CHAOTIC KWONG THE IMMORTAL FAMILY (邝一家）

Chapter 8: Their Father's Daughters

"LINGLING SIRILAK KWONG!!!"
Orm's voice echoed through the mansion like a thunderclap, shaking birds from the treetops and causing every staff member within earshot to either freeze or silently sprint in the opposite direction. Somewhere down the hallway, a maid clutched her rosary.

Namtan, ever the prophet of doom, casually strolled past the foyer and caught sight of her mother barreling forward like a storm cloud with perfect eyeliner. Without breaking her stride, she muttered to the nearest person, "Dad better run."

Lingling, who was halfway up the staircase with a cappuccino in one hand and her phone in the other, paused like a deer caught in the headlights of an emotional monsoon. She slowly turned, spotted Orm striding toward her with murder in her eyes, and made the first mistake of the evening—she tried to retreat.

Too late. A slipper sliced through the air like a heat-seeking missile. WHAP. Direct hit. Headshot.
Lingling's cappuccino wobbled. Her phone clattered to the ground.

"Honey..." she greeted cautiously, rubbing her temple with a wince, her voice lined with a nervous tremble. "Let's... talk about this?"

Orm stomped up the last few steps and held out her phone, screen blazing with a high-resolution photo.
In the image: Lingling, sitting at a low table surrounded by Bliss, the hottest new girl group in the industry. There were videos too—clips of her clapping along with them, even swaying slightly while one of them sang to her. There was even a frame of her laughing—like full belly-laugh, dimples on display, teeth sparkling. Happy. Too happy.

"What," Orm hissed, "is the meaning of this?!"

Lingling blinked. Twice. She leaned in to peer at the photo, then back at her furious wife with the gentlest smile she could muster. "It's not what it looks like," she said, hands half-raised in surrender. "They were the girl group Bliss—Channel 3 asked if our company could potentially sponsor their tour. It was strictly business."

Orm narrowed her eyes. "And the dancing?"

Lingling winced. "They insisted."

"And the hand-holding?"

"I kept my hands respectful!" Lingling protested, looking mildly insulted. "Two centimeters of air between me and that girl, I measured!"

Orm stared her down like a seasoned detective trying to crack a suspect. "Lingling. You looked like you were being courted."

"They were just friendly," Lingling replied. "I promise. One even called me 'Auntie.' You think I'd cheat with someone who calls me Auntie?"

Orm was still fuming, but the mental image of a teen idol calling her wife 'Auntie' seemed to soften her fury by 0.3%. She exhaled slowly, still glaring.

Lingling, ever the opportunist in marital crisis, reached for her wife's hand. "Teerak," she said sweetly, "I missed you the whole time. I couldn't even enjoy my coffee without thinking about your voice."

Orm narrowed her eyes again, but her lips twitched, just slightly. "You bought three albums from them."

"...to support young talent."

"You autographed their merch."

"...I was pretending to be the CEO's assistant, it was a PR exercise—very immersive."

Orm finally let out a long sigh and dramatically snatched her slipper back from the floor. "One more suspicious photo and I'm posting our wedding video on their fan page with the caption 'Sorry, she's taken by the woman who paid for her coffee machine that she didn't even use.'"

Lingling grinned. "Please do. Let them know I'm a businesswoman's wife. It's very exclusive."

Orm rolled her eyes, but her hand didn't pull away when Lingling gently kissed the fingers. War temporarily over. For now.

—

Kwonglomerate Multinational Corporation Headquarters – Executive Tower, 52nd Floor

Milk sat behind a sleek, imported black marble desk, deep in concentration as she flipped through the quarterly performance reports from one of the company's European hotels. Her glasses were perched halfway down her nose, her sleek bun just slightly disheveled from the sheer weight of capitalism. Just as she was about to mark a sharp red circle over a declining profit margin in Madrid, the door to her office swung open.

Without knocking.

"Security really doesn't do anything when you're my mom," Milk muttered, not even looking up.

Orm Kornnaphat Sethratanapong Kwong, looking effortlessly youthful in a crisp, fashion-forward pantsuit that no mortal mother should pull off that well, strutted in like she was about to host an awards show. "Surprise! Your more beautiful parent is here."

Milk finally looked up. "Wow. You came without Dad. That's... rare. Are you two fighting again or is this one of your 'let's teach your father a lesson' arcs?"

Orm didn't answer immediately. She walked toward the massive glass wall that overlooked the city, taking in the view like a queen surveying her kingdom.

"Milk," she said after a pause, "we own a recording label, right?"

"...Yes?" Milk blinked. "Why? Are you planning to acquire another one? I thought we were focusing on scaling down. We already own... what? A dairy empire, chicken farms that dad so proud of, a global retail chain, a luxury cosmetics line, three fashion houses, a logistics conglomerate, 10 hotels, a Thai restaurant in Paris, a rice plantation, and a space start-up—"

"I want to debut," Orm interrupted with a flourish, turning on her heel.

"...eh?"

"I said—I want to debut." Orm pointed to herself like she was the surprise drop of the season. "As in, I want to be a singer. Solo debut. Maybe with a sexy concept. Or soft retro. I haven't decided yet."

Milk's expression remained frozen. She blinked once. Twice. Then a third time for good measure. "...Mom, you're on the board of 150 global companies. Why are you suddenly pitching yourself like a K-pop trainee?"

"Excuse you, I still look like I'm in my early twenties, thanks to the family curse—bless it. And in case you've forgotten, I have pipes. I can belt Céline under pressure and hit Mariah in stilettos."

"I know you can sing, Mom," Milk said, pinching the bridge of her nose. "You're literally the only person I know who can do whistle tones while ironing." Then she squinted suspiciously. "But why now?"

Orm's expression shifted—an elegant flicker of annoyance beneath her perfected brows. "It's your father," she hissed dramatically.

"Ohhh no," Milk groaned. "Mom..."

"She was dancing with idols, Milk. Idols! Not once, not twice. I saw the footage. Laughing. Blushing! That's not how a married woman acts, even if she is our precious Lingling."

"Mom, I was there. It was a business meeting with Channel 3 and their new girl group. She wasn't flirting. They were all over her. And you know Dad—she could charm a rock. She's allergic to flirting back, well yeah after that incident where you refuses to talk to her for 30 years.."

Orm waved a dismissive hand. "Still. She needs to be reminded that she married a goddess who gave up her singing dreams to raise three daughters and manage an empire. I want her to sit in a VIP box, surrounded by roses, and watch me be adored."

Milk leaned back in her chair, eyeing her mother with a mix of awe and sheer disbelief. "...So this is revenge."

"Correction," Orm said, placing a hand over her chest like an Oscar speech was coming. "This is a reclamation of power. She wants to hang out with idols? Fine. I'll become one."

Milk stared. "You're so dramatic."

"Where do you think you got it from?" Orm shot back, already strutting toward the door. "Oh—and book me a vocal coach, a choreographer, and a personal branding team. I want a debut teaser out before Songkran."

The door shut with a click. Milk sat in stunned silence for a few seconds before picking up the phone.

"...Hi, could you call the PR team and tell them the CEO's mother is preparing a debut? Yes, seriously. No, I'm not drunk. Yes, she wants a sexy concept. No, she's not joking."

She hung up and muttered to herself, "God help Dad. She's gonna have to stan her own wife on M Countdown."

—

Kwong Estate – East Wing, Late Afternoon

Sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, casting soft golden rays across the spacious living room where Love, finally free from the shackles of audit season, lounged on the fluffy white carpet. Bonnie lay in front of her, gurgling happily in her tiny onesie that read Future CEO Like Mommy. Love had spent the last hour cooing, playing peekaboo, and now, trying her luck with early speech.

"Say mama, say mama~" she crooned, wiggling a stuffed lion in front of Bonnie's curious eyes. "Come on, genius baby, I believe in you~"

From the armchair nearby, Film raised an eyebrow, nursing a tea while absently rubbing her growing belly. "Love... she's three months old. If she starts speaking now, we're skipping 'Baby Einstein' and enrolling her directly into stock market simulations."

Love tilted her head back and grinned. "Well, she was terrifyingly advanced in that one timeline, remember? Started babbling about 'cost efficiency' at six months. Gave me chills, but also... made me cry a little with pride. Like, that's my girl."

Film groaned at the memory. "Don't remind me. I still have nightmares about her reorganizing the kitchen pantry by SKU codes."

Love leaned closer to Bonnie, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Now look at you, just a soft lil' bean again. Makes me feel like I imagined the whole thing..."

From the corner of her eye, she noticed how Film's hand had drifted protectively over her belly. Love smiled knowingly.

"Hmm... motherly instinct kicking in already?"

Film blushed lightly. "A bit," she admitted. "P'Namtan cried when I told her. Like—full-on sobbing. Said it was the best news since I agreed to marry her."

Love chuckled warmly. "Bonnie's gonna have a cousin to team up with. Hope they don't gang up on us."

"Too late," Film muttered with a smirk. "I already have cravings and a backache. They've begun their reign."

