Gia adjusted the sleeve of her blazer for the third time before stepping out of her car.
The polished marble steps of the Liang Financial Center gleamed in the afternoon sun, the building's towering glass facade catching the city skyline like a net.
She hated coming here.
She hated the performative greetings, the stiff smiles, the endless game of appearances.
But she was the eldest daughter of the Liang family. She had responsibilities she couldn't shake off, no matter how many times she told herself she didn't have to prove anything anymore.
At twenty-six, Gia Liang had already achieved more than most heirs twice her age—leading acquisitions, navigating complex mergers, surviving boardrooms filled with men who mistook her silence for weakness.
And yet, somehow, it was never enough.
Not for her father. And certainly not for the shadow that followed her everywhere—her younger sister, Linna. Linna, with her sharp smile and sweeter voice. Linna, who had learned long ago how to sabotage without leaving fingerprints.
Gia took a breath, adjusted the papers in her hand, and walked inside.
---
The board meeting was brutal in its usual quiet way. Thinly veiled criticisms disguised as "recommendations." Polite questions that doubted her judgment without ever using her name. Subtle reminders that Linna would soon be ready to "share" leadership roles.
Gia kept her face blank, her answers sharp and professional. She refused to show cracks. She had learned long ago that cracks were invitations. Cracks were weapons.
Still, by the end of the meeting, her hands were stiff from clenching the folder too tightly.
Outside, on the wide steps, Gia allowed herself a small moment—one breath of raw frustration. She tilted her face up toward the sky, letting the heat ground her.
She wasn't stupid. She knew what was happening. Her father had no intention of letting her inherit uncontested.
He had been using her all these years—not to crown her, but to sharpen Linna.
Every mistake Gia made became Linna's lesson.
Every success Gia achieved raised the bar just high enough for Linna to climb under carefully polished guidance.
She should have seen it sooner.
---
Later that evening, Gia found herself at Liang Couture again, accompanying Syra for a final selection on engagement gifts.
Syra had invited her casually, probably thinking Gia needed the distraction.
And maybe she did.
Inside, everything was soft lighting and delicate fabrics. Safe. Untouchable.
Syra stood by a table of jewelry, gently running her fingers over a display of intricate hairpins. She wore a simple white blouse and soft blue skirt, her hair loose around her shoulders, looking somehow both regal and entirely real. Gia envied her for a moment. Not her beauty. Not even Lou Yan's obvious devotion.
But the freedom Syra carried. The way she could move through the world without a thousand invisible chains weighing down every choice. Syra glanced up and smiled when she saw her. "I hope it wasn't a hassle coming."
Gia shook her head. "I needed to get out of the office anyway."
They walked together through the showroom. It was easy. Comfortable. Syra didn't pepper her with questions. Didn't hover or press.
She simply let Gia exist beside her without demanding anything—and somehow, that small mercy felt more valuable than all the politeness in the world.
---
At one point, they paused by a quiet corner near the private fitting rooms. A soft melody played through hidden speakers. Fresh flowers filled the air with a light scent of peonies. Gia stared at a delicate jade pendant on display without really seeing it.
Out of nowhere, the words slipped out before she could stop them.
"I think my father's already chosen my replacement."
Syra turned her head slowly, not pushing, just listening. Gia huffed a humorless laugh. "Not officially, of course. No speeches. No declarations. Just… decisions happening behind closed doors I'm not allowed to see anymore."
Silence.
Not pity. Not gasping sympathy.
Just Syra standing there, quietly absorbing the truth with her steady, grounded presence. Gia realized her hands were trembling slightly. She shoved them into her pockets.
"I'm sorry," she muttered.
"For what?" Syra asked simply.
Gia looked away. "For unloading. For being... messy."
Syra picked up the jade pendant, examined it thoughtfully, then set it down again.
When she spoke, her voice was calm and sure.
"You're not messy," she said. "You're surviving."
Another beat of silence. Then Gia felt something shift inside her—something tight and cold loosening just a little. Not enough to cry.
Not enough to fall apart.
Just enough to breathe.
---
That night, Gia sat alone in her apartment, the city glittering far below her windows.
She replayed Syra's words again and again in her head.
You're not messy. You're surviving.
Maybe, for the first time in a long time, surviving was enough. And maybe, just maybe, she didn't have to survive alone anymore.
---
Seven years ago.
The wellness center didn't look like a hospital. It didn't smell like one either.
It smelled like lavender and old books and something sharper—like hope diluted too many times.
Gia Liang sat stiffly in one of the overstuffed armchairs by the window, her arms crossed, pretending to study the tiny cracks running along the ceiling.
She didn't need help.
She didn't need healing.
She needed out.
She was eighteen. The heir to one of the most powerful industrial families in Shanghai.
The girl with the perfect grades, the perfect composure, the perfect image.
And inside, she was crumbling so quietly that not even the closest observers could hear it.
The center was supposed to be a "wellness retreat for gifted youth under high emotional pressure."
Private. Discreet. For teenagers who had cracked under expectations too heavy for their young shoulders.
The kind of place where shame wore silk gloves.
Across the room, a new girl sat curled in a chair too large for her frame.
She couldn't have been more than sixteen—delicate, painfully beautiful in a way that made people stare without meaning to.
But right now, her beauty looked like a burden.
Her shoulders were drawn up tight. Her hands twisted the hem of her sweater until the threads frayed.
Her name, Gia had heard, was Syra.
Syra Alizadeh-Li.
Sent here after a sudden, sharp emotional collapse that no one wanted to talk about openly.
The counselors whispered behind closed doors:
Breach of trust at school.
Inappropriate attention from adults who should have protected her.
A girl too bright, too striking, too unprotected in a world that devours softness.
Gia didn't need the details. She knew the shape of that kind of pain.
It might look different, but the taste was the same—like metal and regret and cold nights alone wondering what you did wrong to deserve it.
The session that day was group therapy—an exercise in public vulnerability Gia despised.
Everyone sat in a circle. Everyone was supposed to "share."
When it came to Syra's turn, she stared at her shoes, silent. The counselor prompted gently. Syra said nothing.
A boy snickered.
A girl across the room muttered under her breath, "Maybe if you spoke, you wouldn't be here."
Another light laugh, cutting through the heavy air.
Gia moved before she thought. She stood up, crossed the room, and sat down in the empty chair beside Syra. Said nothing. Did nothing dramatic. She just sat there. Solid. Present. An island in a sea of eyes.
Syra didn't look at her. But Gia saw the way her shoulders loosened a fraction. The counselor cleared their throat and moved on.
That was it. No grand gestures. No whispered promises of friendship. Just two broken girls, side by side, surviving a world that had already asked too much of them.
---
Later, when Gia was gathering her things, Syra hesitated near her. Still not meeting her gaze.
"Thank you," she whispered, so softly Gia almost didn't catch it.
Gia shrugged. "People who talk the most usually understand the least."
For the first time, Syra smiled—a small, cracked thing—but real.
Gia didn't say anything else. She didn't need to. They understood each other in the way only survivors could. Not friends. Not yet. But no longer alone either.
---
Present day.
Gia Liang stood in her high-rise apartment, looking out over the glittering skyline, remembering that moment.
How young Syra had been.
How fragile she had looked.
How quietly she had fought to stay standing.
And now—
Now, Syra was about to marry into one of the most powerful families in the country.
Wearing her scars like silk.
Walking with her head high through corridors meant to swallow girls like them whole.
Gia smiled faintly, the memory bittersweet in her chest. Maybe they hadn't come from the same world. Maybe they had different battles to fight. But they were still standing. And sometimes, that was the greatest victory of all.