Ling didn't turn.
He didn't need to.
His breath hitched anyway.
He swallowed once, slow, controlled, already knowing. The shift in the room told him everything.
The silence. The way eyes had tilted. The way sound itself seemed to pull backward.
Don't look, he told himself.
He turned.
And forgot how to breathe.
His eyes went wide just for a second, but it was enough. Heart slamming, pulse racing like it had lost all discipline. His chest rose unevenly; he had to steady himself with one hand on the table beside him.
Rhea stood there, calm, unbothered, devastating, eyes locking onto Ling's like she'd known exactly where to aim.
The world narrowed.
Dadi leaned forward slightly, eyes sharp, assessing. "Oh," she said quietly. "She's beautiful."
Victor froze mid-conversation, gaze flicking between Rhea and his son. He didn't miss it, the tension, the way Ling had gone still in a way he never did. His smile faded into concern.
Eliza's expression tightened, not with disapproval, but calculation. Her eyes lingered on Rhea's confidence, her posture, the way the room had bent.
"She has presence," Eliza said, measured. "Dangerous kind."
Mira felt it like a slap.
She stood beside Ling, close enough to feel the change in him, felt Ling's breath hitch, felt the shift of attention leave her entirely. Mira's fingers curled into her palm, nails biting skin.
Rhea walked forward.
Each step was unhurried. Controlled.
She stopped a few feet from Ling.
Close enough.
Ling forced a smile, sharp, brittle. "You're late."
Rhea's gaze swept over him once, slow, appreciative, unapologetic, then returned to his eyes.
"I said I'd come," she replied calmly. "I didn't say when."
Rina bit her lip to keep from laughing. "Wow. Someone check Ling's pulse."
Ling shot her a glare, but it lacked its usual bite.
His eyes kept drifting back. To the slit. To the bare waist. To the silver at Rhea's navel catching light every time she moved.
He hated himself for it.
Mira spoke too quickly, voice tight. "You look… overdressed for a student party."
Rhea glanced at her, then finally. One look. Cool. Dismissive.
"I dress for rooms," she said. "Not approval."
Silence followed.
Ling exhaled slowly, steadying himself, reclaiming his mask inch by inch. "Enjoy the party," he said, voice low. "Don't get lost."
Rhea's lips curved, not a smile. A promise. "I never do."
She moved past Ling, the faint brush of fabric, the whisper of perfume, warm, dangerous, lingering far too long.
Ling stayed still.
Jaw clenched.
Heart out of control.
Around them, the party resumed, music swelling, laughter returning, but something fundamental had shifted.
Because Rhea Noir hadn't just arrived.
She had entered Ling Kwong's orbit.
Then Ling went to his room upstairs. He shut the door harder than necessary.
He paced once. Twice.
"Idiot," he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair. "What was I even thinking? What's happening to me?"
He stopped in front of the mirror, shoulders squared, jaw set, rebuilding himself piece by piece the way he always did.
Breathe.
Control.
Focus.
He closed his eyes.
And Rhea appeared anyway.
That slit of wine-red silk.
The waist chain, dip of her navel, the piercing. Fuck, Ling wanted to kiss it.
The calm arrogance in her eyes.
The way the room had bent toward her without permission.
Ling's cheeks warmed before he could stop it.
A smile, soft, unguarded, slipped free.
"She's…" Ling whispered before catching himself. His breath faltered. "…divine."
The word stunned him.
His hand came up fast.
Smack!
He stared at his own reflection, eyes blazing now. "Enough. Get a grip."
Jaw clenched, mask back in place, Ling turned and headed downstairs.
The party was louder now.
Music deeper. Laughter brighter. The air heavy with money and movement.
And there
Rhea stood near the far end, a glass in hand, talking to a boy Ling recognized vaguely.
Zifa.
Rhea was relaxed with him. Smiling. Her head tilted slightly as she listened, eyes warm in a way Ling hadn't seen before.
Ling hated that.
He moved through the crowd, pretending not to look, failing miserably. His gaze kept pulling back, traitorous, magnetic.
Dadi noticed immediately.
