Tong Cam replied in less than ten seconds.
“Understood.”
Then another message arrived.
“All projects?”
I looked through the glass doors at the banquet hall.
Luc Dien Chau had already returned to the guests.
He stood beside his father, receiving congratulations with a wineglass in his hand.
Hua Nhuoc Quan had appeared too.
She wore an elegant champagne-colored dress.
When Dien Chau saw her, something softened in his expression.
Three years.
That was the look I had waited three years to receive.
I lowered my eyes to the phone.
“All.”
Tong Cam responded:
“Execution begins at midnight.”
I locked the screen.
Then I walked into my father’s seventieth birthday celebration as though nothing had happened.
No one knew that my marriage had ended ten minutes earlier.
And no one knew that another countdown had just begun.
Hua Nhuoc Quan approached me first.
“Sister Tri Y.”
I almost smiled at the title.
She held two glasses of champagne and offered me one.
“Uncle looks very happy tonight.”
“He is.”
“I heard you arranged everything yourself.”
“Yes.”
She lowered her voice.
“You’ve always been very capable.”
There was something strange in her tone.
Not admiration.
Victory disguised as sympathy.
Then she looked toward Dien Chau.
“I hope you won’t blame him.”
So she already knew.
Of course she did.
“Why would I?”
She seemed surprised.
“He told you?”
“Ten minutes ago.”
Her fingers tightened around the glass.
“I didn’t ask him to divorce you.”
I nodded.
“That makes one of us.”
She froze.
I took the champagne from her hand.
“Thank you.”
Then I walked away.
Behind me, I heard her call softly:
“Sister Tri Y…”
I didn’t turn around.
Some conversations lose their purpose the moment the outcome is decided.
At eight thirty, my father cut his birthday cake.
At nine, the family photograph was taken.
Luc Dien Chau automatically moved to stand beside me.
His hand almost reached for my waist.
I stepped half a pace away.
The photographer looked confused.
“Mr. Luc, Mrs. Luc, closer please.”
Dien Chau’s expression stiffened.
Before he could speak, my father said:
“Leave it.”
Everyone became quiet.
My father looked at me.
He had always understood me too quickly.
“Tri Y?”
I smiled.
“After tonight.”
He studied my face.
Then his eyes moved toward Luc Dien Chau.
He said nothing.
But Dien Chau suddenly looked uncomfortable.
At 11:47 p.m., the last guests left.
I went upstairs.
My luggage was already packed.
One suitcase.
That was all.
The jewelry given by the Luc family remained inside the safe.
The designer clothes Dien Chau had bought remained in the wardrobe.
The city-center apartment listed in the divorce settlement?
I didn’t want it.
The three million?
I didn’t want that either.
I took only what belonged to me before the marriage.
When I came downstairs, Dien Chau was waiting.
His tie was loose now.
Still the knot I had tied.
He looked at my suitcase.
“Where are you going?”
“My father’s house.”
“You don’t need to leave tonight.”
“I do.”
“Tri Y.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“We can still live normally until the divorce is finalized.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
He seemed genuinely confused.
“Because nothing has to become ugly.”
“There you go again.”
“What?”
“Wanting everything comfortable.”
I smiled faintly.
“You want Hua Nhuoc Quan.”
“You want me to understand.”
“You want your parents not to be embarrassed.”
“You want the company unaffected.”
“And now you want me to remain in this house so you don’t have to feel like the man who threw his wife out on her father’s birthday.”
His expression darkened.
“I didn’t throw you out.”
“No.”
I pulled up the suitcase handle.
“That’s why I’m leaving myself.”
His phone rang.
He looked at the screen.
Chief Financial Officer.
Dien Chau rejected it.
Five seconds later, it rang again.
Then again.
He frowned and finally answered.
“What?”
I stood beside the door.
His expression slowly changed.
“What do you mean suspended?”
Silence.
“Which credit line?”
Another silence.
Then:
“Call Dinh Thinh.”
I opened the door.
Behind me, his voice became sharper.
“What do you mean they won’t take the call?”
I walked outside.
At exactly midnight, my marriage ended emotionally.
And Dinh Thinh began withdrawing.
By eight the next morning, Luc Thi Group had lost access to two financing facilities.
By ten, Dinh Thinh Capital withdrew from the semiconductor expansion.
At eleven fifteen, our representative notified the board that the new-energy partnership would not enter its next funding round.
At noon, three institutional investors requested emergency clarification.
Luc Dien Chau called me thirteen times.
I didn’t answer.
At 1:07 p.m., he sent:
“Did your father do this?”
I almost laughed.
He still didn’t understand.
My father had wealth.
Connections.
Influence.
But Dinh Thinh wasn’t his.
It was mine.
I replied with only one sentence.
“Handle your company’s affairs yourself.”
His answer arrived immediately.
“Where are you?”
I turned off the phone.
The emergency board meeting began at three.
I knew because Tong Cam sent me updates.
“Luc Dien Chau is requesting a direct meeting with Dinh Thinh’s controlling shareholder.”
Another message:
“They’re blaming market conditions.”
Then:
“They still don’t know.”
I finally replied:
“Don’t tell them.”
“Not yet.”
At 4:20, something unexpected happened.
My former mother-in-law called.
I answered because I still respected her.
“Tri Y.”
Her voice trembled.
“Did Dien Chau do something?”
I was silent.
She understood.
“That fool.”
I closed my eyes.
“Mother—”
“You don’t need to call me that anymore.”
Her voice broke slightly.
“But tell me one thing.”
“Did he ask for a divorce because of Hua Nhuoc Quan?”
“Yes.”
A long silence followed.
Then she said:
“I never asked you to save my son at the cost of yourself.”
