Chapter Text
It’s warm.
Too warm. She hasn’t felt this warm in ages. It’s strange, really—it’s the middle of winter, and winter is not meant to feel like this. Granted, the heater is on, but even so, it shouldn’t be enough for the heat to press against her skin this way: dense, cloying, almost suffocating. It makes her feel choked.
Lumine kicks off the blanket, irritated by the way the thick duvet clings to her. She shuffles to her wardrobe, flings it open, and grabs the first bathrobe she sees. Cloud-soft terry cotton meets her hands—a white, fluffy, voluminous thing she swaddles herself in before stumbling towards her bedroom door, still yawning.
It’s the middle of the day. She should be ashamed of herself. She isn’t—can’t be—because it’s simply too hot, and when it’s hot like this, she feels no incentive whatsoever to be a productive member of society. Or as productive as she can be, as someone who isn’t really gainfully employed.
The air outside her room is cooler. She rubs at her eyes, yawning again as they adjust to the dimmer light. She needs to stop sleeping with the curtains drawn; the sunlight hits her full in the face every morning, blinding her. Still, she likes feeling the sun on her skin when she wakes. Most days.
Her gaze catches on a familiar silhouette.
Long blond hair, tied back in a loose braid that drapes over the back of the sofa. Even in their own home, he sits with impeccable posture—no lounging, no slouching. Back ramrod-straight, one leg crossed over the other, a cup of coffee steaming on the side table by the armrest.
She pauses, just to look at him.
Her twin brother. Older than her by five minutes. Aether Viator, the young head of the Viator conglomerate, with fingers in every imaginable vertical—oil and fuel, weapons, land, consumer goods. There’s nothing in this capitalist world that doesn’t pass through his hands.
It’s admirable. A little terrifying.
And a little distant, too. Like he’s something she can’t quite touch. Can’t reach, no matter how hard she tries.
She bites the thought back. There’s no point letting comparisons like that sour the day. “Aether?” she calls.
He lifts his head from the report he’s reading. Golden eyes—carbon copies of her own—meet hers. He blinks, then smiles, gentle and beatific. The sort of smile that brightens a room without effort. “Meimei,” he says, patting the seat beside him. “Come. I want to show you something.”
She runs her tongue over her bottom lip. Her throat feels dry. “Hang on,” she says. “Let me get some water first. I just woke up.”
He hums, soft and indulgent. “I know,” he says pleasantly. “I was starting to wonder whether I should barge in and wake you before you slept the whole day away.”
“It’s not my fault,” she complains as she shuffles towards the open-air kitchen. Aether’s gaze follows her; she feels it dip to the long hem of her bathrobe dragging along the floor. She can already imagine the quiet disapproval forming behind his eyes. “It’s too hot.”
“Hot?” Aether echoes. “It’s the middle of winter.”
“I don’t need you to tell me that,” she says, a little crabby as she opens the refrigerator and grabs the first carton of juice she sees. It’s pristine and unopened—restocked by the help this morning, no doubt, and left there for her.
Aether doesn’t drink juice. He only drinks coffee. Black.
“I can see it with my own eyes.”
Sunlight glints off the snow outside, glaring through the window. She squints, then shuts the fridge door. “What are you busy with?” she asks, pouring the juice into a glass. “It’s the weekend.”
“Mm. An upcoming merger,” Aether murmurs, distracted. “With the Kamisato Corporation. The terms are… delicate. I’m reviewing them.”
“Kamisato Corp?” she echoes, drifting back to the sofa. She sits beside him. Aether lets her glance at the dossier, briefly. There’s no point—she won’t be of any help—but she pretends to read anyway. “They were agreeable?”
“We have mutual interests,” he replies absently. “I can offer them something. They can offer me something. It makes sense, for now.”
She’s never pretended to understand the world Aether inhabits. It’s a world she was spared from—from childhood onwards, from the moment she was born a girl, born the younger twin, born the one who later presented as an omega. She was never the one their parents expected greatness from.
And she doesn’t mind. Not really.
Not if greatness means becoming him. Someone so carefully curated he feels unreal. Someone whose beauty carries distance with it—untouchable, even seated beside her now, barely an inch of space between them.
The thought stings, a small, familiar ache in her chest. She smooths over it out of habit. These comparisons have never served her well, and there’s nothing she can do to change them anyway.
“Did you help me order my pills?” she asks instead.
Aether looks up from the report, tilting his head as he studies her. “Yes,” he says, nodding towards the front door. “They should arrive today. Any time now.”
“Good,” she says. “I don’t really want to deal with my heat this cycle.”
“You’re going to skip it again?” Aether asks. “That isn’t good for you. The doctor said you shouldn’t force it too often. You already skipped the last one.”
She waves a hand dismissively. “You say that because you don’t understand,” she says. “What it feels like. Being caught in it. Losing control. Turning into something mindless. Pathetic.”
