“Director Khuong, should I ask the front desk not to let Mr. Chu come up again?”

Tran Thien’s question pulled me back.

I nodded.

“Yes. From now on, unless he has official business with the company, I don’t want to see him.”

She hesitated.

“But everyone seems to think…”

“That I waited five years for him?”

Her face turned awkward.

I smiled faintly.

“Then let them think whatever they want.”

After she left, I returned to work.

At six-thirty, my phone rang.

This time, the name on the screen softened my expression immediately.

My husband.

I answered.

“Are you downstairs?”

A calm male voice came through.

“Three minutes away.”

“I can drive home myself.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you coming?”

He paused.

“Because you said this morning you wanted hotpot.”

I looked out the window and smiled.

“Fine.”

Twenty minutes later, I walked through the lobby.

Then I stopped.

Chuat An was standing outside.

He had changed clothes and held several expensive gift boxes.

The moment he saw me, he smiled.

“I knew you would finish around this time.”

I frowned.

“Why are you here?”

“I told you. I’m visiting your parents.”

“No.”

He stepped closer.

“Du Duong, how long are you planning to keep this up?”

Before I could answer, a black car stopped beside us.

The rear door opened.

A tall man stepped out.

Dark coat.

White shirt.

Calm eyes.

He walked directly toward me, completely ignoring Chuat An.

“You’re late by seven minutes,” I said.

“There was traffic.”

Then his gaze dropped to my hand.

“You forgot your gloves again.”

He took a pair from his pocket and handed them to me.

The movement was so natural that Chuat An’s expression slowly changed.

His eyes moved between us.

“Who is this?”

My husband finally looked at him.

I answered first.

“My husband.”

Silence.

Chuat An stared at me.

Then he laughed.

But this time, the laughter sounded forced.

“Du Duong, enough.”

I said nothing.

My husband raised an eyebrow.

“Enough?”

Chuat An looked at him.

“You don’t need to cooperate with her anymore.”

My husband’s expression remained calm.

“Cooperate?”

“She’s trying to make me jealous.”

I almost laughed.

Five years abroad apparently hadn’t changed Chuat An’s confidence at all.

He looked at me.

“Du Duong, you’ve made your point.”

“You’re angry.”

“I understand.”

“But bringing another man into this is unnecessary.”

My husband glanced at me.

“Another man?”

I rubbed my forehead.

“Don’t start.”

A faint smile appeared in his eyes.

Then he reached into his coat.

For one ridiculous second, Chuat An actually looked triumphant.

Until my husband placed a small red booklet in my hand.

Our marriage certificate.

“You left it in my study.”

Chuat An’s face froze.

I opened it.

Two photographs.

Two names.

One registration date.

Three years ago.

The color slowly disappeared from Chuat An’s face.

“You…”

His voice became hoarse.

“You really married him?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“You can read.”

His eyes remained fixed on the date.

Three years ago.

Which meant I had not spent five years waiting.

I had waited two.

Then I had stopped.

Something finally cracked in his expression.

“But nobody told me.”

I looked at him quietly.

“Why would anyone need to tell you?”

His lips moved, but no words came.

“You left five years ago without explaining anything.”

“You missed our marriage registration.”

“You ignored seventeen calls.”

“And after that, you disappeared.”

I looked at the household registration book still tucked beneath his arm.

“You thought keeping that notebook meant you were keeping a promise.”

“But a promise only matters when both people are still waiting for it.”

His fingers tightened around the gift boxes.

My husband opened the car door for me.

I was about to get inside when Chuat An suddenly called my name.

“Khuong Du Duong.”

I stopped.

His voice was no longer confident.

“Why him?”

I turned around.

Strangely, I didn’t feel angry anymore.

“Because when he says he’ll come, he comes.”

Just one sentence.

Yet Chuat An looked as though it hurt more than everything else I had said.

I got into the car.

My husband sat beside me.

As we drove away, he glanced at the rearview mirror.

“That’s him?”

“Yes.”

“The famous Chuat An?”

I frowned.

“Who made him famous?”

“Your mother.”

I immediately turned toward him.

“What did she tell you?”

“That if I ever make you wait outside the Civil Affairs Bureau for three hours, she’ll break my legs.”

I laughed despite myself.

But when we reached home, the atmosphere was strange.

My mother was sitting silently in the living room.

My father stood beside the window.

On the coffee table lay an old envelope.

The moment she saw me, my mother asked:

“Did Chuat An come looking for you today?”

“Yes.”

Her expression became complicated.

Then my father spoke.

“There’s something about what happened five years ago that we never told you.”

My smile disappeared.

“What?”

My mother pushed the envelope toward me.

Inside was a photograph.

It showed Chuat An outside the Civil Affairs Bureau.

On the exact day he supposedly never arrived.

And beside him stood my father.

I slowly raised my head.

My father’s face was pale.

“He did come that day.”

My fingers tightened around the photograph.

“Then why did he leave?”

My father closed his eyes.

“Because I told him something.”

The room went completely silent.

“What did you tell him?”

Before he could answer, the doorbell rang.

My husband went to open it.

Seconds later, he returned holding a courier envelope.

My name was written across the front.

There was no sender.

I opened it.

Only one sheet of paper was inside.

A copy of an old medical report.

And beneath it, one handwritten sentence:

Ask Chuat An why he disappeared five years ago. Then ask your father why he paid him to leave.

I looked up.

My father had gone completely white.