She locked the phone and dropped it back beside her, palms pressing into her thighs as if holding herself down.
Inside her chest, something twisted violently.
Because she did care.
She cared enough that it hurt.
She cared enough that she could feel the weight of every unopened envelope in her locker feel the pressure of unspoken words trying to claw their way into her hands, her eyes, her chest.
She wanted to read them.
Every note.
Every letter.
Every page Ling had torn from herself and folded small enough to give away.
She wanted to know what Ling wrote when no one was watching.
When arrogance dropped.
When revenge went quiet.
She wanted to know if her name looked different in Ling's handwriting at three in the morning.
Rhea closed her eyes hard.
"No," she whispered to herself. "You don't get to do this."
She stood abruptly, slinging her bag over her shoulder like the weight might anchor her back into control.
Reading them is permission, she told herself.
Keeping them is weakness.
Wanting them is how it starts again.
Her phone vibrated once more.
She didn't look.
But denial didn't erase desire.
It only buried it alive.
And buried things had a way of breathing when you weren't looking.
Rhea stopped walking so suddenly that Roin almost bumped into her.
"You stay here," she said without turning. "I'm coming."
Roin frowned. "Where are you—"
"I said stay," Rhea cut in, already moving away.
Her steps were careful now. Calculated. She chose a corridor that curved out of sight, waited for the rush of students to thin, then slipped back toward the lockers like she was committing a crime because, in her head, she was.
Her locker waited.
Silent.
Heavy.
Full.
She unlocked it quickly, heart pounding not with fear but urgency.
The door opened.
She didn't hesitate this time.
She grabbed everything.
Notes, boxes, letters, wrapped objects, loose cards she swept them into her bag with no order, no care for neatness. Paper bent. Ribbons tangled. Small boxes clinked together. The bag grew heavier by the second, strap cutting into her shoulder.
"Ugh!," she muttered under her breath, breathless as she forced more inside. "Who overloads things like this… except Kwong, of course."
Her bag was ridiculous now. Bulging. Misshapen. The zipper protested.
She tried anyway.
It refused.
She stared at it, jaw tight, irritation sparking not at the bag, not even at Ling but at herself.
"Think," she whispered sharply. "Think, Rhea."
She glanced down the corridor. Empty. For now.
She shoved the smallest items into the side pocket. Slid envelopes inside books. Folded notes tighter than they were meant to be folded. She even stuffed one card into her jacket pocket without realizing it.
Still too much.
Her chest tightened panic rising, irrational and sharp.
Because she didn't want to leave a single thing behind.
Not one.
Not a note.
Not a word.
Not proof that Ling had stayed up all night tearing herself apart on paper.
Rhea swallowed hard.
"This is stupid," she told herself. "You don't need this."
Her hands didn't listen.
She pulled off her scarf, wrapped a cluster of gifts inside it, knotted it roughly, and shoved the bundle under her arm like contraband.
She zipped the bag halfway ugly, strained, barely holding and slung it over her shoulder.
The weight dragged her down on one side.
Good.
It felt like consequence.
She locked the locker, hands shaking now not from fear of being caught, but from the sheer intensity of wanting something this badly.
She stepped back, forcing her posture straight, her expression neutral.
No one can see this, she told herself.
No one can know.
She turned the corner just as voices echoed from the far end of the hall.
Too close.
Rhea adjusted the scarf bundle tighter against her ribs and walked not fast, not slow normal.
Controlled.
Her mind raced.
How do I get all of this home?
How do I hide it from Mom?
How do I read it without losing myself?
She reached Roin, who immediately noticed the bag.
"What did you—" he started.
"Ask," she said flatly, eyes forward, "and I'll leave you here."
He shut up.
They walked in silence.
But inside Rhea, everything was loud.
Because the truth the one she refused to say aloud pressed against her ribs harder than the bag ever could:
She didn't just want the gifts.
She wanted the night Ling had poured into them.
And she intended to take it secretly, selfishly into her room, close the door, and read every word alone.
Not forgiveness.
Not reconciliation.
Just possession of the truth.
And she hated herself for how much she needed it.
——
The car rolled through the iron gates of the Nior mansion.