He really doesn’t know. He has no idea. Her perfect alpha brother, who can do no wrong, would never—never—understand what it’s like to be a victim of her own body. To be trapped inside her skin, able to do nothing but endure the pain and the ache and the wanting, the constant sense of drowning.
It’s not jealousy. She has nothing to be jealous of. She isn’t resentful. She doesn’t wish she were an alpha.
She just wishes he would understand. Sometimes. Empathise a little more.
But she doesn’t want to ask that of Aether either. She knows the expectations that have been stacked on his shoulders since childhood, the silent burdens he’s carried for as long as she can remember. She’s the last person who wants to add to that weight.
Aether studies her quietly. She can’t quite read his expression. He’s always been difficult to read—more so as they grew older. When they were children, before his succession training fully set in, it had been easier. Back then, he’d still cried easily. Still clung to her sleeve when he was scared. She’d never teased him for it.
Then, somewhere along the way, something in him seemed to… break.
And once it broke, he became impossible to read. Not a stranger—never that—but something she didn’t fully recognise anymore. Like a reflection caught in crystal. Light refracted until the image was only vaguely familiar.
She mourns it, sometimes. The ease they once had. The closeness.
But that was twenty years ago. She’s had time to move on. And she doesn’t want to waste Aether’s time dredging up things that don’t affect him. Not really. So she keeps her mouth shut.
“All right,” he says at last. “Skip it, then. This time.” He flips a page in the contract, brow creasing faintly. “But not the next cycle. You’re pushing yourself already.”
She brightens immediately. “Thanks, gege.” She loops an arm around his shoulders.
He exhales, shakes his head, but doesn’t protest. His eyes continue to scan the page, tracking every line and comma with mechanical precision.
She takes the opportunity to study him again. To really look. It’s rare—Aether is almost never home.
He looks the same as always. Effortlessly put together in a way that borders on unfair. Sometimes he feels unreal to her, like a character rendered too perfectly, something designed rather than lived. Always composed. Always immaculate. Always in control.
Never caught in scandal. Never photographed at an unguarded angle. Never slips during interviews. Never shows a crack in the armour.
Aether Viator is perfect. A product of old money and careful breeding and years of training that whisper rather than shout.
She knows she’s the outlier in her own family. The knowledge stings, sometimes. She wishes she didn’t have it. Wishes she could stay forever in the same bright, easy cheer she puts on around him because she doesn’t want him to worry. Wishes the carefreeness could be real, instead of something she performs.
But the doubts linger. Quiet. Persistent.
“Any plans for today?” she asks, mostly to distract herself. Mostly because he’s here, for once, and she realises she’s missed him.
He shakes his head. “Why?” Still distracted. He reaches for his coffee, lifting it with habitual grace. A small sip. Measured. Elegant. Unfair.
She bites her lip.
“I wanted to see a movie,” she says. “And have dinner. If you’re free.”
“I can make time,” Aether replies, glancing at her. “Anywhere in mind?”
“Not really.”
“Then leave it to me,” he says easily. “Just get ready. I should be done in two hours.” He looks back at the contract. “Will that be enough for you?”
Something twists in her chest. Fragile. Uneasy.
She can’t shake the feeling that he’s slotting her into his schedule the same way he does his work—not because he wants to be with her, but because she’s another responsibility. Another thing to manage. Another life entrusted to him after their parents died, because Aether Viator is nothing if not responsible.
She wonders—briefly, guiltily—if he ever resents her for it.
She doesn’t say any of that aloud. She only nods. “I’ll be ready,” she says, rising from the sofa and pulling her bathrobe tighter. “Are you sure? You still have a lot left to read. And you’ll need to send it to legal after.”
“Don’t worry about me.” His smile curves, graceful and unreadable. “You trust me, don’t you? I said two hours. I’ll make it happen.”
She watches him for a moment longer—the serenity in his expression, the calm certainty in his eyes, the way the world seems to bend for him. Like everything will fall into place at the snap of his fingers.
And, honestly, that isn’t far from the truth. That is how the world moves around Aether Viator.
Finally, she nods. “I’ll see you then,” she says, voice softer than she intends.
He nods once and returns to his papers.
A gentle dismissal.
With a quiet breath, Lumine gathers her robe and retreats down the hallway, juice in hand, back to her room.
Time to get ready.
Aether always smells nice.
That’s what gets to her the most. How nice he smells. It bothers her—deeply—that she notices it at all.
He smells like a warm hearth. Like smoke and spice and something faintly sweet. Mulled wine. A hint of musk. Beneath it, something cool and metallic that curls on her tongue before dissolving into a brightness that’s almost too sharp.
It’s a scent she can’t help inhaling whenever he’s near. Familiar. Comforting. Reassuring. The smell of home.
She can still catch it now, threading through the air of the penthouse, seeping into everything. Even into her bathroom, bleeding through the layered fragrances of oils and lotions. Not overpowering—never that. Just present. A constant hum. White noise.
