Ambushed

The Kwong mansion was grand as ever, a picture of elegance and tradition. Orm and Lingling walked in, hand in hand, fully expecting a relaxing brunch with their families.

What they weren't expecting was the conspiratorial gleam in both sets of parents' eyes.

From the moment they stepped inside, there was something off. The greetings were a little too warm, the smiles a little too eager, and Orm's gut was screaming at her that they were about to be ambushed.

Lingling, of course, was unfazed—until she noticed that even her father was smiling.

That's when the red flags went up.

As they walked towards the dining hall, Orm subtly nudged Lingling.

Orm, whispering: "Okay, why does this feel like a setup?"

Lingling, rolling her eyes: "You're imagining things."

Orm, voice dropping to a nervous mutter: *"No, no, I don't think I am. Look at them. They're...happy."

Lingling stole a glance at her usually reserved father, who was patting Orm's shoulder like she had just closed the biggest deal of her life.

Orm felt another nudge—this time from her own mother.

Orm's mom, beaming: "It's so wonderful to have you both here. Such a special occasion!"

Orm, pausing mid-step: "...Special occasion?"

Lingling, now actually suspicious: "What occasion?"

Lingling's dad, smirking: "Oh, just something important we wanted to discuss as a family."

That was it. The final sign. Orm was ready to run.

Orm, whispering urgently: "We should leave."

Lingling, arching a brow: "We just got here."

Orm, dead serious: "Exactly. There's still time to escape."

Lingling sighed, giving her wife a gentle but firm tug toward the dining room.

Lingling, exasperated: "For the last time, you're being paranoid."

Orm wasn't so sure.

They reached the dining room and took their seats. The table was beautifully set, filled with an impressive spread of brunch favorites—fresh pastries, steaming hot dumplings, perfectly cut fruit, and an unusually extravagant amount of tea.

But Orm wasn't fooled. This wasn't just a brunch.

This was a negotiation table.

She glanced at Lingling, who was still cool and composed—but even she had started to sense something was off.

They should have seen it coming. But they didn't.

Not until Lingling's mother gently set down her glass, folded her hands on the table, and with the most casual tone in the world, said—

Lingling's mom, smiling:

"So... when should we expect our first grandchild?"

The second the words left Lingling's mother's lips—

"So... when should we expect our first grandchild?"

—Orm immediately regretted not listening to her survival instincts.

Her coffee cup halted mid-air, her fingers tightening around the handle as if it could save her.

Lingling, in a rare moment of vulnerability, was caught mid-sip. The question hit her with the force of a corporate scandal, and the result?

A very uncharacteristic, very un-Lingling-like cough.

Lingling, sputtering into her cup: "I—what?"

Meanwhile, Orm had completely frozen, eyes darting around the table like she was searching for an emergency exit.

Their parents? Completely unbothered.

Orm, whispering to Lingling: "...I told you this was a setup."

The silence didn't last long because, like business sharks sensing weakness, the parents pounced.

Orm's mom, nodding enthusiastically:

"It's just that you two have been married for a while now, and we were wondering... when do we get to be grandparents?"

Lingling's dad, smirking:

"You've merged two empires. Now it's time to expand the legacy."

Lingling blinked. Slowly.

Her father, the very same cold, calculated businessman who barely showed emotion, was looking at them like he was already picking out baby names.

Orm, feeling her soul leave her body, whispered to Lingling again.

Orm: "...He just said legacy. Are we about to get listed on the stock exchange?"

Lingling, still dazed: "I think we already are."

Lingling's mother reached for her phone, casually scrolling before turning the screen toward them.

There, in full PowerPoint-style preparation, was a list.

A list of potential baby names.

And not just any names—

Traditional options, modern options, even a section labeled "Hybrid names for a modern empire." Some were bold, elegant, and regal. Others were so outrageous Orm thought they were joking.

Orm, blinking at the screen: "...Why is there a whole section dedicated to name meanings?"

Lingling's mom, beaming: "Strong names build strong empires!"

Orm's dad, casually sipping his tea:

"We've also considered schooling options. Of course, international programs would be ideal."

Lingling, barely able to function:

"You—you've discussed this?"

Orm's mom, smiling: "Oh, we've planned for this since your wedding."

Becky's voice echoed in Orm's head: "You married into a dynasty. There's no escape."

Orm, feeling lightheaded, reached for her water.

Lingling, for the first time in history, had no words.

And then—

The worst part happened.

Lingling's father, ever the strategic businessman, leaned back in his chair and said, completely serious—

"Naturally, this child will be the heir of the Sethratanapong-Kwong empire."