My throat tightened.
Three years earlier, in the ICU, I had interpreted her request differently.
Take care of Dien Chau.
So I did.
Too well.
I protected him from consequences.
From bad investments.
From failed negotiations.
Sometimes even from his own arrogance.
His mother whispered:
“Tri Y, whatever you decide, don’t come back because of me.”
For the first time since signing the papers, my eyes burned.
“Okay.”
Three days later, Luc Dien Chau finally discovered the truth.
Not from me.
From the board.
Dinh Thinh had agreed to one final meeting regarding the orderly withdrawal of capital.
Dien Chau arrived twenty minutes early.
His father came with him.
So did the CFO, legal counsel and two board members.
Tong Cam entered first.
According to what she told me later, Luc Dien Chau immediately stood.
“Vice President Tong.”
“President Luc.”
“I appreciate Dinh Thinh finally agreeing to speak.”
Tong Cam sat.
Dien Chau remained standing.
“We’ve cooperated for three years. If there is dissatisfaction with Luc Thi, we can resolve it.”
“The decision has already been made.”
“By whom?”
“Our controller.”
“I want to meet him.”
Tong Cam corrected him calmly.
“Her.”
The room went silent.
Luc Dien Chau frowned.
“Fine. I want to meet her.”
The conference room door opened.
And I walked in.
No expensive dress.
No jewelry.
No Mrs. Luc.
Just a dark suit and the identity I had put away for three years.
Dien Chau stared at me.
His father stood up.
“Tri Y?”
I sat beside Tong Cam.
She placed the documents in front of me.
“Chairwoman Tham.”
Nobody spoke.
Dien Chau’s face slowly lost its color.
I opened the first folder.
“Let’s begin.”
His voice came out hoarse.
“You?”
I looked up.
“Yes.”
“Dinh Thinh…”
“Mine.”
His lips parted.
“The semiconductor funding?”
“Mine.”
“The battery project?”
“I approved it.”
“Biopharmaceuticals?”
“I introduced the consortium.”
Every answer removed another piece of the empire he believed he had built alone.
He stared at me.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
I almost found the question funny.
“You never asked how the doors opened.”
“You were too busy walking through them.”
His father sank back into his chair.
Dien Chau looked down at the withdrawal notices.
“Is this revenge?”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
“Risk management.”
I closed the folder.
“Our investment committee reevaluated Luc Thi after changes in leadership stability and governance exposure.”
His eyes hardened.
“You mean Hua Nhuoc Quan.”
“I mean you.”
That silenced him.
“You made a major personal decision while assuming the woman beside you contributed nothing important to your life.”
I leaned back.
“I have no intention of allowing my investors’ capital to depend on a man whose judgment is based on assumptions that convenient.”
He stared at me for a long time.
Then:
“If I don’t divorce you?”
I felt something inside me finally become quiet.
“This meeting is about capital.”
“Our divorce is already decided.”
That evening, Dien Chau waited outside Dinh Thinh headquarters.
Rain had begun.
He didn’t have an umbrella.
I walked past him.
“Tri Y.”
I stopped.
He looked exhausted.
“I didn’t know.”
“I know.”
“If I had known—”
“That sentence is exactly why there is nothing left between us.”
His face stiffened.
I continued.
“If you had known I controlled Dinh Thinh, would you still have divorced me?”
He couldn’t answer.
I smiled sadly.
“Then you don’t regret losing your wife.”
“You regret losing what your wife was worth.”
“No.”
He stepped closer.
“That’s not true.”
“Then prove it to yourself after I’m gone.”
I entered the car.
He didn’t stop me.
I thought that was the end.
It should have been.
But four days later, Tong Cam entered my office carrying an old file.
Her expression was unusual.
“We found something during the Luc Thi exit audit.”
“What?”
“The first Dinh Thinh investment into Luc Thi.”
I frowned.
“I approved it myself.”
“That’s what our current system shows.”
She placed the original paper file before me.
“The electronic archive was migrated two years ago.”
I opened it.
The first investment had been made three years earlier, shortly after my marriage.
The authorization carried my digital approval.
But attached behind it was another document.
A recommendation letter.
Someone had formally requested Dinh Thinh invest in Luc Thi before I ever submitted the proposal.
I read the signature.
Then read it again.
Impossible.
“Where did you find this?”
“In the sealed archive.”
My fingers became cold.
The recommendation had been written by Luc Dien Chau’s mother.
The woman I had believed knew nothing about my identity.
The woman who, from her hospital bed, had held my hand and begged:
“Please take care of Dien Chau.”
I looked at Tong Cam.
“She knew?”
“Apparently.”
“But how?”
Tong Cam placed a second document on the table.
This one was older.
Much older.
It was a private agreement between my late grandfather and the Luc family.
I reached the final paragraph.
Then stopped.
Our marriage had not brought Dinh Thinh Capital into Luc Thi by coincidence.
The connection between the two families had been arranged years before I met Dien Chau.
And according to the agreement, my former mother-in-law hadn’t asked me to marry her son simply because she trusted me.
She had been protecting something.
Something neither Dien Chau nor I had ever been told existed.
Tong Cam looked at me.
“Chairwoman Tham, there’s one more problem.”
“What?”
“The agreement doesn’t say you were supposed to save Luc Thi.”
She turned to the final page.
“It says that if your marriage to Luc Dien Chau ever ended, control of a hidden block of Luc family shares would transfer…”
She paused.
“…to you.”
I stared at her.
“How many shares?”
Tong Cam answered quietly.
“Enough to control the group.”
And suddenly withdrawing my capital was no longer the biggest threat facing Luc Dien Chau.
Because the divorce papers he had prepared so carefully might have just handed me his company.