Something that makes her relax despite herself, easing her body into the warm, steaming bath.
It’s still too hot. But she isn’t cruel enough to draw a cold one.
Lumine sighs and lets her head fall back against the rim of the tub. Steam curls upwards. Her thoughts drift with it—away from the water, away from the warmth still humming beneath her skin.
How many people would kill for this life?
She’s privileged. She knows that. A lady of leisure, her days filled with events and appearances and carefully curated reminders that she belongs to the Viator family—wealthy enough to bankroll the existence of their only daughter without blinking.
And even that role is largely ceremonial now. Her father used to make use of her presence more often. Aether doesn’t see the point.
Which she understands. Truly. Aether commands attention all on his own; having an omega at his side would only distract from him rather than elevate anything.
So here she is. Retired before her prime. Languishing in a bathtub because there is nothing more productive for her to do.
She won’t say she hates it. It’s a good life. An easy one. Comfortable, luxurious. There’s nothing her gege cannot provide—no request too trivial, no errand too inconvenient.
It’s just… flat.
Monotonous.
She’s tired of feeling like an objet d’art. Something to be displayed, preserved, admired—but never used.
And if her purpose, as her mother once said, is to help anchor Aether when the weight of the world threatens to tear him apart—
She exhales and sinks deeper into the water. Her hands float, fingers idly stirring the floral oils on the surface.
No one would understand. Not really. What it feels like to have everything and yet own nothing at all.
There’s no one she can talk to about this. No one who could truly understand.
Not even Aether. Especially not Aether—the one she draws all of this from. She’s afraid to voice even the faintest dissatisfaction in front of him. Afraid it would sound like ingratitude after everything he’s done to give her this life.
Sometimes it feels like she’s accruing a debt she cannot see. One she has no way of ever repaying.
She isn’t afraid he’ll abandon her. She knows he won’t.
But she is afraid that one day she might look at him and see something else in his eyes. Disdain. Fatigue. Something cold.
She knows that’s the day she’ll break.
Lumine sits up. The water ripples, oils shimmering. She shakes her head and forces her thoughts elsewhere.
Clothes. Later. A movie—probably one of the Viator private theatres. Easy enough. Dinner is harder. That could be anywhere. She needs to dress carefully. Appropriately. She can’t afford to drag Aether down.
Just one of the realities of being born into a famous, wealthy family, with an older twin brother whom the cameras adore.
She wonders how he endures it. The scrutiny. The hunger people have for him. How he keeps his life so neatly compartmentalised, as though the lack of privacy doesn’t touch him at all.
She knows she never could.
But that’s why she was never groomed as an heir. Why she was never meant to inherit anything. She simply doesn’t have the mettle, as their father liked to say.
“Lumine?”
She startles at the knock on the bathroom door. Aether’s voice, softened by the wood. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she calls. “Why?”
“Your pills arrived,” he says. “I’ll leave a dose on your dressing table.”
“Okay,” she replies, a little too fast.
She listens to his footsteps retreat, heart thudding. Only when she’s sure he’s gone does she sag back into the bath.
She feels… guilty. She doesn’t know why.
That she’d been thinking about him. Measuring herself against him. Comparing—when he’d been out there, as always, looking out for her. Making sure she was ready. Making sure she was all right.
She closes her eyes and slips beneath the water, hiding her face.
She wishes she didn’t think like this. Wishes she could just be grateful. Content with what’s been handed to her.
Wishes she could stop imagining herself beside Aether—and noticing, over and over, all the ways she falls short.
When she gets out of the bath, the first thing she sees is the pills Aether has left on her dresser.
Two tablets. A full glass of water.
She approaches slowly, pausing to look at them. Pale pink, flat, oblong. Not the small, white, round pills she’s used to. She picks them up, frowns, then pads out of the room, still wrapped in her bathrobe.
“Aether?” she calls.
There’s a response from his room. The door is ajar. She leans in.
Aether’s bedroom is larger than hers. Spare, to the untrained eye—almost bare—but there’s a deliberate precision to it that becomes obvious the longer one looks.
A king-sized bed with perfectly pressed white sheets. A single abstract painting on the far wall—an original Picasso. A large mahogany desk by the bay windows, all sleek lines and matte black finishes. Shelves neatly lined with books on wealth, trade, history, philosophy, biographies of men who shaped the world.
Everything is curated. Intentional. Placed to project calm authority.
It isn’t a room meant for rest. It doesn’t invite warmth. It feels more like an exhibition than a living space—beautiful, distant, a little unreal.
Much like Aether himself.
He sits behind the desk, reading glasses perched on his nose. She’s never understood why he wears them—his eyesight is perfect—but perhaps it’s habit. Their father used to wear glasses too.
He looks up when she steps in. “Yes?” he asks mildly.
“The pills,” she says. “They look different.”
