“Oh, is that so?”

My own voice sounded strangely calm.

The bank employee stared at me as if I had just asked about the weather.

—Ma’am… would you like me to repeat the balance?

—No need.

I pushed the five hundred yuan toward her.

—Deposit this too.

Her fingers trembled slightly.

—And the existing funds?

I thought for several seconds.

Then I remembered the words my ex-husband, Luc Hanh, had said two days earlier.

“You came into my house with nothing.”

“You’ll leave with nothing.”

So I smiled.

—Put everything into a five-year fixed deposit.

The employee nearly dropped her mouse.

—Everything?

—Yes.

—All 21.7 billion?

—Every yuan.

She immediately stood.

—Please wait. This exceeds my authorization. I need the branch manager.

Ten minutes later, I was no longer sitting on the cracked plastic chair.

I had been moved into a private room.

Tea appeared.

Fruit appeared.

Three senior managers appeared.

The woman with the diamond rings outside glanced through the glass twice.

This time, she wasn’t moving away from me.

She was trying to see who I was.

The branch manager personally verified my identity.

Then he frowned.

—Ms. Shen, this account has been inactive for almost ten years.

I nodded.

—My mother left me the card.

His expression changed.

—Your mother was Shen Yue?

I looked up.

—You knew her?

He didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he asked his assistant to close the door.

Then he lowered his voice.

—Your mother was one of the founding shareholders of Tianhua Capital.

I stared at him.

The name meant something.

Everyone in Lam Hai knew Tianhua Capital.

Investment banking.

Technology.

Logistics.

Real estate.

It was one of the largest private financial groups in the region.

My mother had always told me she was an accountant.

A woman who bought vegetables at discount markets and repaired her own shoes rather than replacing them.

The manager continued:

—Years ago, she transferred her personal holdings into a trust account under your name.

—The account accumulated dividends, investment income and asset-sale proceeds.

My fingers tightened around the teacup.

—Why didn’t anyone contact me?

—There were instructions.

He turned the screen toward me.

“Beneficiary to receive full control only after voluntary identity verification.”

My mother had designed it so nobody could drag me into that world before I chose to open the account myself.

For ten years, I’d lived beside twenty-one billion yuan without knowing it existed.

I almost laughed.

Then I thought of the fake wedding ring.

The old apartment.

The two packs of instant noodles.

And Luc Hanh telling me that without him I’d starve within a month.

I signed the deposit documents.

At three o’clock the next morning, my phone began vibrating.

Unknown number.

Another.

Then another.

Finally, I answered.

A man’s voice came through.

—Don’t touch that money.

I sat up in bed.

—Who are you?

Silence.

Then:

—I’m Chen Wei, chairman of Tianhua Capital.

I immediately became alert.

—Why are you calling me at three in the morning?

—Because the moment you transferred the balance into a fixed deposit, several corporate accounts lost access to liquidity arrangements tied to your mother’s trust.

I frowned.

—Explain that in normal language.

He exhaled.

—Your money was being managed under discretionary investment agreements.

—By locking it for five years, you effectively froze a major portion of Tianhua’s flexible capital pool.

I looked at the peeling paint on my rented room’s ceiling.

—Was I asked for permission to use it?

Silence.

That answered me.

—Then tomorrow morning, have your legal department contact me.

I hung up.

By noon, three lawyers arrived.

Not Tianhua’s.

Mine.

Because the small key inside my mother’s iron box opened a safety-deposit compartment.

Inside were original trust documents.

And one handwritten letter.

“To my daughter:

If one day you open this box because life has forced you into a corner, remember something.

Never believe anyone who tells you that you have nothing.

The things that truly belong to you may simply be waiting for you to remember your own name.”

I cried for the first time since the divorce.

Not because of Luc Hanh.

Because I missed my mother.

The lawyers spent two days reviewing everything.

The result was simple.

The money was legally mine.

The investment agreements could be terminated.

And more importantly, the trust held major stakes in several companies.

Including one I knew very well.