Just then, the living room door slammed open with a loud thud, and Noon stumbled in, looking as though she had either run a marathon or gone ten rounds with an angry jungle cat. Her blouse was rumpled, hair in a chaotic ponytail, and one sandal was halfway off.

Film blinked. "Noon? You okay?"

"No offense, but you look like you just fought a bear," Love added.

Noon sighed—loudly—and flopped onto the couch like gravity had finally won. "That... was not a bear."

Love and Film exchanged glances.

"It was Praewa."

A beat.

"Sex?" Love asked, half-teasing.

Both Film and Noon turned their heads sharply, glaring.

"No," Noon muttered with a groan. "Although I wish it was something that simple."

Love raised an eyebrow. "Then what happened? Did she throw a tantrum or something?"

Noon didn't answer right away. Instead, she fumbled for her phone and unlocked it. "You tell me," she said grimly, holding it out to them.

The video started shakily, clearly taken in a panic. On screen, Praewa stood in the middle of their shared bedroom. For a moment she seemed normal—irritated, maybe—but within seconds, her eyes glowed faintly, and then... she levitated. Off the ground. Hair lifting with static. And then came the screaming. Not her, but Noon. The camera angle dropped to show a blur of motion as Praewa charged mid-air, before the video cut.

Love's mouth dropped open. "What the hell—"

Film leaned closer, eyes wide. "She... flew at you. Like, full-on demon-movie style."

"I know!" Noon waved her arms. "Two years I've dated her. Two years. The most violent thing she ever did was elbow me in the face while stretching in bed. And now she's pulling off Marvel stunts?!"

Love's hand instinctively pulled Bonnie closer. "Okay. We need answers."

"I say we ask Dad," Film added, setting her tea down. "She's got the most supernatural experience in this family. Plus, you know... the family curse. Probably knows something."

Noon sighed and flopped further down the couch until she was nearly horizontal. "She better. Because if Praewa grows bat wings or breathes fire next week, I'm gonna need a support group."

"Where's Praewa now?" Love asked carefully.

"Sleeping," Noon muttered. "Like an angel. Snuggled under five blankets, hugging her frog plushie, drooling like nothing ever happened. Meanwhile I'm over here wondering if I should call an exorcist or just start wearing armor."

Film patted Noon's hand sympathetically. "Welcome to the Kwong family, babe. Buckle up."

Love chuckled, rocking Bonnie gently in her arms. "You're doing amazing, sweetie."

Somewhere upstairs, a soft thud echoed—followed by what sounded suspiciously like muffled chanting and a flicker of electricity.

Noon bolted upright.

"Okay I am calling her Dad."

—

Kwong Estate – West Wing, 2:43 AM

The walls trembled with a low, bone-deep hum. Lights flickered overhead in a rhythmic stutter, casting strange, strobe-like shadows across the floor. Somewhere in the distance, an eerie chanting echoed—like a whisper rolling through the very foundation of the mansion.

Namtan's eyes snapped open.

She shot upright in bed, heart pounding. Her instincts, sharpened by a life in the powerful and often supernatural Kwong family, were already screaming.

"Film?" she called out, voice laced with alarm as she turned toward the bathroom door that stood ajar, light spilling out from inside.

A moment later, Film appeared in the doorway, clutching her phone and looking pale. "Your sister is doing something," she said breathlessly, pointing toward the hall. "You need to see this. Now."

"What?" Namtan was already on her feet, slipping into a robe and bolting toward the hall, barefoot on polished marble. "Which sister?!"

"Take a guess!" Film shouted behind her.

Namtan's stomach dropped. "Praewa."

The corridor glowed unnaturally. As she sprinted toward the youngest Kwong's room, she felt the electricity in the air—literally. Static crackled along her skin. Paintings on the wall rattled in their frames.

She reached the doorway, and her breath caught.

Inside, Praewa hovered several feet off the floor, her body suspended like a marionette held up by invisible strings. Her hair floated weightlessly around her, and her eyes were shut tightly as if trapped in a dream—or something worse. The sigils and runes from the wallpaper shimmered faintly, responding to the energy in the room.

Noon stood in the corner, eyes wide in panic, phone forgotten on the floor beside her. Her hands were extended helplessly as if she wanted to help but didn't dare get closer.

"Namtan!" she cried. "I don't know what's going on! She just—she woke up mumbling in her sleep, and then she just lifted off! I didn't do anything—"

"Shhh, it's okay," Namtan said, though she had no idea if that were true. Her eyes were fixed on her little sister, heart racing. "Praewa...? Hey, kid, if you can hear me—come back down, alright? You're not starring in a Marvel movie."

Suddenly, without warning, Praewa's eyes snapped open. Glowing for a split second—silver, not human—and then her entire body dropped like a stone.

"Shit!" Namtan dove forward just as Noon rushed from the other side. They caught Praewa mid-fall, the impact sending all three of them collapsing onto the thick carpet.

"Praewa!" Namtan held her baby sister in her arms, checking for injuries. Her breathing was shallow but steady, her face damp with sweat. "Hey, hey, look at me. You okay?"

"Praewa—wake up," Noon murmured, brushing the hair out of her face. "Please..."

"Film!" Namtan shouted toward the hallway. "Call Dad! Call both our moms. Now!"

"Already on it!" Film's voice rang out from the background. "Do I need to call the family shaman too?!"

"Call everyone!" Namtan yelled. "She just levitated! We're past the point of subtle!"

Praewa stirred slightly, a faint groan escaping her lips as her head lolled to the side. Namtan cradled her close, brushing her thumb over her cheek. "You're okay. I've got you."

Noon was still kneeling beside them, shaken but refusing to let go of Praewa's hand. "She's never done this before. Never even... hinted at it."

Namtan gave her a grim look. "Neither did I. Until mine started. This might be her Awakening."

"You think it's the curse?" Noon asked quietly.

"I think it's something," Namtan whispered. "And we need answers fast—before someone gets hurt."

In the distance, more lights flickered... and somewhere below them, the sound of a door opening echoed through the halls.

—

Orm's voice sliced through the soft hum of the office air-conditioning as she flipped through the thick financial dossier Milk had handed her earlier that morning. Her perfectly manicured brow furrowed.

"Why are we losing money in Madrid?" she asked, her voice clipped, laced with irritation and concern. "This was supposed to be a flagship project."

Milk looked up from her laptop, tapping her pen thoughtfully against her notepad. "That's what I've been trying to figure out too, mom. I've flagged a couple of discrepancies—procurement costs, local contractor fees, sudden marketing changes. I've already scheduled a meeting with the regional team next week."

Orm sighed as she tossed the report onto the polished table. "I told your father—Madrid was a romantic idea, not a strategic one. But no, she insisted. Said it had 'symbolic significance' because she kissed me there on our date like it was fate's chosen capital city."

Milk chuckled. "You know how dad is. Everything turns into a love story in her head."

Orm huffed, crossing her arms. "And now it's turning into a financial tragedy."

They shared a small laugh before Milk leaned back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest. "Anyway, drama aside—I've been thinking. After the wedding ceremony, Love and I are planning to take a honeymoon. But instead of just us, we were thinking of turning it into a little family trip. Something relaxing. And maybe even invite the Limpatiyakorns too. You know, merge the chaos."

Orm's eyes lit up. "Oh, I love that idea. We could do Tuscany. Or Kyoto. Or maybe even Iceland! I'll handle the hotels, the flights, the catering—"

"No, no, mom," Milk raised a hand quickly, laughing. "Me and Love will handle it. After witnessing how you and dad took over Namtan's wedding like it was the royal gala of the century, we're gonna keep this one simple. No helicopter entrances. No ten-tier cakes with fireworks. No surprise K-pop idols."

Orm pouted. "Aww, but you're my baby. I just wanted the best for you."

"Mom," Milk said with a groan. "You've been pampering me for like... a hundred years. Namtan is already planning a quiet rebellion."

Orm's expression softened, and she walked over to her daughter, kneeling slightly to be eye-level. She gently cupped Milk's face in both hands, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Milk, just because I show you more tenderness... doesn't mean I love Namtan any less. You were born fragile, you know? You didn't cry right away. You scared us all. Your father carried you around the house like you were made of glass. We didn't even let the midwife touch you."

Milk blinked, her smile fading into something gentler, more reflective.

Orm continued, voice laced with emotion, "Namtan was born roaring, kicking like she'd already claimed the world. She didn't need my protection. But you... you needed my arms around you every night, every morning. So, yes, I may have cradled you more, but I never loved either of you more than the other. Just differently... because you needed me differently."

Milk's throat tightened. "I know, mom," she whispered. "I always knew."

They stayed like that for a moment—silent, warm, understanding. The luxury office around them, with all its power and polish, faded in that moment into nothing but a little bubble of mother and daughter.

Then Orm sniffled and stood abruptly, straightening her designer blazer.

"Still... let me at least pick the hotel. One suite. Just one. With an infinity pool."

Milk laughed, wiping her eye. "Okay. Just one. But no flamingos this time."

Orm gasped, scandalized. "That flamingo was imported from Argentina and trained to curtsy—"

"And it pecked the mayor's wife."

