One hour after I signed the divorce agreement, two hundred million yuan appeared in my account.

I stared at the notification for three seconds.

Then I transferred the money into an account under my own name.

Not because I needed it.

Because Co Dien Chau had called it “my last bit of dignity.”

I intended to make sure he never got it back.

The door opened again.

This time, it was not him.

Three men in dark suits entered first.

Behind them walked an elderly man with silver hair.

The moment he saw me, his eyes reddened.

“Xiao Ngu.”

My throat tightened.

“Grandfather.”

Tham Van Thanh, chairman of the Tham family conglomerate, had not called me that in twenty years.

He came to my bedside and looked at the surgical bandage, then toward the NICU.

“Where are the children?”

“Upstairs.”

“Condition?”

“Premature. They need respiratory support and observation.”

His hand trembled.

Then he asked:

“And their father?”

I smiled.

“We’re divorced.”

Grandfather understood immediately.

He did not ask why.

He simply turned to his secretary.

“Contact the pediatric medical center in Beijing.”

“Arrange the best neonatal team.”

“And inform the family aircraft.”

I stopped him.

“Grandfather.”

He looked back.

“No reckless transfers. The babies move only if their doctors say it is safe.”

He nodded.

“Of course.”

That was the difference between someone who wanted to protect my children and someone who treated them like an investment.

Two hours later, the NICU chief came personally.

She had reviewed the twins again.

“Their condition is serious, but stable.”

I stared at her.

“And the neurological problem?”

She frowned.

“What neurological problem?”

“Lam Tieu Nha said the doctors suspected they would have severe intellectual disabilities.”

The doctor’s expression changed immediately.

“Mrs. Tham, prematurity can increase the risk of developmental complications.”

“But nobody can make that conclusion about your babies now.”

My fingers went cold.

“Did you tell Mr. Co that?”

“Yes.”

The room became silent.

So Dien Chau had known.

He had not abandoned two children because doctors said there was no hope.

He abandoned them because there was uncertainty.

And because he already believed he had another son coming.

That was worse.

That evening, Deep Blue Capital held an emergency board meeting.

I attended by video from my hospital bed.

Seven executives appeared on screen.

The managing director asked:

“Chairwoman, do we proceed with the annual renewal of Co Group’s credit support?”

“No.”

Nobody questioned me.

For five years, Co Group had received financing from institutions connected to Deep Blue.

Dien Chau believed it came because investors trusted him.

Partly true.

But the person who had repeatedly approved confidence in his company had been me.

I had never given him free money.

I had never falsified markets.

His company was real.

His ability was real.

But whenever he reached a closed door, I had quietly made sure someone considered opening it.

No more.

“Honor every existing contract,” I said.

“No retaliation.”

“But no preferential renewal, no personal guarantee from me, and no new introductions through the Tham network.”

The director nodded.

“Understood.”

That was enough.

I did not need to destroy him.

I only stopped carrying him.

Three days later, Dien Chau discovered who I was.

He came running into the hospital while my grandfather was meeting with the doctors.

The security team stopped him outside.

He shouted my name.

“Tham Ngu!”

I asked them to let him enter.

He walked in pale.

His eyes moved from my grandfather to the Deep Blue documents on the table.

Then back to me.

“You’re…”

“Yes.”

“The Tham family?”

“Yes.”

“And Deep Blue?”

“Mine.”

He staggered backward.

“That’s impossible.”

Grandfather’s face became cold.

“You called my granddaughter a gold digger?”

Dien Chau said nothing.

Grandfather continued:

“And you threatened my great-grandsons?”

His face lost even more color.

“Chairman Tham, there has been a misunderstanding.”

I laughed.

“No.”

“There hasn’t.”

I opened my phone.

I had recorded our hospital conversation.

His voice filled the room:

“Take your burden and get out of Hai Thanh.”

Then:

“Don’t let those two wastes appear in front of me.”

And finally:

“Otherwise, I’ll make sure they have nowhere to stay in Hai Thanh.”

Dien Chau closed his eyes.