Orm actually choked on her water.

Lingling's head whipped around so fast it was a miracle she didn't sprain something.

Lingling: "Excuse me?"

Her father simply nodded, unbothered.

Lingling's dad, confidently: "It's only logical. With both families merged, your child will lead the next generation. The future of our businesses will be in their hands."

Orm was about five seconds away from completely blacking out.

Orm, in absolute shock: "You're already giving them the company? They don't even exist yet!"

Lingling's mom, smiling: "Details, dear. Details."

Lingling, still short-circuiting: "Dad, that is—not how that works!"

Orm, whispering: "I feel like we should at least meet the kid first before making them CEO."

Lingling's father shrugged.

Like this was a minor formality. Like appointing an heir before conception was a normal Tuesday discussion.

Lingling, to Orm, whispering: "This is an actual hostile takeover."

Orm, nodding: "We have to fight for control of our own unborn child."

Their parents nodded approvingly.

As if they just closed a billion-dollar deal. As if the Sethratanapong-Kwong empire's future was now solidified.

And Orm and Lingling?

Absolutely. Stunned.

✅ Ambushed.

✅ Trapped.

✅ Apparently now planning an heir to the dynasty.

There was no escape.

For a moment, the only sound in the entire mansion was the faint clink of silverware.

Lingling and Orm sat completely frozen, still processing the family ambush that had just unfolded before their eyes.

Their parents? Casually sipping tea.

Their child—who did not exist yet—was already being groomed for business succession.

Their child—who, again, DID NOT EXIST YET—had potential names, schooling options and a future executive position lined up.

Lingling's eye twitched.

Orm's soul left her body.

Both stared ahead blankly, processing their entire life being decided in real time.

Lingling rubbed her temples, trying to regain her sense of control.

No.

No, no, no.

This was not how this conversation was supposed to happen.

Lingling's internal monologue:

✅ "Okay, we have to get ahead of this. Strategic planning."

✅ "First, we clarify that we are not having a baby—yet."

✅ "Second, we regain control over this narrative before the stockholders find out."

✅ "Third, we—WAIT WHY AM I PLANNING ALREADY?!"

Lingling snapped out of her spiral, looking over at her wife for help—

And immediately regretted it.

Orm: The Trophy Wife is Actually Malfunctioning

Orm was 100% out of commission.

She sat stiff as a board, eyes wide and mouth slightly open.

Her internal monologue?

🆘 ERROR. SYSTEM FAILURE.

She had mentally disconnected from her own body, her brain running a silent crisis mode.

💀"I just came for brunch."

💀 "I thought this was about food."

💀 "WHY ARE WE TALKING ABOUT SUCCESSION?!"

Meanwhile, the parents were completely unbothered, calmly continuing the conversation as if Orm and Lingling weren't spiraling into existential dread.

Just when Lingling thought it couldn't possibly escalate further—

Her mother smiled sweetly and said:

"You know, Lingling, studies show that children raised in bilingual households develop cognitive skills at a faster rate. I trust you two will make sure they're fluent in Mandarin, Cantonese, Thai and English?"

Lingling.exe has crashed.

Orm, barely clinging to reality, let out a wheezing breath.

Orm, weakly whispering to Lingling:

"They're building the heir's résumé already."

Lingling, whispering back:

"This is an interview process before the baby is even conceived."

Their parents nodded in unison.

✅ THEY WERE DEAD SERIOUS.

✅ THEY HAD A LANGUAGE STRATEGY.

✅ THEY WERE NOT LETTING THIS GO.

Lingling, the Ice Queen, the composed business mogul, finally found her voice.

She set down her fork, inhaled deeply, and straightened her posture.

Lingling, carefully choosing her words:

"We appreciate your enthusiasm. However, we are not rushing into anything. We will take our time and make decisions based on what feels right for us as a couple."

Her tone? CEO level. Final. Unshakable.

There. That should do it.

Crisis managed.

Situation contained.

Right?

Right?!

Her father tilted his head thoughtfully.

Her mother exchanged a glance with Orm's mom.

And then—

Lingling heard the words that almost made her flip the entire table.

Lingling's mother, smiling politely:

"Of course, dear. We'll give you two... some time."

Orm, still in crisis mode:

"Define 'some time' please."

Orm's dad, casually sipping his tea:

"Six months sounds reasonable."

ORM ACTUALLY CHOKED ON AIR.

LINGLING ALMOST DROPPED HER GLASS.

SIX MONTHS?!

THEY HAD A DEADLINE.

