For the next three days, Quy Kieu behaved strangely.

He came home earlier than usual.

The first night, he stood outside the guest room for almost ten minutes.

I knew because I could see his shadow beneath the door.

But he never knocked.

The second morning, I found breakfast on the table.

My favorite rice rolls.

Quy Kieu sat opposite me, pretending to read something on his phone.

“You bought these?”

“Assistant Lam bought too much.”

I nodded.

“Thank him for me.”

His fingers stopped moving.

I ate quietly.

Years ago, I would have interpreted that breakfast as reconciliation.

Now I simply considered it breakfast.

That evening, he finally couldn’t tolerate my indifference.

“Giang Chi Dao.”

I looked up from my laptop.

“What?”

“Are you angry?”

“No.”

His expression darkened.

“Then why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m a stranger.”

I almost laughed.

“We agreed to divorce.”

His jaw tightened.

“That was during an argument.”

“But I agreed.”

Silence.

He seemed genuinely offended by those words.

As if divorce was something only he was allowed to mention.

I closed my laptop.

“The agreement will be ready this week. My lawyer will send it to yours.”

“You already hired a lawyer?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“While you were away.”

Something flashed across his face.

Perhaps surprise.

Perhaps panic.

But before he could answer, his phone rang.

I saw the name.

Luc Thanh Hoa.

Quy Kieu glanced at me instinctively.

In the past, that alone would have caused an argument.

This time I simply stood.

“You should answer.”

I walked toward the guest room.

Behind me, his voice suddenly sounded.

“I’m not answering.”

I stopped.

“That has nothing to do with me anymore.”

His face became completely still.

That night, for the first time, Quy Kieu slept badly.

I heard him walking through the hallway twice.

At three in the morning, someone gently tried my door handle.

I had locked it.

The handle stopped moving.

Then silence.

The following afternoon, my lawyer called.

The divorce agreement was ready.

I requested almost nothing.

The house belonged to Quy Kieu before marriage.

Our personal assets remained separate.

The investments registered under my name remained mine.

I didn’t ask for compensation.

I wanted the cleanest possible ending.

When Quy Kieu received the agreement, he came directly to my workplace.

He entered my office without knocking.

“Why didn’t you ask for anything?”

I stared at him.

“What should I ask for?”

“Money.”

“I have money.”

“The apartment.”

“It’s yours.”

His voice became sharper.

“Compensation.”

“I don’t need it.”

He threw the agreement onto my desk.

“Then what do you want?”

I looked at him for several seconds.

“Nothing from you.”

That answer hurt him more than any demand could have.

He stared at me.

Then he suddenly asked:

“Are you seeing someone?”

I almost couldn’t believe it.

“Excuse me?”

“You’ve changed too quickly.”

I smiled faintly.

“No, Quy Kieu.”

“Then why?”

“Because you asked me for a divorce three times.”

His lips pressed together.

“The first time, I cried all night.”

I counted calmly.

“The second time, I begged you not to say things you didn’t mean.”

His eyes shifted.

“The third time, I finally believed you.”

He said nothing.

“And now you’re angry because I listened?”

His face went pale.

I pushed the agreement toward him.

“Sign it.”

He didn’t.

Instead, he turned and left.

That evening, Luc Thanh Hoa’s name appeared online again.

This time, however, the headlines weren’t about romance.

A reporter had discovered that the production company responsible for her accident had received a huge emergency investment from Quy Kieu’s corporation only two days afterward.

Then another story appeared.

Luc Thanh Hoa had been transferred to a private rehabilitation center owned by a subsidiary of Quy Group.

Naturally, everyone assumed Quy Kieu had done it for her.

My friend To Man sent me screenshots.

I replied with one sentence.

It doesn’t concern me anymore.

She called immediately.

“Dao Dao, are you really okay?”

“Yes.”

“You loved him for eight years.”

“I know.”

“Can feelings disappear that quickly?”

I looked toward the divorce agreement on my desk.

“No.”

My voice softened.

“But dignity can finally become louder.”

Three days later, I found an apartment.

Small.

Bright.

With a balcony facing a park.

I paid the deposit immediately.

When I returned to Quy Kieu’s house that evening, movers were already scheduled for Saturday.

He was sitting in the living room.

In front of him was the divorce agreement.

Unsigned.

“I found a place,” I said.

His head snapped up.

“What?”

“I’m moving Saturday.”

His face darkened.

“I didn’t tell you to leave.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you moving?”

I looked at him strangely.

“Because we’re divorcing.”

Again, that word.

Again, that expression.

As though every time I said it, I was breaking some secret rule he had never explained.

Finally he stood.

“I was angry that day.”

“So was I.”

“You insulted Thanh Hoa while she was in critical condition.”

“Yes.”

I didn’t defend it.

“What I said about her accident was cruel. I regret saying it.”

His expression softened slightly.

Then I continued:

“But regretting those words doesn’t mean I regret agreeing to the divorce.”

The softness disappeared.

“You really want to leave me?”

I looked at him.

“You asked first.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“Yes.”

The room became silent.

For the first time, Quy Kieu looked frightened.

Not angry.

Frightened.

He reached for my wrist, then stopped before touching me.

“What if I don’t sign?”

“Then my lawyer will proceed through the available legal process.”