“I changed suppliers,” Aether replies without hesitation. “This formulation is meant to be more effective.”
Her brow furrows. “You didn’t tell me?”
“It’s still within your doctor’s prescription.” He lowers the glasses slightly, peering at her over the rims. “Would you like me to change it back?”
The warmth creeps in again now that she’s out of the bath, clinging to her skin. She doesn’t think long before shaking her head. “Never mind. I’ll take them.”
“All right,” he says easily. “Let me know if you change your mind.”
“Just—tell me next time,” she adds. “If you switch things again. So I know.”
He nods. “Of course.” His attention drops back to the folder in his hands. “Anything else?”
She lingers.
Sunlight spills through the partially drawn blinds, catching on his hair, his face, turning him gold. The light seems to cradle him, halo him in something soft and reverent. As though even the world itself believes him deserving of its favour.
Three seconds pass.
Aether blinks and looks up again. The movement snaps her out of it.
“Oh—no,” she says quickly. “That’s all.”
“Then I’ll see you later,” he says. “Once I’m finished.”
She murmurs assent and retreats to her room.
Once alone, she looks down at the pills in her palm. Sighs. Briefly wonders how she should feel about not being included in decisions about her own body—then pushes the thought away. It’s one of those thoughts that leads nowhere. One that doesn’t change anything just by being acknowledged.
Aether always knows what’s best for her. He always has.
It was drilled into them from childhood: Aether, the heir. The protector. The one meant to lead the conglomerate forward. And she, his sister. The one meant to support him. Anchor him. Keep him grounded in a world that demands too much.
She’s always understood her role.
It used to be clearer when they were young. But as they grew older, he needed her less. Relied on her less. And now she sometimes feels like… an ornament. Something carefully kept. Cherished, even, but static.
Like a vase.
Something precious enough to protect, but not something meant to do anything.
She shakes her head and swallows the pills with a mouthful of water. They leave a bitter aftertaste—sharp, lingering. More noticeable than her old medication.
Perhaps that means they’ll work better.
She hopes they do. She hates her heats—the way they come every three months and reduce her to something helpless, aching and fevered. She hates how weak they make her feel.
A vulnerability. Something that needs to be guarded.
She knows the risks she represents. Knows how carefully she has to be protected in a world full of ambitious alphas.
Hunching slightly, she slips out of her robe and hangs it back in the wardrobe. Bad thoughts. Useless thoughts. She needs to keep moving.
She checks the clock.
Half an hour left.
Just enough time to get ready.
Aether drives her to the theatre himself.
No chauffeur. No guards. Just the two of them in one of the more unremarkable cars he keeps in the penthouse garage, because she said she didn’t want attention today.
It’s… nice. Just the two of them. Comforting, in a way she hasn’t felt in a while.
Aether doesn’t speak much as he drives. His attention stays on the road, hands steady on the wheel. Probably because he hasn’t done this in a long time—he’s usually in the back seat. She’s faintly surprised he even remembers how.
Then again, she has no room to comment. She can’t drive at all. Never needed to learn. Never wanted to. She can’t go anywhere without permission anyway, and even when she does, there’s always someone else to handle the logistics. Someone else to do the dirty work so her hands can stay clean.
A princess.
A princess with no real authority.
She exhales and lets the thought go. They’ve been surfacing more often lately. It makes sense—this time of year always does that to her. Five years now, since their parents died. The year they turned twenty-one. The year Aether stepped in because there was no one else to.
Looking back, she’s surprised he didn’t break.
Surprised she didn’t, either.
That they’re still here. That everything is still standing. Thriving, even.
It says a lot about her brother.
She’s proud of him. Truly.
“Are you hungry?”
She startles and turns from the window. Aether’s eyes stay on the road as he prepares to change lanes. He slips into the gap ahead of another car—fast, decisive.
“You almost hit him,” she says. “I don’t think that driver was planning to let you in.”
“Intentions don’t matter,” Aether replies evenly. “Only outcomes.”
Right. Of course.
“A little,” she says instead. “I haven’t eaten since I woke up. Other than some juice.”
“You should have eaten properly,” he says mildly, almost lost beneath the soft strains of classical music filling the car.
Of course he listens to classical music while driving.
“There wasn’t anything left in the fridge.”
“That’s not possible. I had it restocked.” He changes lanes again, more abrupt this time. A horn blares. He ignores it.
“You’re a reckless driver,” she mutters. “No wonder the chauffeur never lets you take the wheel.”
“We’ll be fine,” Aether says. “It’s quicker this way.”
“You remember our parents died in a car accident, right?”
“I’m not like Papa,” he says calmly. “I’m careful.”
“You didn’t even look just now.”
“You don’t drive,” he counters. “Don’t nag.”
He accelerates. Lumine yelps as the force presses her back into the seat. “Aether!”
“We’ll get there faster.”
“Are we in a hurry?”