"Oh ho," Dadi said, tapping Ling's arm with her cane. "If staring burned holes, that girl would be ash by now."
Ling didn't look away. "I'm not staring."
Dadi chuckled. "You're glaring with interest. Worse."
Ling finally tore his eyes away, scowling. "Don't start."
Dadi leaned closer, voice low and amused. "Careful, child. The ones who unsettle you are never accidents."
Ling said nothing.
Across the room, Eliza watched too, sharp-eyed, composed. She acknowledged Rhea's elegance, her confidence, the way she held herself like she belonged among power.
Impressive.
But approval?
No.
Eliza's gaze slid to Mira, standing close, waiting, familiar.
Mira fits, Eliza thought. Rhea is fire.
And Eliza Kwong did not like who can burn her son.
Rhea laughed softly at something Zifa said, completely unaware, or pretending to be, of the storm she had stirred.
Ling stood still, glass untouched in his hand.
He told himself he was in control again.
But his eyes betrayed him.
Because even surrounded by wealth, family, and expectation...
Ling Kwong's attention kept returning to one impossible truth:
Rhea Noir existed.
And Ling could no longer pretend she didn't matter.
The lights dimmed.
Music shifted slower, deeper, threaded with bass that slid under skin instead of into ears. The crowd loosened, bodies moving closer, laughter softer, more dangerous.
The dance began.
Ling stood near the edge of the floor, one hand in his pocket, the other wrapped around a glass he hadn't tasted. His posture was relaxed, too relaxed, but his eyes betrayed him.
They were fixed on Rhea.
Not openly.
Never openly.
He watched through reflections, mirrors, glass, the polished marble floor. Watched the way Rhea moved when she didn't think she was being observed.
Unhurried. Confident. Like the music answered to her.
Ling's jaw tightened.
Don't, he told himself.
His chest felt tight anyway.
For a fleeting, traitorous second, a thought surfaced, soft, impossible:
Dance with her.
Ling inhaled sharply, as if offended by his own mind.
That's when Dadi appeared beside him, silent as a conspiracy.
"Hmm," Dadi hummed, eyes twinkling. "You look like someone rehearsing disappointment."
Ling stiffened. "I'm fine."
Dadi followed his gaze effortlessly. "Want to dance with her?"
Ling nearly choked.
He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly fascinated by the ceiling, the chandelier, literally anything except Dadi's knowing eyes. "What nonsense."
Dadi smiled wider. "Ah. So it's that bad."
Ling scoffed. "I don't dance."
"You used to," Dadi said lightly. "Until you learned fear."
Ling snapped his head toward her. "I don't fear anyone."
Dadi leaned in, voice gentle, lethal. "Exactly."
Ling looked away again, anywhere but Rhea, anywhere but the truth pressing against his ribs.
Across the room, Rhea laughed softly at something Zifa said, her body swaying subtly to the rhythm, unaware, or pretending to be, of the stare carving into her.
Ling's fingers tightened around the glass.
He didn't move.
He didn't ask.
He didn't confess, not to Dadi, not to the room, not even to himself.
Dadi straightened, pretending to lose interest. "Alright," she said casually. "I was only asking if I could help."
Ling's head snapped toward her. "Help with what?"
Dadi shrugged, already turning away. "Nothing. If you don't want to dance, that's fine."
The word don't echoed too loudly.
Ling swallowed.
His fingers flexed once at his side.
"No..." he said, then stopped. His voice came out rougher than intended. "I..."
Dadi paused, not looking at him. Waiting.
Ling exhaled sharply, jaw tight, eyes anywhere but the dance floor.
"...I want to."
The words felt treasonous.
Dadi turned slowly, her smile victorious but gentle. "Good. Took you long enough."
Before Ling could protest or rethink, Dadi was already moving, cane tapping purposefully as she disappeared into the crowd.
Ling stood frozen, heart racing, every instinct screaming control.
Too late.
Across the room, Rhea was mid-laugh with Zifa when Dadi appeared beside her, smiling like trouble wrapped in silk.
"My dear," Dadi said warmly, "would you indulge an old woman's request?"