“What are you going to do?”
I looked at the clock on the living-room wall.
3:21 p.m.
Hua Nghien would not be home for nearly six hours.
“I’m not going to confront him.”
Tri Du exhaled audibly.
“Good.”
“I want to know everything first.”
There was a pause.
Then she asked quietly:
“Do you want me to help?”
“Yes.”
My answer came faster than I expected.
I told her the address on the property certificate.
Thuy Ho Danh Uyen.
Building Seven.
Apartment 1602.
And the name.
Chung Y.
Tri Du worked for a law firm specializing in commercial disputes. She had handled enough ugly divorces to know that discovering betrayal and proving betrayal were two completely different things.
“Photographs aren’t enough,” she said. “Especially if assets are involved. Find out where the money came from. Don’t transfer anything. Don’t change passwords. Don’t let him realize you know.”
I stared at the wedding photograph hanging opposite the sofa.
Eight years ago, Hua Nghien had held my waist with one hand.
He was smiling.
I was smiling even more.
“Tri Du.”
“Yes?”
“If that apartment was bought with marital money…”
“Then we deal with it legally.”
“And the child?”
She became silent.
“That part isn’t about money.”
I understood.
After hanging up, I opened the banking app on my phone.
Hua Nghien and I had separate salary accounts, but our major household expenses passed through a shared account.
For years, I had never checked carefully.
Why would I?
He earned more than I did.
He handled investments.
I managed the house.
That was how we divided our lives.
Or rather, that was how I thought we divided our lives.
I downloaded eight years of statements.
At first, nothing looked unusual.
Mortgage.
Utilities.
Insurance.
Investments.
Then I noticed something.
Every month, around the eighth or ninth, Hua Nghien transferred between sixty and seventy thousand yuan from one of our investment accounts into another account under his name.
Two days later, fifty thousand disappeared.
Recipient information was hidden in the electronic statement.
But now I knew who received it.
Chung Y.
My hands became cold.
Not because of the fifty thousand.
Because I recognized the account the money came from.
It was the investment fund my father had given me when I married.
Two million yuan.
My father had said:
“Zhiyu, marriage is marriage. Money is money. Keep something that belongs only to you.”
At the time, Hua Nghien had laughed.
“Dad, you make it sound like I’m going to mistreat her.”
My father had replied:
“I’m not protecting her from you. I’m protecting her from life.”
After my father died, Hua Nghien convinced me to merge that fund into our family investments.
He said leaving money idle was foolish.
I signed.
I trusted him.
Now, staring at eight years of statements, I realized something that made my throat tighten.
For four years, part of the money my father left to protect me had been financing Hua Nghien’s other family.
At 4:06 p.m., Tri Du sent me a message.
“Found something. Call me.”
I called immediately.
“What?”
“The apartment wasn’t bought by Chung Y.”
I frowned.
“But her name is on the certificate.”
“Yes. It was transferred to her.”
“When?”
“Three years ago.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“Who owned it before?”
Tri Du hesitated.
“Hua Nghien.”
I closed my eyes.
So he had purchased it first.
Then gifted it to her.
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
Her voice changed.
That frightened me more than the information itself.
“What?”
“Chung Y isn’t some random woman.”
I waited.
Tri Du continued.
“She worked at Hua Nghien’s company.”
“What position?”
“Executive assistant.”
“When?”
“From 2017 until 2020.”
One year after our wedding.
“Why did she leave?”
“That’s unclear. Her employment records disappear in early 2020.”
The chat history began in 2020.
The monthly payments began even earlier.
I suddenly remembered a company banquet five years ago.
A young woman had stood beside Hua Nghien while executives toasted.
Long black hair.
White dress.
Very quiet.
When I arrived, Hua Nghien had introduced her casually.
“Our new assistant.”
Had that been Chung Y?
I couldn’t remember her face clearly.
But I remembered one thing.
When Hua Nghien introduced me as his wife, the woman had lowered her eyes.