“Not particularly. But there’s no point dawdling.” He glances at her. “If you’re hungry, we can get something during the movie. I’ll have the kitchen make popcorn.”
She shakes her head. “It’s fine. I’ll just have a drink. I want to save space for dinner.”
For the first time, his mouth curves faintly. “So you’re confident we’re going somewhere good?”
“You’d have said something if we weren’t,” she says, gesturing at herself.
She’s dressed in champagne satin, a cream fur stole draped neatly over her shoulders. Hardly the sort of outfit one wears into a fast-food joint.
The fact that he hasn’t said a word tells her everything she needs to know.
“I booked us a table at Xinyue Kiosk,” Aether says, as though it’s nothing.
She gasps. “Really? On such short notice?”
“It wasn’t difficult.”
Of course it wasn’t.
She nestles back into her seat, pleased despite herself. “You’re the best brother ever. I’ve been craving Xinyue Kiosk for ages. They were booked out for months, the last time I checked.”
“You could have told me,” he says. “I’d have arranged it.”
“I don’t want to rely on the family name for things like that,” she replies. “I just want to eat like a normal person. Once the Viator name comes up, people fuss. The paparazzi catch wind. It turns into a whole thing.”
Aether is quiet for a moment.
Then he turns—fully—to look at her as he swings the wheel sharply right.
She gasps, fingers digging into the seat. “Aether!”
“You can still come to me,” he says, unbothered. “Even with all that. I’ll handle it.”
Her heart is pounding. She’s fairly certain she glimpsed the archons themselves just now. “You’re going to kill me one day.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
Ahead, the private theatre complex comes into view. A sprawling space reserved for Viator staff—one Aether can close at will, simply because he can.
She hopes there weren’t too many events planned today. Hopes her whim hasn’t inconvenienced anyone.
Aether parks smoothly in the reserved lot. She opens the door, relieved to still be alive, and peers up at the building.
There’s already someone hurrying across the car park when they step out of the car.
Probably to greet Aether.
She finds it faintly amusing sometimes how people trip over themselves the moment her brother appears. She knows who he is, of course. CEO of Viator Enterprises, one of the most powerful men in the country. But he’s also just… her brother.
Lumine would never rush like that just to greet him. Even if it’s nice to see him at home once in a while.
He’s usually away. Travelling. Negotiating. Locked in meetings that stretch late into the night. By the time he comes back, she’s often already asleep. They’ve barely spoken properly in a long time.
That’s why this outing feels important. Like a chance to catch up. To reconnect. To remind herself that he’s real—flesh and blood, not just a distant presence she half-imagined through the lonely stretches of her childhood.
“Aether,” the man pants as he reaches them. “Everything’s been prepared as requested. The theatre is ready, and the kitchen is on standby should you wish to order anything.”
The man is sweating slightly. Nervous. She understands—coming face to face with the highest authority in your organisation would do that to anyone.
Aether regards him calmly. “That won’t be necessary,” he says. “You don’t need to prepare anything for us. We’ll manage.”
The man blinks, glancing between the two of them. “Ah… I see.”
“We’ll be fine,” Lumine adds quickly.
She wanted a movie and dinner because she wanted something normal. Something that didn’t feel like a spectacle. This hovering attention defeats the point entirely.
“You don’t need to watch over us,” Aether continues. “Just return to whatever you were doing. Pretend we aren’t here.”
It’s said lightly. Final.
The man hesitates, then nods. “Of course. Enjoy your afternoon, Aether. Lumine.”
He retreats.
She watches him go, then looks at her brother. “I’m guessing you didn’t ask them to stand by like that.”
“Of course not,” Aether replies, a trace of irritation surfacing. “I told them to set up the theatre. One or two people in the kitchen, at most. That’s it. I didn’t want an escort.”
An escort. For a movie. Not security—that, she understands—but someone hovering nearby, waiting to be useful.
For a second, she almost laughs. Then she doesn’t.
“Your staff are nervous around you,” she says.
“That’s expected.” Aether offers his arm. She slips hers through it automatically. He’s always done this—guiding her, steadying her pace. Ever since they were young. Ever since she presented as an omega and he as an alpha, and something in him seemed to decide that this, too, was his responsibility. “I’m their employer. People are always careful around their employers.”
He says it so mildly that it’s easy to forget he isn’t an ordinary boss. Nothing about Aether is ordinary. He exists on a different axis entirely, one so far removed from everyday life that sometimes she wonders if he even understands what it means to be normal.
At least she does. A little.
She wasn’t homeschooled like Aether, who somehow still went on to dominate every national exam, as if the absence of a classroom had never mattered at all. She went to a good school instead. Made friends. People who grounded her, anchored her to something ordinary.
But she can’t fault Aether for lacking that. He never had the chance. All he’s known is their family—their rules, their expectations, the language of boardrooms and mergers and quiet power that can create or erase livelihoods with a signature.
