exactly where it couldn't spill.
Her eyes didn't look sharp or cold; they looked distant, like they were focused on something far away and refused to come back.
She didn't dress to be noticed anymore.
Simple clothes.
Clean lines.
Nothing that asked to be seen. Nothing that reminded her of halls, crowds, or a campus that still carried too many ghosts.
She had left that university quietly. No announcement. No farewell.
One day she simply stopped going—because every corridor echoed, every bench remembered, and every silence felt like her name spoken in someone else's voice.
She told herself it was practical.
A fresh start. A better future. Less distraction.
She never said the real reason out loud.
Now, her textbooks were different.
Heavier.
Thicker.
Medical terminology replaced lectures on things she no longer cared about.
Anatomy.
Physiology.
Endless hours memorizing systems that broke, failed, bled—and could sometimes be fixed.
She told everyone it was a logical decision.
Medicine was stable. Respected. Demanding enough to keep the mind occupied.
She never admitted—especially not to herself—that once, a long time ago, someone had said it laughingly:
You'd should be surgeon.
She had laughed too, back then. Rolled her eyes. Called it ridiculous.
And yet here she was.
Rhea adjusted the strap of her bag and glanced once more at her reflection. There was no smile. No tears. Just a girl who had learned how to keep moving without asking why her chest felt heavy every morning.
Her phone buzzed.
She didn't check it immediately.
She had developed that habit recently—letting messages wait, letting the world knock without opening the door right away. It wasn't arrogance. It was self-preservation.
When she finally picked it up, she answered with small replies. Polite. Neutral. Enough to pass as fine.
People thought she was strong.
They weren't wrong.
But they were mistaken about the reason.
Rhea didn't walk away because she was untouched.
She walked away because staying would have broken her.
She turned from the mirror, picked up her coat, and stepped out of the room—into a life she told herself she chose.
And if sometimes, in the quiet of late nights, her hands paused over her books for no reason at all—
She ignored that too.
Some truths were easier to survive unspoken.
Rhea walked down the stairs with slow, even steps. No rush. No hesitation.
The house noticed her before Kane did.
A maid straightened instinctively. Another stepped aside. Rhea didn't look at them. She never did anymore.
Kane stood near the dining table, tablet in hand, already dressed for the day. She glanced up when Rhea reached the last step.
"Breakfast," Kane said. One word. An expectation.
Rhea stopped.
She didn't sigh. Didn't roll her eyes. Didn't argue.
She simply said, "I'm late."
Her voice was calm. Flat. Not defiant—worse. Disengaged.
Kane's fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the tablet. "You still need to eat."
Rhea movements were precise, practiced, like she had rehearsed leaving.
"I'll manage."
She turned toward the door.
Kane's voice sharpened. "You always say that."
Rhea paused, hand on the door handle. For half a second—just one—Kane thought she might turn around.
She didn't.
"I always do," Rhea replied.
Then she left.
The door closed softly behind her.
No slam. No drama.
That was what unsettled Kane the most.
Four months ago, Rhea would have argued. Snapped. Shouted. Thrown words like knives and stayed long enough to bleed from them.
Now, she didn't stay at all.
Kane looked at the untouched breakfast table.
Outside, Rhea walked past the gates without looking back.
She hadn't returned to her old university. Not once. The city still existed around it like a scar she refused to touch. Instead, her days were spent elsewhere—white corridors, fluorescent lights, bodies turned into lessons.
Medical university didn't ask questions.
It demanded focus. Precision. Endurance.
She liked that.
No one there knew her past. No one whispered names that made her chest tighten. No one looked at her like she was half of something unfinished.
She boarded the car waiting at the curb.
As it pulled away, her phone buzzed.
She didn't check it.
For four months now, Rhea spoke only when necessary. Short answers. Neutral tones. Even with Kane. Especially with Kane.
Silence had become her safest language.
And she was fluent in it.
Kane watched the front door long after it had closed.
The house felt larger in the mornings now. Not quieter—emptier. Silence had weight, and it pressed against her ribs every time footsteps faded away without argument.
Kane sat at the dining table alone.
Two plates. One untouched.
Kane hated unfinished things.
She pushed the plate away harder than necessary. Porcelain scraped against wood. The sound echoed, sharp and brief, then died.
Four months.
Four months since that presence had left her daughter's life like a storm—loud, consuming, irresistible—but left behind wreckage that Kane had been forced to clean in silence.
She curled her fingers slowly, nails biting into her palm.
That family.
She never said the name. Not in her thoughts. Not in her mouth. Some things gained power by being spoken.
They had always believed they could take what they wanted. Affection. Loyalty. People. And when it collapsed, they called it love.
Kane exhaled through her nose, controlled.
Her daughter used to fight her. Raise her voice. Cry. Accuse. Demand explanations Kane had never owed anyone. Kane had endured that easily. Anger was manageable. Tears could be redirected.
This—this distance—was worse.
Rhea moved through the house like a guest who knew her visit was temporary. Polite. Efficient. Gone before Kane could correct her posture or her tone.
Kane stood and walked toward the window, watching the gates in the distance.
She told herself it was discipline.
That the girl was learning restraint. Independence. Strength.
But Kane knew better.
This wasn't strength.
This was withdrawal.
She had seen it before—in herself.
People didn't pull away because they stopped caring. They pulled away because caring had started to hurt too much.
Kane's jaw tightened.
She did this to you, Kane thought, bitterness curling sharp and familiar. She taught you how to disappear.
That was unforgivable.
Love that demanded isolation. Devotion that burned everything else to the ground. Kane had lived that once—and she had sworn her daughter would never kneel the way she had.
She turned from the window and walked slowly through the house. Each room carried echoes of arguments that no longer happened. Laughter that no longer belonged here.
Rhea's room upstairs.
Too quiet.
Kane stopped outside the door, hand hovering near the handle.
She didn't enter.
She already knew what she would find: neatly made bed, packed schedule, textbooks stacked like armor. A life rebuilt so tightly it left no room for feeling.
Kane felt something sharp twist in her chest—anger, yes, but threaded with something she refused to name.
"She won't break again," Kane murmured to the empty hallway.
It was a promise. Or a justification.
Maybe both.
She straightened her shoulders, turned away, and resumed her day.
Control had always been Kane's language of love.
And if distance was the price of safety—
Then she would accept being hated,
as long as her daughter never begged on her knees again.