Grandfather looked at him with disgust.

“You are fortunate my granddaughter is calmer than I am.”

Dien Chau stepped toward me.

“Xiao Ngu, I was angry.”

“You were calculating.”

“I didn’t know their prognosis.”

“You knew enough.”

I looked directly at him.

“You simply decided children with uncertain health were beneath the Co family.”

His lips trembled.

“I can take back what I said.”

“No.”

I shook my head.

“Words don’t work like checks.”

“You don’t cancel them after they clear.”

Then his gaze moved toward the NICU doors.

“They’re my sons.”

That sentence almost made me laugh.

“An hour ago they were ‘burdens.’”

“I was confused.”

“No.”

“You thought you had a replacement.”

His face hardened.

“Tieu Nha is carrying my child.”

“Then take responsibility for that child.”

“But don’t suddenly remember these two because you discovered their mother has a richer surname than yours.”

He had no answer.

The twins remained hospitalized for several weeks.

I stayed with them every day.

One was stronger.

The other needed longer respiratory support.

But both improved.

There was no miraculous overnight recovery.

Just doctors, nurses, patience, monitoring and tiny steps forward.

The first time I held both boys together, I cried.

Not because they were heirs.

Not because they carried Tham blood.

Because they were alive.

I named them Minh and An.

Bright.

Peaceful.

The divorce became final months later.

Dien Chau attempted to revise the custody arrangement after learning the children’s condition was improving.

His attorneys suddenly began describing the boys as “the only legitimate heirs of the Co bloodline.”

My lawyer placed his own recorded words before the court.

The threats.

The abandonment.

The refusal to participate in treatment.

The court gave me primary custody while establishing a carefully structured visitation arrangement based on the children’s welfare.

Dien Chau learned something important:

Children were not shares.

He could not discard them during a bad quarter and buy them back when their value increased.

Lam Tieu Nha also discovered that becoming “the future Mrs. Co” was less glamorous once Co Group began struggling.

Deep Blue had not attacked the company.

We simply stopped giving it advantages.

Several projects had to be refinanced.

Expansion plans were postponed.

The board questioned Dien Chau’s judgment.

And when reporters learned that he had divorced his wife immediately after their premature twins were born, his reputation suffered.

Tieu Nha eventually moved out.

Whether they stayed together afterward, I never cared enough to ask.

Two years later, Minh and An ran through my grandfather’s garden during his seventy-fifth birthday celebration.

Minh fell.

An immediately ran back and grabbed his hand.

Both started laughing.

Grandfather watched them with tears in his eyes.

“They said these two children would become burdens?”

I smiled.

“Someone did.”

He snorted.

“Fool.”

That evening, Dien Chau came to pick the boys up for his scheduled afternoon visit.

He had changed.

Quieter.

Less arrogant.

He crouched and helped An zip his coat.

Before leaving, he looked at me.

“I was wrong.”

“Yes.”

“I thought being a businessman meant avoiding risk.”

I looked at our sons.

“Children aren’t investments.”

“I know now.”

I nodded.

That was enough.

Not forgiveness.

Not reconciliation.

Just acknowledgement.

He hesitated.

“Do you regret taking the two hundred million?”

I laughed.

“Not at all.”

For the first time, he smiled too.

Then I said:

“I put it into a medical fund for premature babies whose families can’t afford long-term care.”

His smile disappeared.

I continued:

“It was your divorce money.”

“Now it keeps other parents from being forced to decide whether their children are worth saving.”

Dien Chau lowered his head.

He had nothing to say.

I watched my sons run toward the car.

Once, their father called them trash because their future was uncertain.

He believed wealth, intelligence, health and bloodline determined whether a child deserved a place in his family.

He was wrong about them.

And he was wrong about me.

I took his two hundred million.

I took my two sons.

But the most valuable thing I carried out of that hospital was neither money nor heirs.

It was the certainty that I would never again beg anyone to recognize the worth of the people I loved.

Because my children had never needed to prove they deserved to live with dignity.

Their father had been the one who needed to prove he deserved to be part of their lives.