The man behind the glass smiled when I picked up the receiver.

—Young Miss, you finally remembered you have a family?

I leaned back.

—Uncle Truong, don’t start.

His smile vanished.

—Who put you here?

—Tham Yen Bach.

For three seconds, he said nothing.

Then he slowly removed his glasses.

—Say that again.

—He used his connections to have me detained until after his wedding.

Uncle Truong’s face became terrifyingly calm.

He had served as my grandfather’s legal adviser for twenty-two years.

People who didn’t know him thought he looked harmless.

People who did know him never wanted to see that expression.

—Do you want me to call your grandfather?

—No.

—Your father?

—Absolutely not.

If either of them knew what happened, Tham Yen Bach might not have a company left by lunchtime.

I wasn’t ready for that.

Not yet.

I placed my palm against the glass.

—I need three things.

—Tell me.

—First, get me out legally.

—Second, transfer every share held in trust under my name back to my direct control.

His eyebrows lifted.

—All of them?

—All sixty-two percent.

Now he understood.

For four years, I had allowed my family’s investment company to remain a silent shareholder in Tham Thi Group.

When Yen Bach’s father died, the company was drowning in debt.

Banks refused further credit.

Three major shareholders wanted to sell.

I convinced my grandfather to acquire the debt, inject capital and stabilize the company.

But I made one condition.

My identity remained hidden.

Yen Bach thought a mysterious overseas fund had saved him.

He never knew that fund was mine.

Uncle Truong leaned closer.

—And the third thing?

I smiled.

—Don’t tell him anything until his wedding day.

Three days later, I walked out through the same iron gate.

No one from Tham Yen Bach’s side came.

Of course not.

He believed I would remain there for another twelve days.

Uncle Truong was waiting beside a black car.

He opened the door.

—Airport?

—Airport.

—Home?

I shook my head.

—Singapore.

The board meeting for Tham Thi Group’s overseas restructuring was happening there.

And unlike Yen Bach’s wedding, that was an event worth attending.

Before boarding, I signed twenty-three documents.

Share confirmations.

Voting-right changes.

Removal of proxy authority.

Cancellation of several guarantees my family had provided to Tham Thi Group.

By the time I sat in first class, sixty-two percent of the company belonged directly to me again.

I turned off my phone.

Then I left.

Three days later, Tham Yen Bach stood at his wedding venue wearing a custom black suit.

Hua Nhuoc Tinh wore white.

Hundreds of guests had already arrived.

The ceremony was supposed to begin at eleven.

At ten forty-two, the chairman of Tham Thi Group called him.

Yen Bach rejected the call.

It rang again.

Then his secretary rushed toward him.

—President Tham, there’s an emergency.

—Handle it after the wedding.

—We can’t.

She handed him the tablet.

His face changed.

The company’s largest shareholder had revealed its beneficial owner.

My photograph appeared beneath the announcement.

Not Khuong Duong.

My real name.

Gu Duong, eldest granddaughter of Gu Holdings and controlling shareholder of Tham Thi Group.

Hua Nhuoc Tinh stared at the screen.

—That’s… her?

Yen Bach snatched the tablet away.

He read the page again.

Then again.

Sixty-two percent.

His hand began shaking.

—Impossible.

His secretary whispered:

—The legal department verified everything.

Another message arrived.

Three directors had requested an emergency board meeting.

Two banks were reviewing credit lines after guarantees from Gu Holdings were withdrawn.

And the Singapore restructuring agreement now required my approval.

Yen Bach’s face turned white.

Then he seemed to remember something worse.

—Where is Khuong Duong?

Nobody answered.

His bodyguard lowered his head.

—Still detained, President Tham.

Yen Bach turned violently.

—Get her out.

—Now?

—NOW!

The wedding stopped.

Hua Nhuoc Tinh grabbed his arm.

—Yen Bach, the ceremony—

He pulled away.

—I said cancel everything.

Two hours later, his people reached the detention center.

The warden checked the records.

Then scratched his head.

—That girl?

The bodyguard nodded.

—President Tham ordered us to pick her up.

The warden looked confused.

—But she left three days ago.

The bodyguard froze.

—Left?

—Her case was reviewed. There was no legal basis to continue holding her.

He paused.

—Someone from her family came.

That evening, Yen Bach called me for the first time.

I was sitting beside the window of a Singapore hotel overlooking Marina Bay.

I answered on the ninth call.

—Hello?

His breathing was heavy.

—Khuong Duong.

I smiled.

—That isn’t my name.

Silence.

Then:

—Gu Duong.

It was the first time he had ever spoken my real name.

—Where are you?

—Why?

—We need to talk.

—About what?

—The company.

Of course.

Not prison.

Not four years.

Not the way he had discarded me.

The company.

I looked at the documents on the table.

—You pushed me into detention because you were afraid I’d disturb your wedding.

—That’s not—

—I spent three nights on an iron bed while you prepared to marry another woman.

He stopped talking.

I continued calmly.

—And the first thing you want to discuss after discovering who I am is your company.

—Duong, listen to me—

—No.

I opened the final document.

—You listen.

Tomorrow morning, the board would vote on removing him as chairman.

With sixty-two percent of the voting rights, the outcome was already decided.

His voice changed.

—You can’t do this.

I signed.

—I already did.

Three months later, Tham Yen Bach was no longer chairman.

I didn’t destroy Tham Thi Group.

Thousands of employees had done nothing wrong.

I replaced the executives involved in my detention, ordered an internal audit and appointed a professional management team.

Yen Bach retained the shares legally belonging to him.

Just not control.

Hua Nhuoc Tinh left him before the year ended.

I heard about it from someone else.

I didn’t ask why.

By then, I was living between Singapore and Shanghai, overseeing my family’s investments.

One evening, Uncle Truong handed me an envelope.

—From Yen Bach.

I didn’t open it.

—Throw it away.

He studied me.

—Four years. No curiosity?

I looked out at the city.

—He had four years to say whatever was inside.

I picked up the next contract.

—Now it’s irrelevant.

Tham Yen Bach once believed he could lock me away for fifteen days and return to find me exactly where he had left me.

He was wrong.

When those prison gates opened, I didn’t go back to him.

I took my name, my freedom, and sixty-two percent of his company with me.