The morning light over Bangkok was merciless, slicing through the penthouse blinds like a scalpel. Lingling stood at the kitchen island, phone in one hand, black coffee in the other, the headline still burning on the screen: URASSAYA SPERBUND'S TELL-ALL: LINGLING KWONG'S PAST EXPOSED. The article was a masterclass in insinuation—Macau debts, a "mysterious investor," a grainy photo of her and Mek Anantachai tangled in a hotel corridor five years ago. No names, no dates, just enough venom to make the city whisper.
Orm padded in barefoot, wearing Lingling's oversized silk shirt, the hem brushing her thighs. She didn't speak—just slid her arms around Lingling's waist from behind, chin resting on her shoulder. The warmth of her body was a quiet anchor.
"It's not true," Lingling said, voice flat. "Not the way they're spinning it."
"I know." Orm's fingers traced the tense line of Lingling's spine. "But the photo's real."
Lingling exhaled through her teeth. "Mek was a mistake. One night. After Urassaya left. I was drunk on grief and bad decisions." She turned, setting the phone face-down. "I never hid it from you. I just… buried it."
Orm's eyes searched hers, steady. "Then we unbury it. Together."
A sharp buzz from the intercom cut the moment. Security. "Ms. Kwong, there's a delivery. No sender. Marked urgent."
The envelope was thick, cream-colored, sealed with black wax. Inside: a single USB drive and a note in elegant script—Play me. Or I will. No signature. Just a faint trace of jasmine perfume.
Lingling's jaw clenched. "Urassaya."
They moved to the study, the city sprawling beneath them like a chessboard. Orm plugged the drive into the secure laptop. A video file. No thumbnail.
The screen flickered to life.
Urassaya, in a dimly lit room, silver dress replaced by a tailored blazer, hair pulled back severe. She looked straight into the camera.
"Hello, Lingling. By now you've seen the article. Cute, isn't it? A taste. But I have more. Much more." A pause, a slow smile. "Remember Macau? The night you signed away twenty million baht to cover Mek's debts? The night you thought no one was watching?"
The footage cut to grainy security cam: Lingling, younger, furious, shoving a stack of chips across a baccarat table. Mek behind her, hand on her waist, whispering. Then a flash of a man in a dark suit—face blurred—handing her a contract. Her signature, shaky but unmistakable.
Urassaya's voice returned, velvet and venom. "That man? He works for the Anantachai family. And he kept records. Every favor. Every threat. Every time you paid to keep Mek's mouth shut." A beat. "I have them all. Release the full file, and your merger collapses. Your reputation—gone. Unless…"
She leaned closer to the camera. "You meet me. Tonight. Alone. The old pier at Asiatique. 11 p.M. Come, or I press send to every board member, every investor, every gossip rag in Southeast Asia."
The video ended. Silence swallowed the room.
Orm's voice was quiet steel. "She's bluffing."
"No," Lingling said, rubbing her temples. "She's not. Mek's family—they're old money, older grudges. If this gets out, they'll use it to tank the merger. My father's legacy…" She laughed, bitter. "All because I was stupid enough to clean up after a boy who never mattered."
Orm closed the laptop. "Then we don't let her control the narrative." She pulled out her phone, already dialing. "I'm calling P'Fah. She still owes me from the gala. We trace the USB, the perfume, the wax seal. We find her leverage before she uses it."
Lingling watched her, something fierce and grateful blooming in her chest. "You're terrifying when you're calm."
Orm smirked, but her eyes were sharp. "I'm terrifying when I'm in love."
Asiatique, 10:47 P.M.
The pier was abandoned after hours, the river lapping black and slow against the pylons. Lingling arrived in a hooded jacket, no security, no Orm—though Orm was parked three blocks away in a van with P'Fah and a hacker named Jet, live feed patched to Lingling's earpiece.
Urassaya waited beneath a single sodium lamp, coat collar turned up, a slim drive in her gloved hand.
"You came," she said, almost surprised.
"You left me no choice." Lingling's voice was ice. "What do you really want, Yaya? Money? Fame? My humiliation?"
Urassaya's laugh was soft. "I want you to remember what it felt like to lose everything for love. You moved on too easily. Built your walls, your empire, your perfect little wife. I want you to feel the crack."
Lingling stepped closer. "You think this hurts me? You're a ghost, Yaya. A footnote. Orm is my present. My future. You're just noise."
Urassaya's smile faltered. "Then why are you here?"
"To end this." Lingling held up her own drive. "Jet traced your cloud backup. Every file you have—Macau, Mek, the contracts—it's mirrored on a server in Phuket. Under my control now."
Urassaya's eyes widened. "You're lying."
"Test me."
A beat. Then Urassaya lunged—not for the drive, but for Lingling's throat. Lingling caught her wrist, twisting hard. Years of Muay Thai from boarding school paying off. Urassaya gasped, dropping to her knees.
From the shadows, Orm emerged, phone recording. "Smile for the camera, superstar. Blackmail's a crime. And I just sent the footage to your director, your agent, and the police."
Urassaya's face crumpled—rage, then defeat. "You'll regret this."
"No," Lingling said, crouching to meet her eyes. "I regretted you. Past tense."
Epilogue: 2 A.M., Penthouse
The city glittered below, quiet now. Orm poured two fingers of whiskey, handed one to Lingling.
"Mek's family?" Orm asked.
"Already called. They'll deny everything. The merger's safe." Lingling sipped, then set the glass down. "I should've told you about Macau years ago."
Orm straddled her lap, fingers threading through Lingling's hair. "You told me when it mattered." She kissed her slow, deliberate. "Now burn the past. We're writing the future."
Lingling's hands slid up Orm's thighs, pulling her closer. "Starting now?"
Orm's laugh was low, wicked. "Starting now."
Outside, Bangkok slept. Inside, the storm had broken—and in its wake, only light.