They both burst out laughing.

Family empire? Complicated.

Family love? Unshakable.

Just as the laughter between mother and daughter softened into a warm silence, Orm's phone buzzed sharply from the desk, cutting through the moment like a blade. The distinct ringtone—one she'd begrudgingly assigned to her "wayward husband/wife"—flashed on the screen: Cheating Wife. (Yes she changed her name ID in spite)

Orm groaned dramatically, already rolling her eyes as she reached for the phone. "Speak of the devil in heels," she muttered, glancing at Milk. "Let me guess... she realized being surrounded by fangirls doesn't fill the hole left by my divine presence?"

Milk smirked. "Or she forgot her wallet again."

Orm answered the call with the tone of someone ready to unleash a storm. "What? Finally learned your lesson, darling?" she drawled, walking toward the window as if that would somehow shield her from the idiocy she expected to hear.

But on the other end, Lingling's voice was anything but smug. It was tight. Rushed. Low, like she was trying to keep her panic in check. "Honey, come back now," she said. "It's... it's Praewa."

Orm froze.

Everything inside her shifted in an instant. Her spine straightened, her joking expression vanished, and her hand clenched slightly around the phone.

"What happened?" she asked, voice suddenly sharp, maternal instinct snapping into high gear.

"She collapsed earlier—levitated first, then dropped like a stone," Lingling's voice was trembling now, though she was trying to sound composed. "Namtan said there were chanting sounds before it happened. She and Noon caught her just in time. She's breathing, but unconscious. I don't know what triggered it. I just—Orm, please come home."

Orm was already moving. "I'm on my way."

She ended the call and turned to Milk, her face a complete transformation from moments earlier. No longer the teasing mother wrapped in corporate silk and soft affection—she was all steel and purpose now.

Milk stood before she could speak, already reading the change in her mother's expression.

"Praewa?" Milk asked, reaching for her blazer from the coat stand.

Orm nodded once.

"I'll get the car," Milk said without hesitation, striding toward the door.

"I'll call Namtan and tell her we're on the way. Tell security to have the gates open," Orm added as she reached for her own bag and heels.

Milk paused at the door, glancing back. "You think it's... happening again?"

"I hope not," Orm whispered, mostly to herself. "But if it is, we better pray it hasn't awoken what we sealed last time."

The playful air from earlier had vanished. The Kwong women were moving now—not as heirs of a corporation, but as daughters, mothers, protectors of something far older than the empire they built.

And in the heart of that urgency... was Praewa.

—

"Baby, baby, wake up."

Lingling's voice trembled as she gently patted her youngest daughter's cheek. The flickering lights above cast a soft glow over the pale face of Praewa, still nestled in her father's lap. Her lips were slightly parted, breath shallow but steady. Then, slowly, her lashes fluttered open.

"Papa?" she whispered, her voice weak.

Lingling let out a sigh of relief so deep it rattled in her chest. "Baby, you're awake!" she cried, pulling Praewa into a tight embrace, not even trying to hide the tears. "You had me worried half to death."

"What happened?" Praewa mumbled, clutching her pounding head. "I... I don't remember anything..."

Before Lingling could answer, hurried footsteps echoed through the hall. The door burst open, and Orm stormed in with Milk right behind her. The moment she laid eyes on her youngest, Orm ran to her side and dropped to her knees.

"Praewa," she breathed, gathering the girl into her arms and scanning her from head to toe. "Are you hurt? Anything broken? Fever? Chest tightness? Don't lie to me."

"I'm okay, Mama," Praewa said softly, overwhelmed by the sudden cocoon of care.

Orm's eyes searched hers for any flicker of deceit before pressing a kiss to her forehead.

Meanwhile, Milk had been silent—watching. Assessing. Her face was composed, but her eyes were focused, razor sharp. She looked to her mother. Their eyes met. Orm gave her a single, barely perceptible nod.

Milk turned to Namtan and jerked her head toward the door. "Come with me."

"What?" Namtan asked, confused. "Where?"

"We need to go to the basement storage," Milk said as she grabbed a flashlight from the emergency drawer and tossed Namtan a coat.

"Why the hell would we—?"

"It's back," Milk said, low and grim.

Namtan's breath caught in her throat. "What's back?"

Milk hesitated. Of course. Orm had erased their memories. Everyone's—except hers.

"Just... come with me. I'll explain on the way."

Flashback

The engine roared like a beast let loose. Milk gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles white as the speedometer surged past 220 km/h. The night blurred into streaks of headlights and shadows, but she didn't dare slow down. Not when Praewa's life hung in the balance.

Orm sat beside her, clutching the edge of her seat—not from fear of the speed, but from the weight of what was coming. Her fingers trembled slightly, though her voice didn't when she finally spoke.

"Milk... you still remember the incantation I taught you, right?"

Her eyes never left the road. "Every word."

Orm turned toward her, her voice now barely above a whisper, but sharp as a blade. "Seal it back. No hesitation. No mercy."

Milk gave a single, curt nod. "I will. Before it touches her again."

End of flashback

As Milk and Namtan descended the winding staircase toward the basement vault, Namtan pulled her coat tighter. The air grew colder with each step, thick with something heavy. Old. Alive.

"You remember when Praewa got sick when she was ten?" Milk asked as they reached the reinforced steel door with five locks and ancient talismans pasted along the frame.

"No," Namtan said. "I mean... I remember she fainted, but..."

"You don't. Mom wiped it."

"What?!"

"She didn't want you and Dad to live in fear. I was the only one she didn't erase. Because I was the only one who could stop it. If it ever came back."

Namtan's face darkened. "What is it?"

"Not a ghost. Not quite a demon. It's something ancient. A parasite that links itself to a host's life force. It latched onto Praewa when she was ten. Almost killed her." Milk's voice cracked slightly. "She needed a blood transfusion. I was the only match. That's how I became... connected to it. Close enough in signature that I can trick it, redirect it, or... seal it."

"And the levitating—?"

"It's trying to take over her again. It senses she's maturing, growing stronger. It wants to hijack her body."

They reached the door. Milk's stomach dropped.

A maid had torn one of the talismans while trying to clean up water damage from a leak. The ripped paper lay in shreds. The seals were broken.

"Shit," Milk muttered. "It's awake."

Suddenly, the temperature plummeted. Wind howled up from beneath the floorboards, and the walls began to vibrate.

Namtan reached for her phone. "Should we call Mom and Dad?"

"No," Milk said. Her eyes glowed with a flicker of something ancient. "I've got this."

She placed her palm against the steel door and whispered words only she and Orm knew. Words passed down by the guardians of their bloodline. The door creaked open, revealing a long, dark corridor—and the shimmering, unearthly form of the entity, writhing like smoke trying to take shape.

It froze.

And then—it looked at her.

No... not her.

It thought she was Praewa.

Milk smiled grimly.

"Let's dance, you son of a bitch."

—

Orm sense that the thing is free now. She looks around and sees that the energy is strong. She looks at her wife "Ling."

"Yes?"

"Take care of everyone."

"Where are you going?" Lingling asked.

"Milk and Namtan is not strong enough...I need to go help them."

"Help them what? Teerak? Teerak?!"

Orm ignore Lingling and she runs to the basement. She has no magic left in her body but she has her witty mind.

—

Deep in the basement vault beneath the Kwong estate—once sealed, now disturbed—the air buzzed with a volatile darkness. Ancient talismans fluttered uselessly where once they held firm, scraps of protection now trampled beneath chaos. The walls pulsed like something alive, reacting to the clash of power within.

Namtan was hurled violently against the jagged stone wall with a thunderous thud. Blood spattered from her lips as she collapsed, motionless.

"NAMTAN!" Milk screamed, her voice ragged with panic. She rushed toward her sister, only to be intercepted as the monstrous force swirled in her direction—shadowy, formless, and seething with malevolent hunger.

In the blink of an eye, Orm burst in between, her hand outstretched, talisman blazing with weak but stubborn light.

"Milk! Get back!" Orm commanded, her breath already short, her limbs shaking. The protective charm flickered uncertainly as the entity bore down on them.

"Mom, no!" Milk cried, her voice cracking. "You're out of power—you can't fight it!"

"I will not let it harm any of my daughters!" Orm shouted, defiance surging in her words even as the darkness cracked the charm in her hand like brittle glass.

The entity lunged.

Instinct overrode fear. Milk dove for the ceremonial sword—Lingling's old blade, long since retired, gathering dust beside the shrine. She snatched it from the floor, the runes along its edge igniting as if recognizing her bloodline, and she slashed through the entity's assault just in time to protect her mother.

It screamed. Not in pain—but in rage.

"Why is this thing so drawn to Praewa?!" Milk shouted over the roar of power, her blade trembling in her grip.

Orm, breathing hard, met her daughter's eyes. "Because Praewa inherited my power," she confessed, voice cracked with guilt. "That thing feeds on divine energy. It never attacked me because I can control mine—but your sister... she can't yet!"

The shadow surged again.

And then—

A wail, soft and piercing, echoed through the cavernous space. A cry far too young for this battlefield.

Everyone froze.

