This novel is a dark, intense R18 story. It explores trauma, obsession, possession, and complex relationships. Reader discretion is strongly advised.
This story contains themes that may be distressing, including:
Threats of sexual violence
Kidnapping and physical restraint
Psychological trauma & PTSD
Panic attacks, dyspnea, phobias
Parental death and childhood trauma
Self-harm behaviors
Chronic illness
Alcohol abuse & substance coping
Suicidal ideation and poisoning attempt
Emotional manipulation, gaslighting, and coercion
Possessive, obsessive love dynamics
Infidelity themes, jealousy, and betrayal
Power imbalance in relationships
Grief, abandonment, and prolonged emotional suffering
Characters often make painful, irrational choices under trauma—this is intentional and explored critically.
Healing is non-linear. Love here is not gentle—it is raw, consuming, and dangerous.
Reader Guidance 🌒
If you are sensitive to any of the above topics, please consider whether this story is right for you at this time.
Your mental health matters. 🤍
It's okay to pause, skip, or step away.
Recommended for:
Readers who seek dark romance, psychological depth, slow-burn anguish, and stories that explore love with devastation.
Proceed with care—and courage. 🕯️
This is the second part of Novel "She Ruled Until She Became Mine" to better understand go through that.
The last night they slept together didn't feel like an ending.
That was the cruelest part.
There was no goodbye heavy enough to warn them. Ling's arms were still wrapped around Rhea like they always had been—protective, possessive, certain.
Rhea had laughed that night.
Ling remembered that more than anything.
The way Rhea's fingers traced idle patterns on her skin. The way she complained about the cold and stole Ling's shirt anyway. The way the world, for a few reckless hours, felt survivable.
They talked about tomorrow.
That should have been the warning.
Ling had memorized every detail as if her body already knew this was something it would have to replay to stay alive—the weight of Rhea's head on her chest, the quiet breathing, the trust.
Nothing about that night said this is the last time.
And yet—
Morning came with silence instead of certainty. With lies dressed as protection. With love that chose sacrifice instead of honesty.
Months later, Ling still woke up there.
Not in the present.
Not in the future.
Always in that bed.
Always with Rhea close.
Always seconds before everything broke.
Because some endings don't happen when people leave.
They happen when one of them decides to survive alone.
Morning came for both of them.
Rhea woke up first—always did.
She stood in front of the mirror, tying her hair with steady hands, face sharp, eyes unreadable. The world knew her as arrogant, unaffected, untouchable. She answered messages with clipped words, corrected people without mercy, walked through halls like nothing had ever owned her heart.
Her smile was flawless.
Practiced.
Fake.
Ling's mornings were colder.
She dressed in silence, movements precise, controlled. The professor everyone feared. The woman no one dared to question. She spoke little, expected perfection, allowed no room for softness.
Her face never betrayed her.
Not once.
By day, they survived.
Nights were another truth.
Rhea's room went dark early. The world faded. The strength collapsed.
She locked the door and sat on the bed, knees pulled to her chest, holding Ling's black shirt—the one she had took and never returned. It still smelled faintly like her. Or maybe Rhea just wanted it to.
She pressed it to her face and cried silently, shoulders shaking, teeth biting down on sobs so no one would hear.
"I hate you," she whispered into the fabric.
"I love you," she confessed seconds later.
Every night.
Ling's nights were soaked in alcohol and memory.
A glass always in her hand. Another empty beside it.
She sat alone on the edge of the bed, head bowed, fingers wrapped tightly around Rhea's chain—the one she used to wear like a promise. The metal cut into her palm as she clenched it, as if pain could replace what was missing.
She cursed the world.
Fate.
Herself.
Sometimes she whispered Rhea's name like a prayer.
Sometimes like a curse.
Her tears fell freely only when no one could see.
By morning—
Rhea wiped her face, straightened her spine, and became cruel again.
Ling sobered up, locked her grief away, and became cold.
The world believed they had moved on.
But every night, in different rooms, in different lives—
Rhea held Ling's shirt like it was oxygen.
Ling held Rhea's chain like it was a wound.
And neither ever slept without crying.
They learned how to bleed silently.