Lingling, whispering in absolute horror: "They've... set a timeline?"

Orm, barely functioning: "Ling... we are literally in a corporate takeover."

Their parents calmly continued eating.

As if they hadn't just casually given them a deadline for conception.

Lingling gripped Orm's hand under the table.

A very silent, yet VERY loud conversation happened between them.

Lingling's eyes: "DO SOMETHING."

Orm's eyes: "I LITERALLY DON'T KNOW HOW TO STOP THIS."

Lingling's eyes: "YOU'RE THE SOCIAL ONE. DISTRACT THEM."

Orm's eyes: "I JUST LEARNED I HAVE SIX MONTHS TO BIRTH A DYNASTY, I AM NOT OKAY."

Meanwhile, their parents?

✅ COMPLETELY UNAWARE.

✅ Planning the next board meeting.

✅ Already preparing the family estate for a nursery.

Lingling and Orm?

Officially in their worst PR crisis yet.

And Becky and Freen weren't even here to save them.

Lingling took a slow sip of her drink.

Orm didn't blink for a full minute.

There was no escaping this brunch.

Their baby (that didn't exist yet) was already the most important investment of the family.

And somehow... they had to survive this meal.

Lingling and Orm had survived many things.

Ruthless corporate negotiations.

Chaotic wedding planning.

Each other's insane levels of stubbornness.

Lingling's Ice Queen reputation almost being ruined by her wife's ridiculous antics.

Orm's Trophy Wife Era crisis.

But nothing—and truly, nothing—had prepared them for The Great Heir Ambush of the Kwong-Setharatanapong Families.

Lingling had never wanted to flee a boardroom more than she did at this very moment.

Orm had never wanted to fake a business emergency more than she did right now.

Both stared blankly as their parents casually continued brunch, as if they hadn't just handed them an official reproductive timeline.

SIX MONTHS. 💀

SUCCESSION STRATEGY.

MULTILINGUAL EDUCATION BEFORE THE CHILD EVEN EXISTS.

This was not a casual Sunday brunch.

This was a meticulously executed executive order.

Lingling, who prided herself on always being in control, sat up straighter, smoothing out her blazer.

Fine. If this was a negotiation, she would handle it accordingly.

Lingling, professionally measured:

"Mother, Father, we appreciate your excitement. However, Orm and I will decide our own timeline."

Her tone was firm. Authoritative. CEO level.

She was winning.

...Or so she thought.

Lingling's mother, unfazed:

"Of course, darling. But you know, fertility specialists recommend starting early."

Lingling's entire body stiffened.

Orm's father, nodding along:

"And we have the best specialists lined up. Whenever you're ready, of course."

THEY HAD A MEDICAL TEAM ON STANDBY?!

Lingling blinked slowly, her fingers tightening around her glass.

Lingling, whispering to Orm:

"I'm going to pass out."

Orm, whispering back:

"Take me with you."

Realizing that Lingling was dangerously close to flipping the entire table, Orm scrambled for a distraction.

Orm, clearing her throat:

"So! Uh. How about we talk about... the weather?"

Their parents paused mid-sip, slowly turning to Orm in unison.

Lingling's father, deadpan:

"The weather?"

Orm, sweating:

"Yep! It's... uhm... very sunny today!"

There was a silence so loud, it could be heard across generations.

Lingling actually facepalmed.

Her wife—her supposedly brilliant wife—was trying to discuss the WEATHER.

Lingling, whispering sharply:

"That's the best you could come up with?"

Orm, whispering back:

"My brain shut down, okay?!"

Lingling's mother sighed, setting down her teacup with a serene smile.

"Lingling, dear, there's no need to be nervous. We'll support you both every step of the way."

Lingling stared.

No.

No, no, no.

That was not what this was about—

Orm, still spiraling:

"I—uh. I don't think we're nervous! Haha! Right, Ling?"

Lingling, not in the mood for this nonsense, slowly turned to Orm.

Orm shrunk under the look.

HELP ME, I'M DIGGING MY OWN GRAVE.

Lingling, ice cold:

"Stop. Talking."

Orm, shutting her mouth immediately:

"Yes, ma'am."

Their parents exchanged knowing glances.

Lingling could FEEL them mentally evaluating her as a parent already.

Abort mission. ABORT MISSION.

Realizing that they were losing this battle, Lingling reached for their last resort.

Time to get out.

Lingling, standing abruptly:

"This has been a wonderful brunch. Unfortunately, we have an urgent meeting to attend."

Orm, IMMEDIATELY catching on, nodding furiously:

"Yes! Urgent. Big. Very important meeting."