From the stairwell above, Lingling had just burst into the chaos, flanked by Love, Film, Praewa and Noon—all breathless and pale-faced. And in Lingling's arms, little Bonnie had begun to glow.

The cavern had become a battleground of shadows and desperation, the air heavy with magic and blood. The entity, a monstrous relic of ancient power, screamed with hunger as it spiraled toward Orm, Milk, and the barely-conscious Namtan. The protective talisman Orm held had long since crumbled to ash. Milk's blade, still slick with energy, trembled in her grip. But it was not enough. The entity was too strong, too old, too angry.

And in that final, breathless moment—when it lunged again with a roar that cracked the very stone beneath their feet—

A cry rang out.

It was light and high-pitched. Not a scream of fear or pain. A baby's wail.

Everyone turned.

Lingling had just stormed into the scene, having sprinted with every ounce of her strength from the upper floors. Behind her, Film, Love, and Noon stumbled into the chamber—only to stop dead in their tracks as the heat, light, and darkness clashed violently around them.

In Lingling's arms, Bonnie was glowing.

Not figuratively.

Glowing.

A radiant, golden aura poured from the baby's skin, threads of pure, pulsing energy unraveling from her like sunlight in motion. Her little eyes, usually wide with innocent curiosity, now shimmered with something ancient and ageless.

"What the hell—?" Lingling barely had time to ask before Bonnie's tiny body lifted from her arms.

Levitated.

"BONNIE?!" Love shrieked, lunging forward—but Bonnie was already out of reach, rising slowly into the air, as though lifted by an invisible hand. Her body rotated once mid-air, and her small giggle echoed through the chamber like a crystal bell in a cathedral of dread.

The darkness screamed.

The entity writhed, recoiling violently as the light from Bonnie's body slammed into it like a tidal wave. It contorted, howled, and thrashed—smoke pouring off of it as if it were burning from the inside out.

Orm shielded her eyes, her breath caught in her throat. Namtan, weakly conscious, blinked upward in disbelief. Milk stood rooted in place, her sword slackening in her grip as she stared at her daughter.

Bonnie lifted both her arms into the air.

And the entity... cracked. Like glass under too much pressure. With a final scream—inhuman, bone-chilling—it shattered into a million black shards of ash and vanished into nothing.

No sealing.
No banishing.
Just... obliteration.

The chamber fell deathly still. The oppressive energy vanished like fog in sunlight.

Bonnie floated for one last beat—laughing joyfully, arms flapping—then slowly began to drift back down, golden dust swirling around her like the last remnants of a dream. Love rushed forward, catching her just as her tiny feet reached the floor.

"Oh my god... Bonnie..." Love whispered, cradling her daughter to her chest. Her hands were trembling, but Bonnie was calm, her eyes shining with glee, one tiny fist clutching a chunk of her mom's hair.

No one moved. Even the cave itself seemed to be holding its breath.

Orm, frozen mid-step, dropped to her knees, staring in awe. Milk had tears streaming down her cheeks—silent, stunned tears that she hadn't even realized were falling. Namtan managed a faint, broken laugh before she slumped fully against the wall. Lingling, her face pale, reached out blindly for Orm's hand and held it tightly.

Film was the first to break the silence, her voice cracking under the weight of what they had just witnessed. "Did... did our niece just perform a divine exorcism?"

"...While wearing a onesie with cartoon strawberries," Noon added, wide-eyed.

Lingling blinked, still clutching Orm's hand like a lifeline. "She's either a gift from the heavens... or the reincarnation of some lost god."

"Or both," Film muttered.

Love looked down at Bonnie, who was now sucking her thumb peacefully, as if vaporizing a supernatural entity was just a normal part of her bedtime routine.

"You little monster," Love murmured. "You just saved your entire family."

Bonnie looked up, gave a sweet, sparkly smile—

And then let out the loudest poop imaginable.

A long, stunned beat of silence hung in the air, the kind of pause that follows not just a battle—but a miracle.

Bonnie, divine baby exorcist, giggled once more, completely unbothered by the fact that she had just saved the entire family with a lightshow worthy of an ancient prophecy. Still nestled safely in Love's arms, she had now fully committed herself to the very serious task of chewing on her own foot, her chubby cheeks dimpled with every gurgle and contented sigh.

Lingling—who had seen war, magic, heartbreak, and the horror of her own children dating girls who didn't return Tupperware—finally broke the silence, her tone bone-dry as she slowly turned to Orm. "Yep. Definitely divine. Heaven-sent... with an attitude."

Orm let out a breathless laugh, more from relief than humor. "She gets that from your side."

The tension cracked like glass. Milk started laughing first—a short, broken, disbelieving sound that sounded far too close to a sob. Then Film chuckled, shaking her head as she clutched Noon's hand like a lifeline. Namtan, still leaning against the wall with dirt on her cheek and dried blood at her lip, wheezed out a giggle that quickly turned into a coughing fit. Even Lingling laughed, if only to keep from screaming.

They had survived.

Against all odds, with no plan, with only a baby in a strawberry onesie and the lingering scent of brimstone in the air—they had survived.

And at the very heart of it all, the one who had turned the tide... was Bonnie.

Bonnie, whose greatest concerns up until now had been nap schedules and whether or not the plastic giraffe rattled enough.

Love exhaled loudly and shoved Bonnie into Milk's arms with the exhausted aggression of someone who'd just faced death and was now battling something equally horrifying. "Here. Your turn to change her diaper. I am not on diaper duty today. My spiritual tank is empty, and this onesie is radioactive."

Milk stared down at her daughter, who was still glowing faintly. Literally glowing. "She just destroyed an interdimensional entity with her laugh and light aura," she said, her voice distant. "I don't even think her poop is mortal anymore."

"Welcome to parenthood," Love deadpanned.

Milk, still too shell-shocked to argue, cradled Bonnie gingerly, holding her like a grenade with a cute face. "I just—I can't process this."

From the back, Namtan snickered—barely able to sit upright, but clearly enjoying herself.

"Oh, laugh all you can now," Milk snapped, narrowing her eyes at her twin. "Because yours? Yours is next. And I hope—hope—your baby ruins your furniture, your sleep schedule, and your hairline."

Namtan grinned smugly. "Joke's on you. My baby's already learning to kick. She's gonna be a Muay Thai champ before she's born."

"Oh good," Milk muttered. "Another one possessed by chaos. Great."

Lingling was still trying to wipe soot and surprise from her face when she added dryly, "Let's just hope the next baby doesn't come with glowing eyes and the power to smite demons. Or do. Honestly, at this point I'm just along for the ride."

Bonnie, now calmly cooing in Milk's arms, blinked up at her mother and gave a soft, suspiciously self-satisfied smile.

Then farted.

Loudly.

"Yep," Milk said flatly. "Still a baby."

—

Praewa sat on the edge of her bed, nerves coiled tight in her chest. The mansion had gone too quiet—again—and her parents had left in such a rush earlier that the silence now felt thick with unspoken danger. Her heart pounded with each second that ticked by. She could still feel the ghost of that earlier possession—the cold fingers around her spine, the ringing in her ears, the weightlessness before everything went black. The memory clung like cobwebs.

And then, the sound. Footsteps. Voices. Laughter?

She didn't wait.

Throwing off her blanket, Praewa bolted from her room barefoot and frantic. She barely registered the ache in her limbs or the lingering fog in her head as she tore down the hallway.

"P'Milk! P'Namtan!"

Her sisters had just come up the stairs, bruised and dirty, still marked by the chaos they had fought through—but alive. Whole. Standing. That was enough.

Praewa flung herself into their arms with such force that it knocked all three of them back a step. She squeezed them like she'd never let go.

"Ow—ow ow ow ow!" Namtan yelped in pain.

Praewa immediately pulled back, eyes wide. "P'Namtan?! Are you okay?!"

"I think I broke a few ribs..." Namtan hissed through a tight-lipped grimace.

Milk glanced down at her twin, then at Praewa, her voice calm but certain. "Praewa can heal you."

Praewa blinked. "What?"

"You did it before," Milk said, touching her sister's arm gently. "You just didn't realize. Come on. Try again."

Praewa hesitated, then nodded slowly, determination rising in her chest like a tide. "Okay. Come, P'Namtan. Let me help."

She wrapped her arms around Namtan and guided her back into her room. The sisters disappeared behind the door, the soft light of the room flickering faintly as the door clicked shut.

Lingling and Orm stood quietly at the edge of the hallway, hands intertwined, both still a little dusty from the basement, their clothes wrinkled, their hair mussed. They looked exhausted—but there was a depth of quiet love in their eyes that only time could shape.

No matter how many centuries passed, no matter how many lifetimes they lived or how many bodies they inhabited, their children—these three girls—would always be their babies. Born of magic, chaos, and miracles. Raised with a love as fierce as any curse they'd ever faced.

Down the hallway, Love stood next to Noon, and Film leaned against the wall between them, arms crossed and face unreadable.

The three women exchanged looks, their eyes meeting like battle-scarred soldiers finding each other after a war. They didn't speak at first, but the bond between them crackled in the air like something ancient and decided.

