The gates of the Nior mansion slid open slowly, the familiar iron sound grounding and suffocating at the same time.
Shyra parked in the driveway and cut the engine. The silence that followed was heavy.
Rhea didn't move at first.
She sat still, Amaya asleep against her shoulder now, small breaths warm against her skin. Her face was calm again—too calm. The tears were gone, wiped away somewhere between the streetlights and the gate.
Control restored.
Or at least rebuilt enough to pass.
"I'll take her," Shyra whispered, reaching out.
Rhea hesitated, then carefully transferred Amaya into Shyra's arms. She lingered for half a second longer than necessary, fingers brushing Amaya's back.
"Good night, Ninna," Shyra murmured gently.
Rhea nodded. "Good night."
They stepped inside together.
The mansion was lit more brightly than usual.
Kane stood near the living area, arms crossed, sharp eyes lifting the moment they entered.
"You're back late," Kane said. Her gaze flicked to Shyra first. "Where did you go?"
Shyra answered calmly. "Dinner. I wanted to take Rhea out."
Kane hummed, then her attention snapped to Rhea.
Rhea was already moving toward the stairs.
"Rhea," Kane called. "Stop."
Rhea paused.
Slowly, she turned.
Kane studied her face with unsettling precision. "Why are your eyes red?"
Rhea's fingers curled slightly at her side.
"I'm tired," she said evenly.
Kane took a step closer. "That's not tired."
Shyra intervened smoothly. "She had a long day. Amaya, crowds—"
"I didn't ask you," Kane cut in.
Her eyes never left Rhea's face. "You were crying."
Rhea met her gaze then—steady, blank, distant.
"No," she said. "I wasn't."
The lie slipped out clean. Practiced. Perfect.
Kane's lips pressed into a thin line. "You expect me to believe that?"
Rhea didn't flinch. "Believe what you want."
For a moment, it looked like Kane might push further.
Then she scoffed softly. "Go to your room. Don't bring your mood into this house."
Rhea nodded once. "Good night."
She didn't wait for permission.
She walked upstairs without looking back, steps controlled, posture straight, every movement deliberate.
The door to her room closed quietly behind her.
Only then did the strength drain out of her body.
She leaned against the door, eyes closing as her chest shuddered once—just once—before she forced it still.
Downstairs, Shyra watched the staircase with worry etched into her face.
Kane turned away, already losing interest.
"She's hiding something," Kane said coldly.
Shyra said nothing.
Upstairs, alone in the dark, Rhea pressed her palm to her mouth to silence the sound that tried to escape her.
She had lied to survive.
And she hated herself for how easy it had been.
Then her knees gave out.
She slid down slowly and sat on the floor, forehead resting against the door, fingers curling into the fabric of her sleeves.
Four months.
Four months of silence. Of distance. Of convincing herself she could live with absence.
And then—one moment. One parking lot. One breath stolen away.
Her hands moved on their own.
She crossed the room, opened the cupboard with familiar precision, and reached to the very back, behind neatly folded clothes.
She pulled it out.
Ling's black shirt.
Rhea had held it too often, too tightly. She sank onto the bed and pressed it to her face before she could stop herself.
The scent was faint.
Almost gone.
Or maybe it had never been there at all anymore.
That didn't stop her.
Her breath hitched, then broke completely.
Tears spilled freely now, soaking into the dark cloth as she clutched it to her chest like it could anchor her.
"I saw you," she whispered, voice shaking. "After four months… I saw you."
The image slammed back into her with brutal clarity.
The way Ling stood—unchanged in her stillness. The way the lights caught her glasses. The way her presence bent the air around her without effort.
Rhea's shoulders shook.
"I didn't look," she cried softly. "I swear I didn't. I turned away."
Her fingers twisted into the shirt desperately, knuckles white. "I did everything right. I stayed away. I listened. I left. Why were you there?"
She buried her face deeper into the fabric, sobs breaking free now, uncontrolled and raw.
"I hate you," she whispered, the words coming out automatically, like they always did. "You ruined me."
Her grip loosened for a second.
Then tightened again.
"I miss you."
Her chest hurt. Her heart felt bruised, aching with every beat.
She remembered the moment in the parking lot—the way her breath had left her, the way tears had come without permission, the way her body had known Ling before her mind could stop it.
"I wasn't ready," she said into the shirt. "I'm still not."
She curled in on herself, knees drawn up, holding the shirt like it was the only thing keeping her from breaking apart completely.
Outside, the mansion slept.
Inside, Rhea cried quietly into the remnants of a love that had survived distance, silence, and time—
Only to hurt her all over again.
Ling returned to her mansion long past midnight.
The gates opened automatically. Lights came on in perfect sequence. Staff stayed invisible, trained enough not to greet her when her silence sharpened like this.
Rina walked beside her until the main hall.
"You okay?" Rina asked, careful. "You went quiet after dinner."
Ling didn't answer immediately. Her coat slipped from her shoulders, handed off without looking.
"I'm fine," she said finally.
It was a lie.
Rina heard it. Chose not to challenge it. "I'll check on you tomorrow."
Ling nodded once and turned away.
She went straight to her room.
The door closed behind her with a dull, heavy sound. The lights adjusted automatically to her preference—low, cold—but her chest tightened anyway.
Something was wrong.
Not pain. Not anger.
Something worse.
She loosened her collar, breathing slow, controlled. Her hand trembled despite the effort. That hadn't happened in months.
"Get it together," she muttered.
She took two steps forward—
—and stopped.
The wall was still the same.
The photograph hadn't moved.
Ling and Rhea.
Ling stared.
Her throat closed.
She crossed the room slowly, like approaching something dangerous, something alive.
Her fingers lifted before she thought about it.
She took the frame off the wall and held it against her chest.
Her breath broke.
"…Damn it," she whispered.
She sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on her knees, the photo cradled like something fragile. Her thumb brushed the glass, tracing Rhea's hair first—dark, soft-looking even in a picture.
Then her eyes.
Then her lips.
Ling's jaw tightened.
She leaned forward, resting her forehead against the glass.
For a moment, control slipped.
Her breath shuddered. Her shoulders dipped.
She pressed her lips to the photograph—just once. Barely a touch.
Then she pulled back sharply, anger flashing in her eyes.
"Idiot," she spat at herself. "You left."
She stood abruptly, pacing once, twice, like a caged animal. Memories surfaced without permission.
Her heart had known.
It always did.
She stopped pacing and sat again, slower this time.
Her fingers softened.
She touched Rhea's hair again, reverent now. "Four months," she murmured. "And you still own this part of me."
Her voice dropped. "I hate that."
She didn't move the photo back.
Instead, she lay down fully clothed, frame held carefully against her chest, as if someone might try to take it away.
Her eyes closed.
A single tear slipped out, disappearing into her hairline before she could stop it.
Ling Kwong did not cry easily.
But that night, her heart betrayed her—
And she let it.