She cupped Ling's face firmly, forcing her to look up. Ling's eyes were red, hollow, haunted—nothing like the woman the world feared.
"You think distance makes you noble?" Dadi asked sharply. "You think disappearing makes you less dangerous?"
Ling didn't answer.
Because the truth was—yes. She did.
"I ruin what I love," Ling whispered. "I protect with force. I control. I don't know how to let go without destroying everything."
Dadi leaned closer, forehead resting briefly against Ling's.
Rhea was discharged quietly.
No press. No celebration. No questions she wasn't ready to answer.
The car ride to the mansion passed in fragments—trees blurring past the window, the hum of the engine, Shyra talking softly about medications and rest and food. Rhea nodded at the right moments, answered when required. From the outside, she looked fine. Pale, thinner, but composed.
Inside, she was hollow.
The mansion doors closed behind her with a muted thud.
That sound did it.
It was the same sound she remembered from another life—late nights, arguments swallowed by pride, Ling's footsteps echoing away after words that cut too deep to take back.
Rhea excused herself quickly, claiming exhaustion.
No one stopped her.
Her room was exactly the same. Too neat. Too untouched. Like it had been waiting for her, holding its breath. The curtains were half-drawn, sunlight spilling in weakly across the floor. Rhea stood there for a long moment, just staring.
Then she locked the door.
The strength drained out of her all at once.
She slid down against it, back hitting the wood, knees drawn to her chest. Her breath hitched before she could stop it. She pressed her fist against her mouth, trying to swallow the sound.
It didn't work.
The first sob tore out of her, raw and ugly.
She cried silently at first—tears soaking into her sleeves, shoulders shaking. Then the restraint snapped. Her chest hurt with it, every breath scraping like broken glass.
Ling's face rose uninvited in her mind.
Not cold. Not cruel.
Desperate.
The way Ling's arms had been around her, unyielding, frantic. The warmth of Ling's mouth against her lips, breath mingling with hers in the dark, freezing room. Ling's voice—low, shaking, furious and pleading all at once.
Stay awake. Look at me. Don't you dare leave me.
Rhea squeezed her eyes shut.
"No," she whispered hoarsely. "Stop."
But the memories didn't listen.
Ling shouting in the car. Ling's tears dropping onto her skin. Ling holding her like she was something fragile instead of something to be managed, bargained with, controlled.
Then—Kane's voice, sharp and final, slicing through everything.
She left.
Rhea's stomach twisted.
"She did her part," Kane had said calmly. "She didn't want to waste her time anymore."
Rhea laughed weakly through her tears, the sound broken.
"Of course she left," Rhea murmured bitterly. "That's what she does."
She pressed her forehead to her knees, breathing hard.
You ran, a voice inside her accused. You told her to leave. You chose everyone else first.
Rhea shook her head violently, as if she could physically throw the thought away.
"No," she said aloud, firmer this time. "She ran first. She always does."
The room felt too big. Too empty.
Her fingers dug into the fabric of her clothes, grounding herself as another wave of grief rolled through her.
"I hate her," Rhea whispered, testing the words.
They felt wrong in her mouth. Heavy. Forced.
She said it again, louder. "I hate her."
Silence answered back.
Rhea wiped her face angrily, smearing tears across her cheeks. Her chest ached—not from cold this time, but from something worse.
"I don't care," she insisted. "I don't care if she left. I don't care if she watched me die and walked away."
Her voice cracked on the last word.
She swallowed hard, repeating it like a mantra. "I don't care. I don't care. I don't care."
Each repetition felt thinner, weaker, like a lie stretched too far.
Because if she didn't care—
Why did the thought of Ling alone hurt this much?
Why did her body still remember Ling's arms as safety even when her mind screamed betrayal?
Why did her chest feel empty instead of relieved?
Rhea pressed her palm flat against her heart, as if she could physically stop it from aching.
"I hate her," she said again, quieter now.
This time, it sounded like a plea.
Not hatred.
Grief.
Outside her locked door, the mansion remained still—walls thick enough to hide secrets, lies, and love that refused to die.
And somewhere else in the same house, two women were breaking in parallel—
Both convincing themselves that hatred was easier than admitting they still belonged to each other.
The next morning, Ling woke at 5:30 a.m. on instinct alone.
No dreams. No rest. Just the familiar, brutal snap into awareness.
She showered cold. Dressed immaculately. Black suit, crisp shirt, cufflinks aligned to the millimeter. Hair pulled back, expression perfected into something unreadable. By the time she stepped out of her room, Ling Kwong—the woman the world knew—was back in place.
No cracks.
No grief.
At breakfast, the family gathered as usual.
The long table gleamed. Steam curled from porcelain cups. The atmosphere was deceptively calm, like a lake hiding a riptide underneath.
Ling took her seat without a word.
"University today?" Victor asked casually.
"Yes," Ling replied, voice even. Not too sharp. Not too tired.
Dadi studied her over the rim of her cup.
Ling met her gaze briefly—just long enough for Dadi to see the truth Ling refused to show anyone else. Exhaustion sat heavy behind her eyes. Not physical. Something deeper. Bone-deep.
But Ling didn't falter.
She ate mechanically. Toast untouched. Coffee finished. She nodded when spoken to, responded when required, even allowed a faint smirk when someone made a dry comment about board meetings overlapping with lectures.
Normal.
Perfectly, painfully normal.
Inside, she felt nothing.
Or rather—she was actively not feeling everything.
When breakfast ended, Ling stood, straightened her jacket, and picked up her phone.
"I'll be late," she said. "Meetings."
No one questioned it.
They never did.