Love looked toward the closed bedroom door and shook her head with a small smile. "You know... I thought marrying into this family would be, like, once-a-year drama. Wedding fights, family dinners, maybe a cursed heirloom or two."

Film snorted. "Try 'levitating baby destroys ancient evil with sunlight and poops in the aftermath.'"

"I should've run when Praewa started glowing," Noon muttered under her breath. "But no. I stayed because she made me breakfast once."

The three of them stared at each other.

And then they laughed.

Long, tired, too-loud laughter that echoed through the hallway. They weren't just partners anymore. Not just wives or girlfriends. They were something else now—something sacred. The Sister-In-Laws. The Three Mortals. The ones without superpowers, curses, divine heritage, or glowing eyes. Just ordinary women who chose to stay. Who chose to love.

And in this family, that meant everything.

Behind the closed door, the soft light pulsed brighter for a moment, and then dimmed again. Namtan's laugh filtered faintly through the wood.

And just like that, the house exhaled—together.

—

For as long as they could remember, both Namtan and Milk had aggressively denied ever being like their father.

"No way. I am nothing like Dad," Milk would scoff, arms crossed, an exact replica of Lingling's expression during a particularly spicy boardroom meeting.

"Please," Namtan would deadpan. "I'm way more composed."

But denial, as always, had a shelf life.

It all started as a passing joke.

One afternoon, while lounging across her bed, Praewa casually tossed a comment into the void: "You know... Milk tilts her head exactly like Papa whenever someone suggests something she thinks is dumb. It's that same little flick. You can practically hear the mental 'bless your incompetent heart.'"

Namtan, sprawled upside down across the same bed, made a noise of protest, muffled by a pillow. "Excuse you, I am nothing like Papa. I'm chill. I don't interrogate people with my eyebrows."

Praewa snorted. "You literally did that to your UberEats guy last week when he forgot your sauce."

"That was justified."

Still, both twins brushed off the comparison. Coincidence, they claimed. Just a fluke of genetics. Maybe a few unconscious mannerisms, sure, but them? Like Lingling Kwong? The iron-fisted legend? Absolutely not.

And then... Noon happened.

Quiet, curious, and more observant than all three sisters combined, she had spent the last few months slowly, diligently, lovingly crafting a case study for the ages. Hidden GoPro clips, phone recordings, home security camera footage—Noon had evidence. Not gossip. Not theory.

Proof.

It began innocently enough. A clip of Milk subtly shifting an entire meeting agenda by ten minutes so Love could squeeze in a power nap before her client's quarterly reports. (The camera cut to Love sleeping peacefully on the couch behind her with one eye twitching from a dream about tax codes.)

"Fun fact," Noon said cheerfully, pressing pause, "P'Milk owns the company now. Bought it last month. Didn't tell anyone. Just so she could keep Love's manager from yelling at her over lunch breaks."

"Typical P'Milk." Praewa scoffs.

Then came the board game clip—Namtan, clearly five points ahead, suddenly miscalculating and "accidentally" losing to Film. Just in time for Film to erupt into giggles and throw her arms around her.

The room was already filling with suspicious glances and giggles when the crown jewel of the project played.

Noon smirked and clicked play on her favorite montage.

Scene one: A three-way split screen of Lingling, Namtan, and Milk being called by their wives in escalating tones of "You're-dead-meat."

First, Orm's voice, sharp and terrifying:

Orm: "Lingling Kwong!!"
Orm: "Lingling Sirilak Kwong!!!"
Orm: "LING KWONG!!!"

Each time, Lingling's soul visibly left her body, even in low-res footage.

Next up: Film.

Namtan: "Lolen~" she cooed in a cutesy voice, trying to sweet talk her way out of trouble.

Film: "Mai ao, P'Namtan."
Film: "Mai ao. Mai. Ao."
Film: "P'NAMTAN MAI AO!"
Film: "TIPNAREE KWONG! MAI AO!!"

Namtan flinched in 4K.

Then, the final and deadliest round: Love.

Milk: Laughing heartily, probably about a pun.

Love: "P'Milk."
Love: "P. MILK."
Love: "MILK PANSA VOSBEIN KWONG!!!"

Milk's laughter cut off like someone had pressed mute. Her face was the human version of the buffering symbol.

By the time the screen faded to black with ominous piano music and the words The Kwong Simp Compilation: Volume One, Praewa was doubled over, wheezing into a blanket.

Noon, with her usual calm, sipped her tea. "I swear, babe," she said, nudging Praewa's arm, "your sisters? Total carbon copies of your dad. And their taste in women? All business-class boss-lady energy. Terrifying. Beautiful. Efficiency in heels."

Praewa blinked, still half-laughing. "But then... me? Who do I take after?"

It was a question she'd heard most of her life. Everyone said she was her mother's clone—same quiet grace, same resting concerned face, same soulful presence. But when she thought of Orm... she thought of chaos. Of laughter at the wrong times, of half-finished to-do lists, of entire kitchen counters overtaken by midnight curry experiments. Of weird dance moves. Of shouting matches with soap operas. Of drama and glitter and noise.

That wasn't Praewa. She didn't dance in thunderstorms. She watched the storm roll in, calculated the wind speed, and prepared a generator.

"You?" Noon said softly, leaning back on the pillows beside her. "Honestly... you're more like your dad too. Calm. Collected. A little shy unless someone gives you a push. You're Papa with a touch more poetry."

She tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Minus the overreacting. Thank god."

Praewa opened her mouth to argue—then paused.

She thought of how she handled emergencies with precise triage, how she never panicked but always moved. How her strength wasn't in how loud she was—but in how steady she stayed. She thought of how Noon had once told her she made her feel like a lighthouse in the middle of a storm.

And now... it made sense.

"Oh my god," she whispered, eyes widening. "I'm the stealth Lingling Kwong."

Noon grinned, triumphant. "Told you. And the rest of us? We're just dating the same personality type in different fonts."

Praewa buried her face in a pillow, mortified. "I'm gonna need an entirely new identity."

"You'll still be my girlfriend," Noon murmured with a fond smile, pressing a kiss to Praewa's cheek. "Just... one with a very suspicious resemblance to her terrifyingly competent father."

Praewa groaned, dramatically flopping backward onto the bed as if the ceiling could somehow offer her an escape from this existential spiral. "This is not the identity crisis I signed up for today," she muttered.

Noon only chuckled, watching her with a teasing glint in her eyes.

"I mean—okay fine—sure, I maybe walk like Papa when I'm mad," Praewa conceded, raising a hand and mimicking Lingling's signature brisk, heels-clicking-down-the-hall strut. "But I don't yell about blood test forms or confiscate everyone's sugar stash like she does."

"You don't have to," Noon said, smug. "You just give people that look, and suddenly even the vending machine resets out of respect."

Praewa scoffed. "Well, at least I'm not scared of you like my sisters are of their wives."

"Mmhm," Noon replied, lips twitching in amusement. She slowly raised a single fist into the air, flexing it with dramatic slowness—just like Film did whenever Namtan tried to sass her. Her expression was dead serious, but her eyes sparkled with challenge. "Are you sure about that?"

Praewa narrowed her eyes.

Noon held her glare for exactly two seconds... before squeaking and folding like a lawn chair. She let out a soft, whimpering laugh and threw herself into Praewa's lap. "Okay okay! You win! The look! You've inherited the look of your mother!"

Praewa burst out laughing, gently patting Noon's head like a victorious empress. "Maybe you should just join my sisters and Papa in their 'I'm Afraid of My Wife' support group. They meet every Thursday. Apparently there's snacks. And fear."

Noon groaned. "Do they make you wear matching T-shirts that say 'Yes, Honey' in twelve languages?"

"I think Namtan designed them herself," Praewa replied with a wink. "She gave Papa the glittery one."

"That," Noon said, lifting a finger in mock accusation, "that sass right there? That is pure Orm energy. I take it back. You're Mama's kid after all."

Praewa flipped her hair with exaggerated grace and lifted her chin. "Of course I am. I am Orm Kornnaphat's daughter," she declared proudly, striking a pose like she was accepting a Nobel Prize for sass.

Noon clutched her heart. "There she is! The chaos and the confidence! Welcome to the club, baby."

Just then, from the living room, a familiar voice shattered the domestic peace like a war horn sounding from the kitchen.

"LINGLING KWONG! WHERE IS THE SOY SAUCE I SPECIFICALLY MARKED 'DO NOT TOUCH'?!"

There was a beat of silence, followed by a very sheepish reply:

"I thought that was a suggestion! It wasn't even in all caps!!"

Praewa and Noon froze for a second... then promptly dissolved into hysterical laughter, doubling over each other, clutching their sides.

"Yup," Noon gasped between cackles. "You're definitely your dad's daughter."

Praewa couldn't even argue anymore. She wiped a tear from her eye, chest aching from laughing too hard. "God help me," she said, voice wobbling from mirth, "but I think I'm turning into both my parents."

Noon wrapped an arm around her and grinned. "It's okay, babe. You inherited the best parts of both. Papa's brain and Mama's flair. Basically, you're an adorable, terrifying powerhouse."