“You planned everything.”

“No.”

I shook my head.

“You gave me the idea.”

Saturday morning, the movers arrived.

Quy Kieu disappeared before eight.

I assumed he didn’t want to watch.

By noon, the guest room was empty.

My books were gone.

My clothes.

My photographs.

Even the blue mug I’d used every morning for six years.

Only the furniture remained.

I stood in the doorway one final time.

Then I left my keys on the entrance table.

Just as I opened the door, an unfamiliar woman stood outside.

Elegant.

Around fifty.

She looked at me with shock.

“Giang Chi Dao?”

“Yes.”

Her expression changed immediately.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m moving.”

She glanced at the boxes.

Then whispered:

“Does Quy Kieu know?”

“Of course.”

The woman suddenly grabbed my arm.

“You can’t divorce him.”

I pulled away.

“Who are you?”

Her face went pale.

Before she could answer, the elevator opened.

Quy Kieu stepped out.

The moment he saw her, his expression changed completely.

“What are you doing here?”

The woman looked furious.

“You weren’t answering!”

Then she pointed at me.

“You told me everything was under control!”

I looked between them.

“What exactly is under control?”

Quy Kieu said sharply:

“Mom.”

I froze.

His mother?

In eight years, Quy Kieu had told me his mother lived abroad and refused contact with the family.

I had never met her.

She stared at her son.

“You promised me you wouldn’t let her leave before the shareholder transfer.”

The hallway went silent.

Quy Kieu’s face became terrifyingly cold.

“Enough.”

But I had already heard it.

“What shareholder transfer?”

His mother realized her mistake.

“Nothing.”

I laughed softly.

“Apparently it’s something.”

Quy Kieu stepped toward me.

“Chi Dao, go to your apartment. I’ll explain later.”

“No.”

I looked directly at him.

“Explain now.”

For several seconds, nobody spoke.

Then his mother suddenly said:

“You really don’t know?”

“Mom!”

She ignored him.

“The shares your father left you.”

My heart stopped.

“My father didn’t leave me shares.”

Her expression became strange.

“Yes, he did.”

I stared at Quy Kieu.

He wouldn’t meet my eyes.

My father had died four years before our wedding.

He had owned a small engineering company that collapsed after his death.

At least, that was what I had always believed.

Quy Kieu’s mother continued:

“Your father’s patents were acquired by Quy Group. Part of the settlement was placed in a trust.”

I felt cold.

“What trust?”

“Yours.”

I looked at my husband.

“How much?”

He remained silent.

His mother answered.

“Eleven percent of Quy Group.”

The hallway seemed to tilt.

Eleven percent.

That wasn’t a small inheritance.

It was a fortune.

And potentially enough voting power to matter inside his family’s company.

“Why didn’t I know?”

His mother gave a bitter laugh.

“Ask your husband.”

I slowly turned toward Quy Kieu.

He finally spoke.

“I was going to tell you.”

“When?”

No answer.

“After the divorce?”

His face tightened.

“That’s complicated.”

Then I remembered something.

The divorce agreement.

The one I had drafted.

Quy Kieu had refused to sign it.

But during our marriage, years earlier, I had signed countless financial documents he described as routine family paperwork.

My stomach dropped.

“What shareholder transfer were you waiting for?”

His mother closed her eyes.

Quy Kieu whispered:

“Chi Dao…”

“What did I sign?”

He said nothing.

That was enough.

I immediately called my lawyer.

Within two hours, we found it.

A document from three years earlier.

My signature was real.

But the document I remembered signing had been presented as authorization for routine tax management.

The version now filed with the company contained additional provisions concerning voting rights attached to my trust.

My lawyer’s voice became serious.

“We need the originals examined.”

I sat inside my new apartment surrounded by unopened boxes.

“What happens if the transfer becomes valid?”

“Control of your voting rights may shift.”

“To whom?”

A pause.

“To your husband.”

I closed my eyes.

Suddenly, eight years of love rearranged themselves inside my head.

Had Quy Kieu married me because of those shares?

Had every argument been calculated?

Had the divorce threats been designed to frighten me into obedience?

Then my lawyer said:

“There’s something else.”

“What?”

“The transfer has a condition.”

My fingers tightened around the phone.

“What condition?”

“It only becomes effective on your eighth wedding anniversary.”

I stopped breathing.

Our anniversary was twelve days away.

And suddenly I understood why Quy Kieu had returned from his business trip and panicked when he discovered I had moved bedrooms.

Why he refused to sign the divorce papers.

Why his mother had rushed to the house when she learned I was leaving.

Perhaps Quy Kieu wasn’t afraid of losing his wife.

Perhaps he was afraid I would stop being his wife twelve days too early.

Then my lawyer added quietly:

“Chi Dao, there’s one more name on the original trust.”

“Whose?”

He hesitated.

“Luc Thanh Hoa.”

I stood so quickly that the chair fell behind me.

“What?”

“According to the document, if your marriage to Quy Kieu ends before the anniversary, your voting rights don’t transfer to him.”

My heart pounded.

“Then where do they go?”

My lawyer took a breath.

“To her.”

And for the first time, I realized the woman I had spent years believing was my husband’s first love might never have been competing with me for Quy Kieu at all.

She had been waiting for my divorce.