Rhea's spine straightened the moment the tires touched the familiar gravel. The weight of the bag on her shoulder felt heavier now not just fabric and paper, but intent, secrecy, defiance.
Before the car fully stopped, she turned sharply to Roin.
"Don't you dare," she said coldly.
Roin blinked. "Dare what?"
"Say a single word to my mom," Rhea continued, her voice low, controlled, dangerous. "Not about today. Not about the lockers. Not about Ling. Not about anything."
Roin's jaw tightened. "Rhea, she deserves to—"
"She deserves peace," Rhea cut in immediately. "And I deserve one thing that is still mine to decide."
She met his eyes then not pleading, not apologetic.
Commanding.
"You open your mouth," she added, "and I won't forgive you."
The car stopped.
Roin exhaled slowly, frustration written across his face, but he nodded once. "Fine."
Rhea didn't thank him.
She stepped out of the car, adjusted the scarf bundle under her arm, and walked toward the entrance like nothing was wrong like she hadn't just smuggled half her past into her house.
Inside, a servant approached immediately.
"Miss Rhea—"
She handed him the overloaded bag before he could finish.
"Take this to my room," Rhea said calmly. "Directly. Do not let mom see it. If she asks, tell her it's books."
The servant hesitated just a fraction.
Rhea's gaze hardened.
"Now."
"Yes, Miss," he said quickly, bowing his head as he took the bag. The zipper strained visibly. He adjusted his grip and moved toward the stairs without another word.
Rhea watched until he disappeared.
Only then did she release the breath she'd been holding.
Roin stood beside her, uneasy. "You're hiding things in your own house."
Rhea didn't look at him.
"I'm protecting myself," she replied. "There's a difference."
She walked past him toward the living room, expression composed, steps measured the perfect daughter returning home after an ordinary day.
But inside, her pulse was loud.
Because upstairs, behind a closed door, waited a bag full of words she wasn't supposed to want.
And tonight alone, unseen she intended to open every single one.
Rhea found Kane in the living room, seated with her tablet, glasses perched low on her nose. The lights were warm. Familiar. Safe in a way Rhea hadn't felt all day.
That was exactly why she came.
She slowed her steps deliberately, adjusted her posture, and softened her expression not fake happiness, just neutral. Ordinary. The version of herself Kane expected after university.
"Mom," Rhea said casually.
Kane looked up immediately, eyes scanning her face the way mothers did quick, instinctive, searching for fractures.
"You're home early," Kane noted. "How was university?"
Rhea sat on the armchair opposite her, crossing her legs comfortably. She shrugged lightly. "Normal. Lectures dragged. Nothing new."
Kane studied her for a moment longer than necessary.
"And Roin?" Kane asked, voice careful. "He said nothing in the car?"
Rhea's jaw tightened internally but her face didn't change.
"He's adjusting," Rhea replied smoothly. "New place, new people. He'll settle."
Kane hummed softly, unconvinced but not pushing. "Did you eat properly?"
"Yes," Rhea lied without blinking. "We had something near campus."
Kane nodded, satisfied enough. "I'll ask the kitchen to make something light later anyway."
Rhea leaned back, appearing relaxed. "You don't need to check on me tonight," she added lightly, as if it were an afterthought. "I have readings to catch up on. I'll probably lock myself in."
That made Kane look up again.
"You never say that," she remarked.
Rhea smiled small, controlled. "I'm trying to be responsible for once."
Kane chuckled faintly. "That's suspicious."
Rhea laughed softly in response perfectly timed, perfectly placed.
"I'll come down later if you need anything," Rhea added. "Otherwise I'll just sleep early."
Kane watched her daughter closely the calm voice, the steady gaze, the absence of visible distress.
Too steady.
Still, Kane nodded. "Alright. Don't stay up too late."
Rhea stood. Walked over. Bent slightly to kiss Kane's cheek brief, affectionate, familiar.
"Goodnight, Mom."
Kane caught her wrist gently before she pulled away. "Rhea."
Rhea stilled. Looked at her.
"If something's bothering you," Kane said quietly, "you know you don't have to carry it alone."
Rhea met her eyes.
And for a split second just one something almost slipped.
Then it was gone.
"I know," Rhea said. "I'm okay."
Kane released her slowly, still watching.