Praewa smiled softly, warmth blooming in her chest. "You think so?"

"I know so," Noon said, kissing her temple.

From the hallway, a clatter sounded, followed by Lingling's distressed yell:
"THE SOY SAUCE BOTTLE WAS GLASS?! WHY IS EVERYTHING GLASS IN THIS HOUSE?!"

Orm shouted back, "BECAUSE YOU BOUGHT THEM!!"

Noon tilted her head. "Also, your parents need supervision. Again."

Praewa sighed, leaning into Noon's embrace. "It's a full-time job. And unfortunately... it's inherited."

—

"Mmm..." Milk hummed thoughtfully, one hand resting under her chin, the other tapping rhythmically on the glossy pages of the wedding catalog Love had spread out before them. Her brows were furrowed, eyes narrowed in deep contemplation, as if trying to solve the mysteries of the universe—or at least figure out why every "Simple Elegance" theme somehow looked suspiciously like a minimalist Instagram ad.

Across the table, Love sat with her legs crossed and an air of calculated calm. "Simple and elegant," she said confidently, tapping her finger against a page showing a sleek, modern ballroom with white orchids and soft gold accents. "Clean lines. Subtle palette. Nothing ostentatious."

Milk glanced up at her fiancée, brow arching. "You do realize my parents are Orm Kornnaphat Sethratanapong and Lingling Sirilak Kwong, right? They think a ten-piece orchestra is 'casual background noise.' they are even richer than the richest man in the world."

Love exhaled slowly, lips twitching as she tried to keep her cool. "I know. I was there when your sister got married, remember? There were fireworks. Indoors. I still think I have mild hearing damage."

"And a horse," Milk added, deadpan. "They rode in on a horse."

Love gave her a look. "Yes. A horse that glittered. Somehow."

Milk grinned. "That's because Dad spray-painted it herself."

There was a moment of silence before they both cracked up laughing, the tension momentarily dissolving into giggles.

But as the laughter faded, Love's smile dimmed slightly. Her fingers fidgeted with the corner of the page, a tiny crease forming beneath her thumb. "Still..." she said softly, "I don't want people to talk. If we go too big, they'll say I'm marrying you for your money. That I'm just... showing off."

Milk blinked. "Is that what's bothering you?"

Love shrugged, eyes a little too focused on a bouquet that neither of them liked. "I know I shouldn't care. But I do. I've worked so hard to be where I am. I didn't want anyone to ever think I took shortcuts. That I became someone's wife to be someone."

"You didn't become someone's wife," Milk said gently. "You became mine."

Love looked up, startled at the quiet conviction in Milk's voice.

Milk closed the catalog and stood, walking around the table. She crouched in front of Love, her fingers brushing against hers, then holding them firmly. The engagement ring on Love's finger sparkled under the overhead light—simple, elegant, chosen by Milk herself.

She kissed the back of Love's hand softly. "If anyone should feel the need to prove something, it's me," she said, her voice low and steady. "I'm the one who got you pregnant before we were married. I'm the one who let you walk into work with your head held high while people whispered behind your back."

"Milk—"

"I'm the one," Milk continued, not letting her speak yet, "who got to watch you carry our daughter for nine months, go through all the discomfort, the pain, the exhaustion—and still be you. Brave. Brilliant. Beautiful. You gave me a family, Love. You gave me us. So if there's anything in this world you want—be it a cathedral wedding with chandeliers imported from the moon or a parade of swans carrying party favors—just say it. You deserve everything I have, everything I am. Not because of what you endured, but because you let me love you through it all."

Love's lips parted, her eyes glistening with sudden emotion. She looked at Milk—not as the heiress of the Kwong empire or as her polished, suited-up fiancée—but as the girl who once panicked over how to install a crib and cried when Bonnie kicked for the first time.

"I didn't do it alone," Love whispered. "You were with me. Every step."

Milk smiled. "That's how it's always going to be."

Love let out a shaky laugh and pulled her fiancée into a kiss—slow, deep, and full of gratitude. When they parted, her voice was teasing again, though still thick with warmth. "So... if I say I want fireworks and a floating stage..."

Milk smirked. "Already ordered."

"Wait, what?"

"Surprise?"

Love covered her face with both hands. "God, I really am marrying a Kwong."

Milk grinned and pulled her into a hug. "The best decision you ever made."

And in that quiet room, filled with catalogs and half-made plans, one thing became clear: it wouldn't matter how big or small the wedding was. Because their love had already made the biggest statement of all.

—

"She wanted to be a princess?" Orm repeated, eyes wide with immediate enthusiasm and just a hint of dangerous sparkle.

"Yes, Mom," Milk said, nodding with an indulgent sigh. "Apparently, that's been her dream since she was a kid. A royal wedding. The works. She wants to feel like an actual princess for a day."

Orm gasped, hand dramatically placed over her heart. "Why didn't you lead with that?!" she exclaimed, already halfway out of her chair as if her entire wardrobe had just declared a state of emergency. "We are absolutely doing this. There will be tiaras. There will be carriages. There will be enough tulle to suffocate the entire kingdom of Denmark!"

Milk blinked. "Wait—carriages?"

Orm didn't answer. She had already turned toward the hallway, calling out to the entire house like a monarch summoning her court. "LING! GET THE LADDER! WE'RE OPENING THE VAULT!"

Milk groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "Mom. Mom. Chill."

Orm paused mid-step and turned to her daughter with a look that suggested "chill" had been personally banned from her vocabulary. "Milk, darling, do you know how long it's been since I've worn a proper tiara? Since someone let me put rhinestones on everything without judging me?"

"Dad judges you every time you bedazzle the salt shaker," Milk muttered.

Orm grinned, unapologetic. "Exactly! But Love gets it. She wants a fairytale wedding, and the Kwongs excel at over-the-top."

Milk looked warily toward the hallway. "Mom, when you say 'vault'..."

"I mean the wardrobe annex under the east wing behind the panic room," Orm said casually. "You remember—the one with the climate control system and the rotating platforms."

"...I thought that was a myth."

"Please. Myths don't require retina scans," Orm winked.

Before Milk could respond, Lingling's voice echoed faintly from somewhere down the corridor. "ORM, IF YOU OPEN THAT ROOM WITHOUT ME I SWEAR—"

"Too late!" Orm yelled gleefully back. "The princess vault is being raided!"

Milk just sat there, resigned as she heard the distant, frantic sound of feet on marble flooring—her parents, the two most extra people on the planet, now on a mission to turn her wedding into something out of a Disney fever dream.

And despite herself, Milk smiled. Because maybe, just maybe, this was exactly what Love deserved: a day full of magic, madness, and a family who loved her like royalty.

Tiaras and all.

—

"Mama has tiaras?!" Praewa gasped as she stepped into the vault behind her parents, eyes wide as saucers. "And I never knew about this?!"

She was frozen at the threshold like a kid walking into a magical kingdom—because honestly, it was a magical kingdom. The room was vast, more museum than wardrobe, with softly glowing lights that bathed everything in a faint, regal shimmer. Rows of glistening headpieces, necklaces that probably belonged in a royal treasury, racks of couture, and display cases that rotated gently on velvet cushions surrounded them like a private exhibit curated by pure luxury and unchecked chaos.

Orm turned with a dazzling grin, arms spread like a game show host revealing a grand prize. "Darling, this is nothing compared to what your father has bought you over the years."

Lingling, who was already busy prying open a case labeled 'Legacy Tiaras – Dangerous Sparkle Level', looked over her shoulder. "She's not wrong. Didn't I buy you the Paraiba Tourmaline that nearly bankrupted that entire auction house?"

"Or the custom diamond constellation necklace made to match the exact star alignment of your birth?" Orm added helpfully.

"Or... an actual planet?" Lingling said, now pulling down a tiara that looked like it could summon ancient queens from the grave. "I bought you a planet, Praewa. Praewa. It's registered in your name. There's paperwork."

Praewa blinked slowly. "Okay, yes. But this is tiaras, Mama! Glittery, sparkly, secret tiaras! Why was I not told?!"

Orm laughed, brushing past her and lovingly running her hand along a particularly dramatic piece shaped like a crescent moon. "Oh, sweetheart. These are just relics from my past lives. You know, when I was waging fashion wars on the Met Gala carpet and occasionally leading rebellions through Paris with a parasol."

Lingling snorted softly from where she was trying one on. "You were banned from the Met for threatening Anna Wintour with a stiletto."

"That's called passion, darling."

Praewa crossed her arms, trying to look stern but failing miserably. "Still. You've been hoarding tiaras, and I didn't even get to try one on as a kid?"

Orm stepped forward dramatically, holding out a glimmering silver tiara studded with pale sapphires. "Then it's time to right that injustice. My darling child, you may now choose your crown. This entire vault is open to you."

Praewa's eyes widened. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," Orm said, her tone suddenly soft. "Every tiara in here has a story. And now, one of them gets to be part of yours."

