By seven in the evening, Ling woke up.
Not abruptly. Not lazily.
Her eyes opened with the precision of someone whose body clock had been trained, disciplined, sharpened over years. The room was quiet, curtains drawn just enough to let the dying orange of sunset bleed in.
For a few seconds, she stayed still.
Then she sat up.
The attached room lay beyond a glass door—her private domain, untouched by anyone else. Ling stepped inside, barefoot, and the lights responded instantly, blooming to life one after another.
This wasn't a wardrobe.
It was an empire.
The room stretched wide, walls paneled in smoked glass and dark oak. Soft white lights lined every shelf, every rail, every drawer—no harsh brightness, only controlled illumination designed to highlight, not overwhelm.
Rows upon rows of tailored blazers hung perfectly spaced. Each one custom-made. Italian cuts. British structure. Colors arranged deliberately—not by shade, but by mood.
Opposite them: shirts. Crisp whites. Steel greys. Ivory. Deep navy. Not a single wrinkle. Not a single unnecessary design.
Another section held vests—clean lines, sharp buttons, fabric that spoke of money without ever announcing it.
Ling walked slowly.
Her fingers brushed fabric as she passed, testing nothing. She already knew.
She stopped.
After a moment, she reached for a charcoal blazer. Structured shoulders. Narrow waist. Authority stitched into every seam.
Next came the vest. Dark slate, fitted precisely to her frame.
She picked a shirt—white, but not plain. Egyptian cotton, tailored collar, cuffs sharp enough to cut silence.
She laid each piece on the central island—marble, veined subtly in grey, large enough to serve as a conference table.
Then trousers. Straight cut. No excess fabric. Movement without looseness.
Ling turned toward the accessories room.
Another glass door slid open.
This space was smaller, but no less deliberate.
Watches rested in illuminated drawers—limited editions, pieces that required invitations, not money. Ling opened one drawer and selected a watch without hesitation. Platinum casing. Minimal face. Power understated.
Shoes lined the far wall. Polished leather. Handmade. She chose a pair that matched nothing and everything at once.
As she dressed, she caught sight of herself in the mirror.
Blazer on. Vest buttoned. Shirt tucked cleanly.
And there it was.
The chain.
Rhea's chain rested against her collarbone, silver glinting softly against white fabric. Ling's fingers lifted automatically, brushing it.
She didn't take it off.
She never did.
Her jaw tightened slightly.
"This stays," she said quietly, as if answering someone who wasn't there.
She moved to the final mirror—full length, surrounded by soft halo lighting that showed every angle without distortion. The woman staring back didn't look broken. She didn't look unsure.
She looked untouchable.
A trillionaire dressed for an evening where rooms would shift around her presence.
Ling adjusted her cufflinks once. Straightened the blazer.
Perfect.
A knock came at the door.
"Ling?" Eliza's voice. "The car is ready."
"I'm coming," Ling replied.
She took one last look at herself—not checking appearance, but control.
Then she turned off the lights.
The wardrobe darkened behind her, luxury sealed away, silent and obedient—waiting for her return.
"Always handsome," Eliza said softly, lifting Ling's face with both hands, thumbs brushing her cheekbones like she used to when Ling was younger. Her eyes were glossy already. "Always."
Ling didn't pull away. She stood still, allowing it.
Eliza leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Ling's forehead—slow, lingering, protective. Not rushed. Not casual.
"My girl," Eliza murmured.
Ling huffed a quiet breath, lips twitching despite herself. "You say that like I'm five."
"You'll always be five to me," Eliza replied instantly, then hooked her arm through Ling's without asking. "Come. I want to drop my hot daughter to the car myself."
Ling raised an eyebrow, glancing sideways. "Hot, huh?"
Eliza smiled through her emotion. "Look at you. Anyone with eyes can see it."
Ling tilted her head slightly, voice low, playful. "Careful. People might misunderstand."
Eliza scoffed. "Let them. They already fear you."
They began walking down the wide marble corridor together, heels clicking in sync. Portraits of the Kwong legacy lined the walls, watching silently as mother and daughter passed.
At the bottom of the stairs, Dadi sat waiting in her chair, shawl wrapped around her shoulders despite the warmth. Her sharp eyes lifted the moment Ling appeared.
"Ah," Dadi said.
Ling immediately disengaged from Eliza and walked to her, crouching slightly so they were eye level. "You should be resting."
Dadi waved her hand dismissively. "You are going out. I wanted to see."
Ling smiled, softer than she ever allowed herself to smile anywhere else. "I'll be back."
Dadi studied her face, then reached up and adjusted Ling's collar herself. "You look strong," she said.
Ling swallowed.
Dadi squeezed her cheek. "Now go. Don't keep the world waiting."
Ling stood and turned back toward Eliza.
Eliza was already wiping at her eyes, annoyed at herself. "I said I wouldn't cry."
Ling smirked faintly. "You always say that."
"And you always pretend you don't notice," Eliza shot back. She pulled Ling into a tight hug, pressing her cheek against Ling's shoulder. "Come back safe."
Ling rested her chin briefly against Eliza's hair. "I always do."
As they stepped outside, the evening air was cool, sharp. The black car waited at the bottom of the steps, engine humming softly. Security stood at a distance, alert but silent.
Eliza walked Ling all the way to the car door, refusing to let go.
"You know," Eliza said suddenly, voice lighter now, "if anyone flirts with you tonight—"
Ling interrupted smoothly, "I'll ignore them."
Eliza narrowed her eyes. "That wasn't my sentence."
Ling's lips curved. "I'll destroy them professionally?"
Eliza laughed, a real laugh this time, and tapped Ling's chest. "That's my girl."
Ling opened the car door, then paused and looked back at her mother. "You worry too much."
Eliza smiled sadly. "And you carry too much."
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Ling dipped her head slightly—a gesture of respect, affection, gratitude all wrapped into one—and got into the car.
Eliza stood there until the door closed.
Until the car pulled away.
Until Ling Kwong disappeared down the drive—handsome, controlled, dangerous, loved.
And for the first time that evening, Eliza let herself cry.