THE FIRST SPARK

Two days later, Ling’s uncle showed up uninvited.

He waltzed into Zhao headquarters in a tailored suit and that greasy, fake smile that made Ling’s skin crawl. Orm wasn’t supposed to be there — she usually stayed home painting or at the studio space Ling quietly leased for her. But today… today she brought Ling lunch.

And walked straight into the boardroom.

Ling’s uncle, Mr. Zhao Qian, was in the middle of an impassioned speech about company legacy and leadership capability.

"With all due respect," he said, oozing false humility, "our CEO is clearly… limited. She can’t even stand on her own two feet. How can she lead?"

Orm froze in the hallway. The tray in her hands trembled slightly.

Ling didn’t flinch. Her voice was steady. "I suggest you take your concern to HR, Uncle. Perhaps under 'Disability Discrimination.'"

A few chuckles, awkward ones. But Zhao Qian kept pressing.

"You run this company from a wheelchair, hiding behind pity and sympathy. If the board had any real backbone, they’d realize—"

The doors slammed open.

Orm stepped inside, wild curls pulled back in a loose bun, holding that lunch tray like a weapon.

"Is this what business leadership looks like?" she said, voice sharp and loud enough to silence the room. "Insulting a woman who’s out-earned every man here, who built this company from the edge of her father’s grave, while you—what? Play golf and manipulate grief for a promotion?"

All eyes turned.

Ling stared. Her breath caught.

"You are?" Zhao Qian sneered.

Orm stepped forward. “Orm Li. Ling’s wife.”

Gasps.

She walked up to the table, set the tray down carefully in front of Ling, and added coolly, “Maybe sit down, Uncle. Before you trip on your own ego.”

For a moment, silence reigned.

Then, slowly, Ling smiled. Just a little.

The first genuine smile Orm had ever seen from her.

---

Later that evening, back home, Ling found Orm in the rooftop garden she rarely visited. It was still new — Orm’s plants growing in mismatched pots, the air rich with rosemary and lavender.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Ling said.

Orm looked up from the sketchbook on her lap. “Yeah, I did.”

“He could’ve made things worse for you.”

Orm shrugged. “He already tried to kill you. What’s left? An awkward dinner invitation?”

Ling was quiet for a long time.

Then: “No one’s ever defended me like that. Not since… before.”

Orm closed the sketchbook and stood, walking over to her. “I didn’t do it because I had to, Ling. I did it because I care.”

The words hit something inside Ling she hadn’t touched in years.

Care. Not obligation. Not pity. Care.

"I don't know how to handle that," she admitted softly.

Orm smiled. “Then let me teach you. One sketch at a time.”