His power is understated. But it stretches far.
She clears her throat as they walk. “Don’t you ever think it would be nice,” she asks, “to be a warm boss? Someone people feel comfortable approaching.”
“Approaching?” Aether echoes, genuinely surprised.
She nods. “I think that’s what I’d want. If I were a boss. To be someone others could always come to when they need help. I think things work better when people support each other.”
He doesn’t answer right away, as though turning her words over in his head. Then he exhales.
“Then it’s probably a good thing you aren’t the CEO of Viator Enterprises,” he says. “We’d have gone bankrupt.”
She bristles. “Hey. I don’t think that’s a bad way to run things.”
“It isn’t,” Aether says. He looks at her. “It just doesn’t work at our scale. People and resources are quantifiable, at the end of the day. My role is to optimise. To create efficiencies. I can’t afford to be empathetic.”
Her fingers tighten around his sleeve. “I know,” she says softly. “I just thought it would be nice.”
“It would be,” he agrees. “In another universe.”
They fall quiet after that.
Even once they’re seated in the private theatre—plush velvet chairs, the two of them alone in the vast, darkened space—her thoughts keep circling.
She wonders when, exactly, the distance grew so wide.
Because with each passing year, Aether seems to drift further ahead, and she can’t shake the feeling that she’s being left behind.
The movie is a new release. A reboot of something she loved as a child.
She hadn’t expected the nostalgia to hit as hard as it did.
Things had been simpler back then. Good and evil clearly marked. The hero saves the princess, slays the dragon, and everything ends neatly. Wicked witches were wicked. Princesses were kind and deserving. You knew who to root for.
But reboots are different now. Even the villains are given room—context, history, motivation. They aren’t simply evil anymore. Sometimes, their reasons make sense. Sometimes, they align uncomfortably closely with the hero’s.
Sometimes, the hero doesn’t look quite as good as she remembers.
This movie is one of those.
She doesn’t know how she feels when it ends. It’s well-made, beautifully animated. Familiar voices, familiar lines, rendered brighter and cleaner than before. But she hadn’t expected to come away feeling this conflicted.
She hadn’t expected to sympathise with the villainess.
As a child, she’d hated her—thought her cruel and irredeemable. But here, the witch feels more grounded than the heroine, who is portrayed as flighty and sheltered, drifting into good fortune without quite understanding how it finds her.
The comparison sits uncomfortably close.
Too close.
She doesn’t like where her thoughts are going, so she turns to Aether instead. “What did you think, gege?” she asks. “Of the reboot.”
He hums. “It’s not bad. The animation quality is excellent. I should look into that studio.”
She sighs. “You’re impossible. What about the story?”
“The story?”
“The witch,” she says. “She’s very different this time. More… reasonable.”
Something thoughtful crosses his face. “I suppose so,” he says. “It is quite a departure from the original.”
“You didn’t notice until I pointed it out?” She shakes her head. “What were you even watching?”
“The production quality,” he says. “It’s impressive what they managed with the budget.”
“You’re terrible.”
He doesn’t argue. “I liked it,” he says instead. “It felt more realistic.”
“It was,” she admits. “That’s what bothers me. It was so clear-cut when we were kids. She was evil. The princess was good. Now it feels less simple.”
“Because of a movie?” he asks, faintly incredulous.
“Not the movie itself,” she says quickly. “But more that… it makes me think. About how much preferences can change between then and now.”
Aether hums thoughtfully. “Well, I always preferred the witch,” he says. “Even when we were little.”
She stops. “What? I didn’t know that.”
“You didn’t ask.”
She scowls, folding her arms. “I talked about the princess all the time.”
“You seemed happy,” he says. “So I let you.”
That answer lands strangely.
She exhales and looks away as they head back towards the car park. “I don’t think I like reboots,” she says. “They make everything feel unstable.”
“They’re efficient,” Aether replies. “Built-in audiences. Proven IP.”
“Of course you would say that.” She hesitates. “Doesn’t it ever bother you? That things you thought you understood might not actually be what you believed?”
He considers this. “The witch is still the witch,” he says. “She’s more sympathetic, but she’s still an obstacle. The context explains her—it doesn’t absolve her.”
“I know.” She sighs. “It’s just harder to dislike her now.”
“That’s because you’re empathetic,” he says. “Enough for both of us.”
She manages a smile. It doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
They drive in silence after that. She straps herself in, deliberately thinking about dinner—about food, about Xinyue Kiosk, about anything other than his driving or the conversation they’ve just had.
But the thought lingers.
Sometimes she wonders if she and Aether even remember their childhood the same way.
Moments like this make her realise how much of what she thought they shared might have been hers alone. Twenty-six years, and she’d never known he liked the villainess.
It makes her wonder what else she’s misunderstood.
What else she has misread.
And whether, even back then—before presentation, before the world taught them how different they were—he’d already been looking at her and thinking that his sister was… lacking.