Lingling's father, skeptical:

"On a Sunday?"

Orm, dead serious:

"It's an international crisis."

LINGLING PHYSICALLY PINCHED HER.

Miraculously, after a final round of hugs (and yet another reminder that their future heir should be multilingual, well-read and preferably born within next year), Lingling dragged Orm out of the mansion.

As soon as they reached the car, Lingling slammed the door shut, exhaling sharply.

Orm sat in the passenger seat, still in silent crisis mode.

The air was thick with post-traumatic brunch syndrome.

Lingling, gripping the steering wheel:

"What the hell just happened?"

Orm, staring blankly:

"I think... we just got drafted into parenthood."

Lingling, muttering:

"I need a drink."

Orm, solemn:

"We need several."

Lingling strode into the penthouse, removed her blazer, and immediately went for the bar.

🥃 One glass of wine? No.

🥃 Two glasses of wine? Still no.

🥃 She just took the entire bottle and poured generously.

She sat down on the couch with the grace of a war general who had barely survived battle.

Orm, flopping down beside her, still dazed:

"So. That happened."

Lingling tilted her head back, staring at the ceiling, processing.

After a long pause, she finally spoke.

"They had a timeline, Orm. A full-on, strategic reproductive timeline."

Orm, still looking haunted:

"With a medical team."

Lingling, whispering:

"An on-call medical team."

FLASHBACK TO BRUNCH: "Fertility specialists recommend starting early."

Lingling gulped her wine.

Orm grabbed the bottle and did the same.

THEY WERE TOO YOUNG TO BE DEALING WITH THIS.

Lingling, after a long exhale:

"So... we should probably talk about it."

Orm blinked at her, still mid-sip.

She slowly lowered the glass, suddenly very much awake.

"Talk about what?" Orm asked, playing dumb.

Lingling gave her a look.

A Look™.

The kind of look that meant don't even try, wife.

"About kids, Orm. About... us having a baby."

DEEP BREATH. HERE WE GO.

Orm leaned back against the couch, staring at the ceiling, running a hand through her hair.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Not because they were afraid, but because... this was big.

Finally, Orm spoke, her voice softer than usual.

"You really want this, don't you?"

Lingling wasn't used to showing this kind of vulnerability.

But here, with Orm? She didn't hesitate.

"I do."

Orm turned, really looking at her now.

Lingling wasn't the CEO right now. She wasn't the ruthless businesswoman, the Ice Queen, the terrifyingly efficient strategist.

She was just... Ling.

Orm's Ling.

The woman who had melted for her. The woman who loved deeply, fiercely, protectively.

"When did you know?" Orm asked gently.

Lingling exhaled a small laugh, shaking her head.

"Honestly? I don't know. Maybe it was when I realized how much I wanted a life with you. A real life. Not just the business, or the success, or the things that used to define me."

Orm stayed quiet, letting her continue.

"I never thought I'd want this. But... it's different now. I see us having a family, Orm. I see it so clearly."

Orm felt something stir deep in her chest.

This was the woman she married. Logical, methodical Lingling—now speaking with absolute certainty about something as terrifying as parenthood.

"What about you?" Lingling asked, watching her carefully.

Orm smiled. A small, soft, genuine smile.

"I think... I've always wanted it. I just never thought I'd get here."

Lingling's breath hitched.

"You want kids?" she asked, as if still confirming.

Orm nodded.

"With you? Yeah. I do. But..."

Lingling leaned forward, suddenly sensing a but.

Orm bit her lip, trying to phrase this carefully.

"I also really want to enjoy my Trophy Wife, No Kids Era for a while."

Lingling blinked.

"...Your what?"

Orm, completely serious:

"My Trophy Wife, No Kids Era. You know, where I just exist in blissful, expensive wifedom? Where I get pampered, lounge around in silk robes and live my best, most aesthetically pleasing life?"

Lingling stared.

Orm, smirking now:

"Before I become Trophy Wife, Plus Baby Chaos Era."

Lingling sighed deeply.

"Did you just..."

Orm leaned over, kissing her softly.

"But you love me."

Lingling rolled her eyes but kissed her back.

"Fine. We take our time. But we start... planning?"

Orm grinned.

"You just want to make spreadsheets about it, don't you?"

Lingling, deadpan:

"Obviously."

Orm giggled—actually giggled—before pulling Lingling into her arms.

"Fine, Mrs. Kwong. We'll start planning. But let's agree on one thing first."

Lingling raised an eyebrow.

"No more ambush brunches."

Lingling clinked their glasses together.

"Agreed."