Rhea walked away without rushing, climbed the stairs at an even pace, and turned the corner toward her room.
Only when her door closed behind her softly, deliberately did her shoulders sag.
She locked it.
Leaned back against the wood.
Exhaled.
Because now, no one would come looking.
No one would interrupt.
No one would see what she was about to do.
Upstairs, alone, with a bag full of truth
Rhea had bought herself time.
And she intended to use every second of it.
——
Roin stood across from her in the study, hands clenched behind his back, posture stiff with the discomfort of speaking against Rhea's wishes. The evening light cut across the room in sharp lines, dust floating lazily in the air indifferent to the shift about to happen.
"She told me not to tell you," Roin said finally, voice low. "About the locker. About the gifts. About… Kwong."
The word sat heavy between them.
Kane's expression didn't change. Not a flicker of surprise. Not anger. Not denial.
She nodded once.
A small movement. Controlled. Final.
"I know," Kane said.
Roin looked up sharply. "You… knew?"
"I knew she would ask you not to," Kane replied calmly. She folded her hands on the desk, fingers precise, deliberate. "And I knew you would tell me anyway."
Roin swallowed. "She didn't want you dragged into it again. She's trying to—" he searched for the right word, then gave up, "—contain it."
Kane exhaled through her nose. Not tired. Not defeated.
Calculating.
"She came home carrying weight she didn't have this morning," Kane said. "Not physical. Emotional. Rhea doesn't hide that well from me. She never has."
Roin hesitated. "She took everything. All the notes. Letters. Gifts. She tried to hide them. She wants to read them alone."
Another nod.
This one slower.
"That's worse," Kane said quietly.
Roin frowned. "Worse?"
"Yes," Kane replied. "Because reading them means she's listening again."
She stood, moving to the window, looking out over the grounds like a general surveying land that had already been invaded once.
"She didn't forgive Ling," Kane continued. "But she didn't close the door either. And Ling Kwong only needs a crack."
Roin shifted uncomfortably. "I didn't mean to go against her. She was… unstable. Not crying. Too calm. That scares me."
Kane turned back to him then.
Her eyes were sharp. Alert. Maternal instinct sharpened into something far more dangerous.
"You did the right thing," she said. "Even if she hates you for it later."
Roin hesitated again. "What are you going to do?"
Kane's mouth curved into something that wasn't a smile.
"I'm not going to confront her," she said. "Not yet."
Roin blinked. "You're just going to let this—"
"I'm going to watch," Kane interrupted smoothly. "I want to see how deep Ling has already cut. I want to see what my daughter chooses when no one is forcing her."
She walked back to the desk, picked up her phone, then paused.
"And you," she added, voice lowering, "will not mention this to Rhea. Not now."
Roin nodded immediately. "Of course."
Kane studied him for a moment measuring, assessing.
"You care about her," Kane said. Not a question.
"Yes," Roin answered honestly.
"Then understand this," Kane replied. "If Ling Kwong hurts her again not publicly, not loudly, but privately I won't need proof. I won't need witnesses."
Her voice didn't rise.
It didn't need to.
Roin felt a chill crawl up his spine.
"I'll end it," Kane finished. "Cleanly."
Silence filled the room.
Roin nodded once more, slower now. "I understand."
"Good," Kane said. "You can go."
Roin turned to leave, then stopped at the door. "She's not weak," he said quietly. "But she's tired."
Kane didn't look at him.
"I know," she said. "That's why this ends soon."
When the door closed, Kane remained standing alone in the study, phone still unlit in her hand.
Kane Nior mother, strategist, predator adjusted her plans without making a single sound.
Upstairs, Rhea lay in the dark with a bag full of words she hadn't read yet.
Rhea locked her bedroom door twice.
Then once more just to be sure.
She sat on the floor beside her bed, back against the mattress, the oversized bag dumped in front of her like a crime she hadn't decided to confess to yet. Her fingers hovered above the zipper for a long moment, chest rising and falling too fast.
"Stupid," she muttered under her breath. "So stupid."
Still, she opened it.
The scent hit first.
Paper. Ink. Something faintly metallic, Ling. Not perfume. Not cologne. Just her. The way Ling's presence always lingered long after she left.