Maybe that was why Aether had always been protective.
Well, except for those two years. Between twelve and fourteen. Right before they presented.
That was when he’d grown distant. Immersed in his succession education, barely present. Her parents told her he was simply busy—that he needed to focus, to learn, to see the world. That was why he no longer lingered to talk, why his greetings became curt nods when they passed in the hallway.
For two years, it felt like she’d lost him.
It felt like punishment. For something she didn’t remember doing.
If he really was just busy, why wouldn’t he say so? Why did he avoid her like she’d committed some quiet, unforgivable offence?
She never found out. Still hasn’t. It’s not a time she likes to think about.
After they presented, Aether returned to her life as though nothing had happened, escorting her everywhere, even to school. Steady. Attentive. Constant.
She remembers it vividly because her classmates wouldn’t stop asking whether her hot brother was coming to pick her up again. She’d laughed it off, insisted he was unbearable at home. Mostly for her own sake.
Because Aether wasn’t—isn’t—a nightmare.
She just needed something to hold onto back then. Something to keep herself steady, because after two years of distance, having him reinsert himself so completely was… a lot.
He was different, too. Afterwards. Not worse. Just not quite the same.
Before she can follow the thought further, Aether takes a hard left, and she yelps, hands flying to the dashboard.
“Archons, Aether,” she says, heart pounding. “You drive like a maniac.”
He makes a sound that might be a laugh.
She freezes. Looks at him.
Aether doesn’t laugh often. The smile on his face now is small and unguarded, bright enough to look almost unfair on him. “Then you could learn how to drive,” he says. “That way you wouldn’t have to trust my maniacal hands.”
“Or we could keep asking the chauffeur.”
He exhales. “See? Not nearly enough initiative.”
“That feels personal.”
“Of course not.” He accelerates through an amber light. “My meimei can do anything she wants. I don’t have expectations.”
She knows he doesn’t.
And somehow, that’s what stings the most.
He isn’t being dismissive. Just factual. That’s always how Aether is—offering observations with the precision of someone paid to evaluate, not comfort.
If something won’t work, he dismantles it. If it’s inefficient, he discards it. He doesn’t weigh things in terms of right or wrong—only feasibility, outcome, scale.
It’s good for the enterprise. Necessary, even.
She just wonders sometimes whether it ever feels hollow.
He doesn’t seem unhappy. If anything, he seems perfectly calibrated. She’s the one who’s always hesitating. Doubting. Feeling out of place.
Like someone who doesn’t quite fit the role she’s been cast into.
They reach Xinyue Kiosk in fifteen minutes—half the usual time. She’s still slightly unsteady when she steps out of the car.
Aether steadies her by the elbow and guides her up the stairs. The hostess takes one look at them, murmurs into the mic at her collar, and they’re ushered into a private room.
Once they’re settled at the table, the server approaches.
“The menu,” she says, presenting one to each of them. “May I get you any drinks to start?”
“One pot of pu’erh tea,” Aether says.
The server nods and glides away.
Aether sets his copy of the menu down. “Feel free to order.”
“You don’t want anything?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t have cravings,” he says. “You do, don’t you? So order whatever you want.”
“I could bankrupt you.”
He gives her a droll look. “You wouldn’t. Not even if you ordered their entire stock of moutai.”
“Oh, you know I hate that stuff.”
“I know.”
They lapse into a comfortable silence as Lumine studies the menu. She takes her time. Finally, she settles on five dishes: golden crab, golden shrimp balls, full-moon egg, black-back perch stew, and a plate of lotus flower crisps.
“I’m not sure we can finish all that,” Aether says, doubtful, when she rattles them off.
“We can takeaway if we don’t.”
“It won’t taste the same,” he replies, frowning.
She pouts, just a little, letting her bottom lip jut out.
Aether exhales. “Fine,” he says. “Since we’re here to fulfil your cravings anyway.”
She perks up and rings the small bell on the table.
The server appears within seconds, silent as a shadow. Lumine recites her order; the server repeats it back, nods once, and slips away towards the kitchen.
“I haven’t been here in a while,” Lumine says, glancing around the private dining room again. “The last time I came, I was seated in the main hall. Not here.”
“When was that?” Aether asks.
“Two years ago, I think. With a group of university friends.” She smiles faintly at the memory. “They were visiting Liyue, and I thought I’d take them on a culinary adventure. Let them try the pinnacle of both Li and Yue cuisine.”
Aether lifts a brow. “I thought you didn’t like Li cuisine.”
“Not as much,” she admits. “But it didn’t feel fair to show them only one half of what Liyue has to offer.”
She reaches for the teapot the server left on the table, pours a cup, and passes it to Aether before pouring one for herself.
He closes his eyes after the first sip. “Xinyue Kiosk uses good leaves,” he murmurs.