Praewa slowly reached for a delicate, vine-shaped piece with interwoven diamonds and rose gold leaves. "This one," she whispered, the moment oddly sacred. "It feels... me."

"Then it's yours," Orm smiled proudly, her voice catching just slightly. "Every princess deserves her crown. And you, Praewa, have always been mine."

Lingling, who had been pretending not to get emotional, coughed into his hand. "Alright, alright. That's enough sappyness before I start crying and rust the diamonds. Who's next? Milk? Love? Namtan? Film? I have a whole shelf labeled 'Intimidate Men with Elegance' just for you girls."

Praewa laughed, placing the tiara gently atop her head. "God. We're so dramatic."

Orm beamed. "And fabulous."

Lingling wrapped an arm around them both, pressing a kiss to Orm's temple. "And definitely not getting our deposit back on any wedding venue we touch."

From somewhere outside, Bonnie's delighted giggle echoed, followed by a crash.

"And that," Orm said without missing a beat, "is our next generation of chaos queens."

"Tiara vault included," Lingling added.

Praewa just smiled, already feeling the weight—and sparkle—of legacy on her head.

—

Film and Love froze mid-step the moment Orm opened the velvet-lined box. The lighting in the room caught the facets of the diamonds perfectly, sending dazzling prisms scattering across the walls like dancing stars. Nestled inside, resting against deep crimson silk, were two breathtaking diamond tiaras—each one distinct, regal, and clearly custom-crafted with someone in mind.

Love's jaw practically unhinged. "M-Mom... this—this is..."

Film wasn't faring much better. Her usually composed expression had dissolved into wide-eyed shock. "Is this real? This can't be real. This looks like something from a royal museum..."

Orm just smiled—warm, amused, and more than a little proud. "Of course it's real. Do you think I'd give my daughters-in-law anything less than royalty-grade?"

She stepped forward, gently lifting the tiaras with practiced grace and holding them out as though knighting them into the family. "These... are for you, my beloved daughters-in-law. A token of how deeply you're loved, and how truly you've become a part of this family."

Love reached out with trembling fingers, barely daring to touch hers. "Mom, I can't possibly accept this. It's too much—"

"Nonsense," Orm cut in, her tone firm but affectionate. "You've given me something far more valuable. You love Milk. You protect her, care for her, stood by her even when it wasn't easy. And you carried Bonnie. You made me a grandmother. If anything, I'm just catching up."

"And you," she turned to Film, gently placing the tiara into her hands, "you're the light in Namtan's eyes. I've seen the way she looks at you—like you're her whole world. That makes you family. Which means you deserve to shine like the stars you've become to us."

Film blinked back something dangerously close to tears. "I... don't know what to say."

"Then don't say anything. Just wear it when you feel like conquering the world or when you need a reminder that you're not alone in it," Orm said warmly. "We're Kwongs, darling. We gift diamonds the way others hand out cookies."

Then, with a playful grin, she pulled out a much smaller box and flipped it open dramatically.

Inside was a tiny tiara—delicately crafted, twinkling with miniature diamonds and pearlescent beads, perfectly sized for a toddler's head.

"And for my precious little granddaughter," Orm cooed, as if Bonnie was already in the room. "Because no Kwong woman enters this family without a crown, no matter how small her head."

Love burst into laughter, her eyes still watery. "Oh my god, she's going to wear this to preschool and try to rule it."

"Let her," Orm said with a shrug. "Every kingdom starts somewhere."

Lingling strolled in at that moment with Bonnie on her hip—Bonnie, who immediately pointed at the sparkly tiara and squealed, "Shiny!!"

Orm grinned and leaned down to whisper to her, "That's yours, little princess. Your first crown. The first of many."

And just like that, Bonnie was officially crowned by chaos, sparkle, and unconditional love—exactly what it meant to be a Kwong.

—

The old wooden boat creaked gently as it drifted over the calm lake, the sunlight rippling on the surface like liquid gold. Birds chirped in the distance, and the occasional splash of a curious fish breaking the water punctuated the serene silence. It could have been the perfect father-child bonding moment—except for the unfiltered commentary echoing across the lake.

"Remind me again," Milk said as she lazily tugged on her fishing line, her brows furrowed, "why exactly are we fishing? Last time we came out here, you and I ended up buying a fish from the market and pretending we caught it. Mom was so proud. She cooked it with tears in her eyes."

Lingling chuckled, leaning back with his fishing rod nestled between his knees. "That's called protecting domestic harmony, darling. Besides, what better activity for a father and his sons than fishing?"

"Sons?" Namtan deadpanned from the other side of the boat, flicking a skeptical glance his way. "Dad. We're your daughters. Mom raised us to be elegant, composed—"

"Nothing about the two of you screams woman, Namtan," Lingling cut in without even looking up from the water.

Namtan huffed in protest, but Milk only laughed.

"Technically," Lingling continued, "you two were supposed to be born male. If it weren't for all those hexes, curses, and spiritual loopholes messing with fate, I'd have had two strong sons to guard my queen and princess."

"Ah, so that's why we spent centuries learning how to fight," Milk muttered, raising an eyebrow.

"Correct," Lingling said proudly.

"You're literally the reason we grew up boyish!" Namtan accused, crossing her arms.

"Hey, even if you'd been born female from the start, I still would've made sure you could throw a punch. I believe in raising dangerous daughters."

Milk pointed her rod at her father. "You say that, and yet you don't even let Praewa lift a fork."

"She's different."

"Oh, so you love her more than us?" Milk smirked, waiting for him to squirm.

"No, no! I love all my children equally," Lingling said quickly, sitting up. "It's just that... with Praewa, I—"

"Ohhh," Namtan interjected, snapping her fingers, "I know what this is. It's guilt! You weren't there when Mom gave birth to Praewa. That's it, isn't it?"

Lingling sighed dramatically and muttered, "I knew this was going to come up..."

"Mom went into labor alone. Alone." Milk said pointedly. "She nearly crushed the midwife's hand."

"I've apologized for that multiple times—"

"But not enough!" Namtan declared. "Mom cried for you that night."

"I was kneeling outside of our house the entire time," Lingling argued weakly. "But your mother wouldn't forgive me and let me in! I heard your baby sister's cries when she was born, but your mother just couldn't let me near her or the baby..."

"Whatever," Milk said with a roll of her eyes. "So this whole fishing trip? What, redemption arc?"

Lingling puffed his chest. "This is a lesson. You two are starting families. I want you to understand the value of legacy, responsibility, and balance. Also... I've been told I need to bond more emotionally, so here we are. Fish and feelings."

Namtan gave him a look. "You're really going to pull the family values card after a millennium of questionable parenting?"

"I tried my best," Lingling said, mildly offended. "I was cursed, stabbed, and married to the most chaotic princess in the world. Cut me some slack."

Milk snorted. "That's fair."

Lingling turned to his eldest. "Tipnaree, you're going to be a parent soon. Do you realize what that means? With our family bloodline and the lingering magical interference, there's no guarantee it'll be a normal birth. You need to be prepared. Physically, emotionally... and no more flirting with the recruits in your department."

Namtan immediately froze. "...Wait. You knew about that?"

"I'm your father, of course I know."

"I told her," Milk said casually.

"You snitched?!" Namtan whipped her head around.

The boat wobbled violently as she stood up in protest. Lingling grabbed the edge, eyes wide. "Sit down! I can't swim!"

"You've lived for over a thousand years and never learned to swim?!"

"I've been busy!"

"Doing what? Raising chickens?!"

"Don't you insult my chickens!" Lingling gasped. "One more insult and I'm revoking your CEO title at Kwongglomerate!"

Milk blinked. "...I take it back. The chickens are lovely. Loyal. Underpaid."

Satisfied, Lingling adjusted his collar and sighed. "Namtan. Film loves you. I see it in the way she looks at you, the way she endures your spontaneous hallway serenades and middle-of-the-night food science experiments. But love's not just fireworks and chaos. Be considerate, too. Give her calm when she needs it. Support, even when your energy's off the charts."

Namtan glanced away, a faint blush rising to her cheeks. Her smile softened as she thought of Film—the girl who once trembled under a spotlight and now danced with her in living rooms, in rain, in life.

"And you," Lingling turned to Milk. "We've talked about you being a father. Now we're talking about you being a partner. A husband or wife whichever that you are more comfortable with."

Milk sighed. "We've been over this—"

"No, this is new. I've noticed. Sometimes Love reaches out for your hand and you... flinch. Or look away. Why?"

"...I just don't want to make her uncomfortable. You know, touching her in public. She's not really the clingy type."

"You're getting married in two weeks," Lingling said, eyes narrowing. "You were clearly not shy when Bonnie was conceived."

Milk nearly dropped her rod. "We were drunk!"

"Still happened!"

"I'm trying to be respectful—"

"No, you're trying to be emotionally constipated," Lingling said bluntly. "Love chose you. She loves you. Show her that you're not afraid to love her back with your whole heart. Not just through actions, but words. Affection. Presence."

Milk sighed, tugging on her line thoughtfully. "Alright... I'll try. For her."

"Good." Lingling leaned back with a satisfied nod.