At the time, I thought she was shy.
Now the memory felt completely different.
At 5:40 p.m., I left the house.
I told no one where I was going.
I drove to Thuy Ho Danh Uyen.
I told myself I only wanted to see the building.
Nothing more.
But when I parked across the street, I remained inside the car.
Building Seven stood behind a row of trees.
Modern.
Expensive.
Quiet.
At 6:12 p.m., a woman walked through the gate carrying grocery bags.
My heart stopped.
I recognized her.
The woman from the company banquet.
Chung Y.
She looked older, of course.
But it was definitely her.
A little boy ran toward her from inside the courtyard.
The same boy from the video.
She bent down, smiling, and kissed his forehead.
Then someone else appeared behind him.
An elderly woman.
Probably Chung Y’s mother.
They looked ordinary.
Like a family.
That was the strangest part.
I had imagined seeing some glamorous mistress living extravagantly with my husband’s money.
Instead, Chung Y wore flat shoes and a simple cardigan.
The boy was dragging a toy truck.
Her mother carried vegetables.
They looked like people returning home after an ordinary day.
My husband had not simply hidden an affair.
He had built a second life.
At 6:37 p.m., my phone rang.
Hua Nghien.
I stared at his name.
Then answered.
“Hello?”
“Where are you?”
His voice was casual.
I looked at Building Seven.
“Outside.”
“Doing what?”
“Buying something.”
He laughed softly.
“Don’t buy useless things again.”
Normally, I would have argued.
This time I smiled.
“Okay.”
“I’m having dinner with President Liu tonight. I may come home later.”
President Liu.
Another social engagement.
Another lie.
“What time?”
“Probably ten.”
“All right.”
He paused.
“Zhiyu.”
“Yes?”
“Why do you sound strange?”
My heart gave one hard beat.
“Do I?”
Silence.
Then he said:
“No. Forget it.”
He ended the call.
Thirty-two minutes later, a black Mercedes turned into the entrance of Thuy Ho Danh Uyen.
I knew the license plate.
I knew the driver.
I knew the man stepping out.
Hua Nghien.
He wasn’t carrying a briefcase.
He was carrying flowers.
Pink roses.
The security guard greeted him without asking for identification.
That meant he came often.
The little boy saw him first.
“Dad!”
Hua Nghien bent down.
The boy crashed into his arms.
He lifted him easily and kissed his cheek.
I sat motionless behind the steering wheel.
Eight years.
In eight years, I had rarely seen Hua Nghien look like that.
His face was completely relaxed.
No impatience.
No phone in his hand.
No work.
Chung Y walked toward him.
He handed her the flowers.
She smiled.
Then she said something I couldn’t hear.
Hua Nghien leaned closer.
She adjusted his collar with the familiarity of a wife.
And he let her.
I took three photographs.
Only three.
Then I drove away.
At 9:58 p.m., Hua Nghien came home.
I was sitting on the bed reading.
He removed his jacket.
“Still awake?”
“Yes.”
“How was dinner?”
“Boring.”
He loosened his tie.
“President Liu drank too much again.”
I looked at him.
“Really?”
He glanced at me.
“Why?”
“Nothing.”
He walked into the bathroom.
A minute later, I heard the shower.
His jacket lay across the chair.
His phone was inside the pocket.
The phone he used with me.
It vibrated.
I didn’t touch it.
Then it vibrated again.
The screen lit up.
A message preview appeared from his mother.
“Did you tell Zhiyu yet? We can’t keep hiding the child forever.”
My breathing stopped.
Before I could process those words, another message arrived.
“Your father says if she refuses the divorce, use the agreement she signed five years ago.”
Agreement?
What agreement?
Then the bathroom door opened.
Hua Nghien stepped out, drying his hair.
His eyes moved from me…
to the illuminated phone on the chair.
And for the first time in eight years, I saw genuine fear on my husband’s face.