“Any restaurant along Feiyun Slope would,” she says lightly. “They’re used to discerning customers like you.”
“You say that like you don’t actually think I’m discerning,” Aether says.
Lumine snorts softly. “You’re the pickiest person I know.”
It’s said honestly, with affection. Aether has a high bar—one that’s very, very difficult to clear.
She would know. She’s heard his commentary on every boy she’s ever shown interest in. He never outright says any of them are unsuitable. He just… asks questions.
Questions that make the answers impossible to ignore.
Aether knows her preferences. Knows what she likes, what she can tolerate, what she won’t accept. And he has an uncanny ability to zero in on the fault line—to articulate the one issue that, once named, can’t be unseen.
She used to resent him for it. For how easily he dismantled her crushes, how quickly enthusiasm curdled into doubt after a single conversation with him.
But hindsight has been unkind in his favour.
Almost every boy she’d once liked had ended up tangled in some kind of scandal a few years down the line. She’d watched it unfold from a distance, spared only because Aether had quietly steered her away.
So she listens to him now. It feels worse not to.
Even when he always finishes with the same caveat—but if you still want to date him, I’ll support you—the damage is already done. How can she insist on pursuing someone after he’s calmly laid out all the reasons they’re a liability?
She isn’t foolish. Her brother has a good eye for people. That’s why he’s where he is.
Aether sets his cup down. “I don’t know why,” he says, “but that sounded a little insulting.”
She smiles despite herself. “You’re thinking too much.”
They fall into easy conversation while they wait for the food. It arrives quickly—the lotus flower crisps first, just as she remembers them. Hot, delicate, impossibly crisp.
She almost devours half the plate before catching herself. Four more dishes to go.
“You eat well,” Aether remarks.
“And you barely eat at all,” she shoots back, pointing her chopsticks at him. “Are you here to eat or to watch me?”
“I’m saving space for the crab,” he says. “Rather than filling up on snacks.”
Lumine freezes, her chopsticks hovering mid-air. “Well,” she says carefully, “we don’t come here often. We should enjoy it.”
He studies her for a moment. Then, casually: “How much do you think their chefs are paid?”
She blinks. “Why—are you thinking of hiring them?”
He hums. “It’s one option. If it makes you this happy.”
“I don’t need that,” she says quickly, setting her chopsticks down. The suggestion unsettles her—not because it’s extravagant, but because of how effortlessly he offers it. “Coming here once in a while is enough. I don’t need to eat like this every day.”
“But it does please you,” he replies. “Usually your appetite drops when you’re nearing your heat. It’s nice to see you like this.”
Her face warms. “I didn’t know you noticed.”
“Of course I do.” He looks genuinely surprised. “You’re my meimei. I look out for you.”
Right.
She remembers that. Another responsibility he shoulders without complaint.
Lumine leans back in her chair and takes a sip of tea, more to steady herself than anything else, as the server returns with the next dish. The aroma curls through the room, rich and inviting, her stomach responding eagerly.
It’s rare that she allows herself to be here, to indulge like this.
She shouldn’t let her unease spoil it.
Not tonight.
That night, Lumine dreams.
In her dream, she sees Aether standing beneath an open sky. The sun hangs high above him, brilliant and warm. Blue stretches endlessly overhead, clouds drifting slow and white. Light spills over him as though he’s something precious, something chosen.
She calls his name. Reaches for him.
He turns—and only then does she realise they’re both small. Children again. His features are softer, less severe. But his eyes are the same. Gold, bright, fixed on her with that same distant focus. Not unkind. Just… assessing.
She lifts a hand and starts towards him.
Aether turns away.
He walks, unhurried, his back to her. She follows, breaking into a run. The ground stretches beneath her feet, the space between them widening no matter how fast she moves. His figure grows smaller, his silhouette thinning, dissolving into distance.
She reaches. Stretches her arm until it aches.
She can still see him—but she can’t reach him. Can’t close the gap. He keeps drifting forward, stepping past the edge of the dream, into something beyond her.
Into a future she isn’t part of.
She wakes with a gasp, heart hammering painfully in her chest. Fear surges up her throat, fierce and cold. For a moment, she can only lie there, staring into the dark, pulse roaring in her ears, the image of his retreating back burnt into her mind.
It’s strange. She spent the whole day with him. And yet she dreams of being left behind.
Of the past. Of that time when they were children, and he turned away as though she no longer mattered.
She presses a hand to her chest, breathing slowly, trying to calm herself. Tries to remind herself that it’s been over a decade since then. That there’s nothing to fear now.
Aether came back.
They live together, in a penthouse that gleams with glass and steel and too much empty space. He’s always close. If not beside her, then only a phone call away.
There’s nothing to worry about.
Everything is fine.
She repeats it to herself, again and again, until the words lose their edges. Until her breathing evens out. Until sleep claims her once more—uneasy, restless, but deep enough to keep the dream at bay.
For now.