For a moment, the boat was quiet again—just the three of them, floating in a rare moment of peace and honest connection.

Then Namtan piped up, "Wait, how exactly did the hex mess with our birth genders again?"

Lingling groaned. "That's a story for another fishing trip."

"Next time, we're bringing chicken sandwiches," Milk muttered.

"If you bring any of my hens here as food, I'll write you out of the will."

Namtan shot her father a grin, sharp and amused. "You're so dramatic, Dad."

Lingling sat up straighter, placing a hand over his chest like he'd been insulted in court. "Excuse me, but those hens give us eggs. From those eggs came more chickens. And in case you two conveniently forgot—those chickens laid the foundation for the entire multinational empire we run today!"

Milk let out a snort. "Yeah, yeah. Kwongglomerate: born from poultry."

"I swear," Namtan added, shaking her head in disbelief, "you've named every single one of those hens, haven't you?"

"Of course I did," Lingling said with complete sincerity. "Henrietta, Eggsy, Princess Feathertail, Omeletta, Eggward the Second—don't even get me started on the rooster division. There's a family tree."

Milk blinked slowly. "Sometimes I wonder how people keep saying we look like you. That we have your mannerisms."

Lingling raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Because you do. I am your father. Chaos is hereditary."

The three of them fell into easy laughter, the kind that echoes across still water and settles in the heart like an old blanket. Despite all the ancient curses, botched gender destinies, and centuries of dramatic parenting decisions... in that quiet stretch of lake, surrounded by fishing rods and familial roasting, there was no mistaking what this was.

This was family—in all its chaotic, clucking, eternally bonded glory.

—

Tired. No—exhausted, drained, spiritually dehydrated—that was what painted itself in bold, unrelenting strokes across the faces of Film, Love, and Noon.

What had begun as a cheerful little outing—just a quick trip, they said, a few shops, a few fittings—had spiraled into the kind of marathon consumerist mission that could bring even the strongest to their knees. It was semester break, and Praewa had, with big eyes and persuasive hugs, begged Noon to stay over at the Kwong estate. Noon, caught somewhere between smitten and naive optimism, had agreed.

And now? Now it was seven in the evening. They had started at ten in the morning.

Ten.

A.M.

To call it shopping would be underselling it. This was a military campaign. Operation: Royal Wedding. And the two most enthusiastic (or unhinged, depending who you asked) commanders were, of course, Orm and her youngest daughter, Praewa.

The butlers trailed behind them like war-weary foot soldiers, arms piled high with bags—bridal shoes in six shades of ivory, lace from France, veils from Italy, tea sets from Japan just in case Love wanted to host a Victorian brunch at the reception. No cart was spared. No corner of the mall was left unexplored. The duo marched onward, their eyes gleaming with purpose, immune to fatigue like shopping-fueled terminators.

Meanwhile, the casualties of the day limped behind them.

Film, 2 months pregnant and glowing with both maternal radiance and the clear agony of her swollen feet, was practically waddling. Every step felt like a personal betrayal from gravity. "I think my ankles are officially enemies of the state," she muttered under her breath, clutching Love's hand tightly.

Love, elegant as ever, was somehow still composed despite the bleeding blister forming at the back of her heel. "I think my shoes have filed for divorce," she whispered to Film at one point. Her voice was polite. Her eyes were screaming. Still, she smiled. This was her wedding, after all—what was a little blood loss?

And Noon. Oh, poor Noon.

She had consumed three bottles of energy drink. Three. Her soul had departed somewhere around store number nine. Her eyes were hollow, her arms weak, and she had been carrying a box of "just-in-case" tiara options for the past two hours. One of them had rhinestones shaped like birds. She didn't know why. No one knew why.

She finally sat on a decorative bench in front of a boutique and whispered, "Tell my cats I love them." No one responded. Orm and Praewa had spotted a new boutique with rose-gold hangers and run.

Praewa, radiant and tireless, held up yet another glittering accessory. "Mama! What do you think of this one for the second march-in?"

Orm gasped. "Darling, it's perfect! Love would shine! No, Milk would cry! We'll take six!"

Love, somewhere behind them, closed her eyes and muttered, "I might cry now."

Praewa spun around, eyes sparkling with anticipation. "P'Love! Come, come! Try this on! It might match the crystal fountain Mom wants as the ceremony centerpiece!"

Film blinked. "Crystal fountain?"

"Yes!" Orm replied. "With koi fish! For luck! They'll wear tiny bowties!"

Noon cracked open her fourth energy drink with a trembling hand and hissed, "They're going to outlive us all."

And yet, despite the aching limbs, the desperate longing for foot massages, and the lingering feeling that the mall's tile patterns were starting to look like a maze they might never escape—there was something else, too.

Laughter.

Shared glances.

The occasional "Oh god, remember this?" that turned into a 15-minute giggle session by the food court.

Exhaustion clung to them, sure. But underneath it was love, glittering like the tiaras now being aggressively haggled for by Orm, and excitement—for the wedding, for the future, for the sheer ridiculous joy of being stuck together in the chaos of it all.

Because this wasn't just shopping.

This was a Kwong-style wedding mission.

And there would be no survivors.

—

Once the ladies returned home, arms sore and wallets lighter after nearly ten hours of intense luxury combat—otherwise known as "wedding shopping with Orm and Praewa"—they expected peace. Maybe a foot massage. A nap. A glass of something cold and sparkly.

What they did not expect was to be greeted by the Kwong patriarchy trio—Lingling, Namtan, and Milk—all sitting on the plush sunken couch in the living room, looking like freshly boiled lobsters.

"Babi!" Film shrieked, tossing her designer shopping bag onto the floor and running toward her wife. She skidded to a halt as her hands hovered an inch above Namtan's arms, horrified. "What happened to you?! You're like... grilled bacon!"

Namtan flinched. "Please don't touch. Even air hurts."

"P'Milk... what did you do to get this bad of a sunburn?" Love asked, hovering over her fiancée with wide eyes, trying to inspect the damage without accidentally grazing Milk's blistered shoulders.

Milk just shrugged miserably. "It was supposed to be fishing..."

And then everyone slowly turned to the obvious culprit, standing behind them and whistling off-key like a guy who absolutely knew she was in trouble. Lingling, arms crossed but clearly itchy under her sleeves, tried to look innocent—and failed. Miserably.

Orm, who had walked in behind the girls with two shopping bags dangling off each finger, paused. Slowly, she looked over at Lingling, who was pretending to look busy peeling the label off a water bottle.

"Oh?" Orm said, too sweetly. "You brought our daughters fishing again?"

Lingling hesitated. "Well, yeah. I mean, family bonding time? That's what everyone says, right?"

"And you forgot to bring sunscreen?" Orm continued, her voice dropping into dangerously calm territory.

"We were wearing long sleeves and hats!" Lingling protested. "Besides, I didn't burn that much—"

"Lingling Kwong," Orm said, already setting her shopping bags down with the ominous precision of a woman about to deliver divine judgment. "Did you or did you not turn our children into barbecued prawns?"

Lingling opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again. "They wanted to come!"

Milk and Namtan turn to their father and deadly glare at her.

"They're pregnant and one is barely functioning on two hours of sleep!"

"Technically, only Film is pregnant," Lingling tried.

"Technically, you'll be sleeping on the couch if you keep going."

Lingling wilted, shoulders slumping. "Fine. I forgot the sunscreen."

From behind her, Praewa slid in with a mango smoothie in hand, sipping through a pink straw. "You look like shrimp tempura, Dad."

"Thank you, sweetheart. Your empathy is truly heartwarming," Lingling said dryly, grimacing as the collar of her shirt touched her neck.

Orm huffed, pinching the bridge of her nose before calling over her shoulder, "Baby, come help heal your sisters. Leave your father out."

"Teerak?!" Lingling blinked, full of disbelief. "Wait, what?"

"Maybe next time you'll remember sunscreen," Orm said, sweeping toward the stairs like a majestic thunderstorm wrapped in designer silk.

Praewa, ever the obedient daughter, knelt beside her eldest sisters, lifting her glowing hands toward their skin. "Okay, P'Namtan, this'll tingle a bit."

"Anything's better than feeling like I fell asleep on a stove," Namtan muttered.

While she tended to her siblings, Lingling sulked dramatically on the couch, head thrown back like a martyred poet. "This is abuse. Neglect. My own daughter, abandoning me in my hour of need..."

Praewa paused as she moved to Milk. She glanced at Orm—who had already disappeared up the stairs—and then, with a quiet sigh, turned toward her other parent.

"You didn't see this," she said softly, placing two warm fingers on Lingling's arm. Golden light shimmered under her touch, the redness slowly easing.

Lingling blinked in surprise. "You're healing me?"

"Just a bit," Praewa murmured, lips twitching. "Don't tell mama."

Lingling beamed. "You really are my favorite."

Praewa rolled her eyes but couldn't hide her grin. "Shut up before I change my mind."

In the chaos and curses of being a Kwong, there was still this—sunburns and all—a kind of love only they knew how to speak. Loud. Dramatic. Slightly overcooked.

But love nonetheless.