Hanh Minh Technology.

Luc Hanh’s company.

I stared at the ownership chart.

—How much?

My lawyer adjusted his glasses.

—Directly and indirectly, approximately thirty-four percent.

I laughed.

Luc Hanh had spent three years telling everyone he built the company by himself.

Whenever I suggested returning to work, he said:

—Why embarrass me? My wife doesn’t need to work.

Whenever I asked about finances:

—You wouldn’t understand business.

And two days ago, during our divorce, he had made me waive any claim against his company.

I signed happily.

Because apparently, I didn’t need his shares.

I already owned more of the company than he did.

Three days later, Hanh Minh Technology held an emergency shareholders’ meeting.

Luc Hanh walked into the boardroom twenty minutes late.

He was wearing the navy suit I had ironed hundreds of times.

Beside him was Linh Dao, the woman he’d started dating before our divorce was finalized.

When he saw me sitting at the table, he stopped.

—What are you doing here?

I looked at the folder in front of me.

—Working.

He laughed.

—You?

The chairman cleared his throat.

—Mr. Luc, Ms. Shen represents Tianhua Trust’s thirty-four percent voting interest.

The smile disappeared from Luc Hanh’s face.

—What?

I looked at him.

—Please sit down.

For years, he’d spoken to me like that.

It felt surprisingly natural.

Linh Dao whispered:

—Thirty-four percent?

Luc Hanh ignored her.

—Where did you get that money?

—From my mother.

—Your mother was poor.

I smiled.

—Apparently she was simply private.

The meeting continued.

Tianhua had initiated a governance review.

Several company expenses required explanation.

Luxury cars listed as business assets.

An apartment purchased under a subsidiary.

Personal travel billed through consulting accounts.

And one particularly interesting expense:

Linh Dao’s boutique.

Two million yuan invested through a company controlled by Luc Hanh.

His face became red.

—This is retaliation!

I shook my head.

—No.

—I haven’t asked the board to remove you.

—I’m asking you to explain where shareholder money went.

The chairman added:

—A perfectly reasonable request.

Luc Hanh looked around.

For the first time, nobody rushed to agree with him.

After the meeting, he followed me into the hallway.

—Shen An!

I stopped.

—What?

—You hid this from me.

I almost laughed.

—I didn’t know either.

He stared at my clothes.

Still cheap.

Still ordinary.

Then at the lawyers walking behind me.

—How much do you have?

I told him.

—21.7 billion yuan in liquid assets.

His face emptied.

I continued:

—Not including equity.

His lips parted.

For three years, he had called me useless.

Dependent.

A burden.

During the divorce, he had insisted I leave with nothing because “everything in the marriage came from him.”

Now he looked like he couldn’t breathe.

—Why didn’t you tell me?

I smiled.

—Would you have treated me differently?

He didn’t answer.

And that was the only answer I needed.

The next month, I terminated the old investment agreements and hired an independent asset-management team.

I didn’t destroy Hanh Minh Technology.

Thousands of employees had nothing to do with my marriage.

But I did insist on proper audits.

Luc Hanh eventually resigned as CEO after financial irregularities became public inside the board.

Linh Dao disappeared from his life shortly afterward.

Apparently love was less romantic when there was no company card attached to it.

Six months later, I saw Luc Hanh once more.

He was waiting outside Tianhua Capital.

—Shen An.

I stopped.

He looked exhausted.

—Can we start again?

I actually smiled.

—Why?

He swallowed.

—I was wrong about you.

—No.

I shook my head.

—You were right about one thing.

He looked confused.

I continued:

—I did leave your house with nothing.

I stepped into the car waiting for me.

—Nothing that belonged to you.

The door closed.

For years, Luc Hanh believed he was the wealthy husband supporting a poor, useless wife.

He forced me out empty-handed because he thought I had nowhere else to go.

He never imagined that the old bank card in my mother’s rusted box held 21.7 billion yuan—and enough shares to make him answer to me for the first time in his life.