Ling never left.
She stood exactly where Kane had forced her to stand—on the other side of the glass, half-hidden by the angle, body rigid like a held breath that never released. Hours had passed. Nurses had changed shifts. The lights had dimmed and brightened again.
Ling didn't move.
She watched Rhea wake up.
She saw the flutter of lashes. The slow confusion. The way Rhea's fingers twitched against the sheets like she was checking whether her body still belonged to her. Ling's hand lifted unconsciously toward the glass, stopping just short of touching it.
When Rhea asked.
"Ling?"
Ling's chest tightened painfully.
She already knew.
She didn't need to hear Kane's words to know what she would say. Kane never wasted an opportunity. Not when control was involved. Not when separation benefited her.
Ling stayed still.
She watched Kane step in closer. Watched her posture—too calm, too prepared. Watched Shyra tense beside the bed.
Ling's jaw clenched.
Here it comes.
"She left."
Ling closed her eyes for half a second.
Not because it hurt—because she expected it.
When she opened them again, Rhea's face had changed. Just slightly. But Ling saw everything. She always did.
The widening of her eyes. The tiny hitch in her breathing. The way her fingers curled into the sheets like they were holding onto something that was already slipping away.
Ling swallowed hard.
Ling's reflection stared back at her faintly in the glass—bloodshot eyes, hollowed cheeks, a woman who had threatened to kill an entire hospital an hour earlier.
Ling's hand pressed flat against the glass now, fingers splayed, knuckles whitening.
"No," Ling whispered soundlessly. "Don't believe her."
Shyra tried to speak. Ling saw it—saw her lean forward, saw the urgency in her eyes.
Kane stopped her.
Of course she did.
Ling's lips parted, a breath trembling on the edge of sound. For one irrational second, she almost stepped forward. Almost knocked on the glass. Almost made her presence known.
She imagined it vividly.
Rhea turning her head. Seeing her. That sharp intake of breath. Anger, relief, tears—something. Anything.
Then reality crashed back in.
We're done.
Rhea had said it.
Not today. Not out loud. But she had said it before. With distance. With lies. With choosing silence over staying.
Ling's shoulders sagged imperceptibly.
We hate each other, Ling told herself harshly. Or close enough.
Rhea turned her face toward the window, away from Kane, away from Shyra.
Away from Ling.
"She always leaves," Rhea murmured.
Ling flinched.
That one sentence hit harder than any accusation.
Her throat burned. She dragged in a slow breath through her nose, forcing herself not to react. Forcing herself not to break.
You pushed me away first, Ling thought bitterly. You ran. You chose to believe I'd hurt you again.
Rhea closed her eyes.
Ling watched her lashes tremble.
That was it.
That was the moment Ling made the decision.
She lowered her hand from the glass.
Her face went blank—not cold, not cruel, just empty. A practiced stillness she'd perfected long before Rhea ever existed.
It doesn't matter now, Ling told herself. She thinks I left. I think she betrayed me. We're even.
She straightened slowly, spine rigid, chin lifting by force of will alone.
Let her heal, Ling reasoned coldly. Let her hate me. It's safer.
Safer than hope. Safer than ripping open wounds that had barely closed.
Shyra glanced toward the glass suddenly, instinctive—almost like she sensed Ling there.
Ling stepped back into the shadow before she could be seen.
She turned away without another look.
Each step down the corridor felt wrong. Like walking away from gravity itself. Her hands trembled at her sides, nails biting into her palms until pain grounded her.
Behind her, Rhea lay awake, staring at a ceiling that felt too far away.
Believing she had been abandoned.
And Ling—
who had never learned how to love without destroying—
chose silence instead.
Not because she didn't care.
But because caring had already cost them everything.
Ling reached the mansion at exactly 9 a.m.
Not earlier. Not later.
Precision was the only thing she still trusted.
The iron gates slid open soundlessly, the familiar gravel crunching beneath the tires like a reminder of everything she owned and nothing she could control. The mansion stood unchanged—vast, immaculate, cold. It had always mirrored her perfectly.
Except today, Ling felt smaller inside it.
The moment she stepped in, the strength holding her upright snapped.
Dadi was already there.
Seated on the long sofa near the windows, wrapped in her shawl, eyes sharp despite age—she had been waiting. She always knew when Ling would break, even before Ling herself did.
Ling took two steps forward.
That was all.
Her knees buckled.
She didn't even try to stop it.
She collapsed straight into Dadi's lap like a child who had run too far and finally reached home. The sound she made wasn't a sob—it was worse. A cracked, strangled breath that had been held for days, maybe years.
"I'm tired," Ling whispered.
Two words.
That was all she had left.
Dadi's hand came down instantly, firm and warm against Ling's head. Fingers threaded into her hair the way they used to when Ling was young and untouchable to the world's cruelty.
"Tired of what?" Dadi asked softly, though she already knew.
Ling laughed weakly—a hollow sound that broke halfway. Her shoulders shook as the dam finally gave way.
"Of everything," she said. "Of holding. Of choosing wrong. Of loving wrong."
Her voice cracked at the last word.
Dadi didn't interrupt. She never rushed Ling's confessions. Silence was how Ling learned to breathe again.
Ling's fingers clutched at Dadi's dress like an anchor.
"I almost lost her," Ling murmured, eyes unfocused, staring at nothing. "I watched her body go cold in my arms. I watched her stop shivering. I thought—" Her throat closed. "I thought she died."
Dadi's jaw tightened.
"And yet you're here," Dadi said quietly. "And she's alive."
Ling shook her head violently. "Alive doesn't mean safe. Alive doesn't mean with me."
Tears slid down her face unchecked now—angry, exhausted tears. Ling hated crying. It made her feel weak. But in Dadi's lap, she didn't fight it.
"She woke up," Ling continued, voice hoarse. "And the first thing she asked was about me."
Dadi's hand stilled for a moment.
Ling swallowed. "They told her I left."
Dadi sighed—deep, heavy, ancient.
"And you didn't stop it."
"No." Ling's answer was immediate. Brutally honest. "Because I don't know how to stay without hurting her."
That confession finally broke something in Dadi.