By the time Tham Nghien Chu’s plane left the country, I was already sitting inside the bank’s private customer room.

The account manager placed the transaction records in front of me.

—Ms. Trinh, we’ve verified the source of funds.

She pointed to several entries.

—Of the 2.9 million yuan, approximately 2.3 million came directly from your project income. The remaining amount came from the sale of your premarital apartment.

I nodded.

—Proceed.

Her fingers moved across the keyboard.

Then she suddenly stopped.

—There’s something else.

—What?

She turned the screen toward me.

Three scheduled transfers.

Eight hundred thousand.

Five hundred thousand.

Four hundred thousand.

All were scheduled to be executed after Tham Nghien Chu arrived in Germany.

Recipient:

An overseas account.

Beneficiary:

The woman sitting beside my husband on the plane.

I stared at the screen.

So that was why he had repeatedly reminded me not to touch the joint card.

He wasn’t merely taking another woman abroad.

He intended to finance their new life with my money.

The account manager asked carefully:

—Would you like us to cancel these transfers?

I smiled.

—Cancel everything.

Ten minutes later, 2.9 million yuan returned to my personal account.

The joint card was terminated.

Every overseas authorization was revoked.

Then I did something else.

I removed myself as guarantor for his sister’s upcoming car refinancing.

I canceled the automatic monthly transfer to his mother.

And I contacted the attorney who had handled the mortgage on my premarital apartment years earlier.

When I walked out of the bank, my phone showed seventeen missed messages.

Tham Nghien Chu.

Apparently airplane Wi-Fi had started working.

The eighteenth message appeared.

“Tri Ha, what did you do to the card?”

Then:

“The payment isn’t going through.”

“Did the bank make a mistake?”

“Call me.”

A minute later:

“Wife, please listen to my explanation!”

I laughed.

Now he remembered he had a wife.

I blocked him.

Then I went home.

Ma Ngoc Cam was waiting.

The moment I entered, she rushed toward me.

—What did you do?!

Apparently her son had contacted her.

—Nghien Chu says his card stopped working!

I removed my shoes calmly.

—Correct.

—Fix it immediately!

—No.

Her eyes widened.

For eight years, I had rarely contradicted her.

That had apparently convinced her that I couldn’t.

—He is alone overseas!

I looked at her.

—He’s not alone.

Her face froze.

—What?

I placed the flight screenshot on the table.

Then the hotel reservation.

She stared at them.

For three seconds, she said nothing.

Then came the response I should have expected.

—Men make mistakes.

I almost smiled.

—You knew.

She looked away.

That tiny movement answered everything.

—How long?

—Tri Ha—

—How long?

She became irritated.

—What does it matter? That girl is going to Germany for work too. Nghien Chu needs someone who understands his career.

I stared at her.

—And I don’t?

—You haven’t worked properly in years.

That was almost funny.

I had slowed down my career because someone had needed to manage this family.

Her medical appointments.

His father’s funeral arrangements.

His sister’s debts.

Tham Nghien Chu’s failed startup.

Their emergencies had consumed years of my life.

And now those years were evidence that I was useless.

Ma Ngoc Cam crossed her arms.

—Transfer the money back.

—No.

—That money belongs to my son too!

—Then he can show me which part he earned.

She opened her mouth.

Nothing came out.

I continued:

—Starting next month, the ten-thousand-yuan allowance ends.

Her face changed instantly.

—What allowance?

—The one you’ve received from my account every month for five years.

—That was Nghien Chu’s money!

I opened my banking application.

—No.

For the first time, she actually looked frightened.

That evening, I packed her belongings.

The apartment belonged to me.

I had purchased it before marriage.

When she realized I was serious, she called her son.

This time he called me from another number.

I answered.

—Tri Ha!

His voice exploded through the phone.

—Have you gone crazy?

I put the phone on speaker.

—I’m listening.

—Why did you empty our account?

—Because most of it was mine.

—We’re married!

—Interesting.

I looked at the hotel reservation.

—Did you remember that when you booked one room in Frankfurt with another woman?

Silence.

Then:

—It’s not what you think.

—Wonderful. Explain.

He hesitated.

—She’s part of the project.

—Then why did you tell airport staff you were traveling alone?

Silence again.

—Why is she sitting beside you?

No answer.

—Why is her name on your hotel reservation?

Still nothing.

Then I asked:

—And why were 1.7 million yuan scheduled to be transferred to her overseas account?

His breathing stopped.

He hadn’t expected me to discover that.

—Tri Ha, I can explain the money.

—Go ahead.

—It’s an investment.

I laughed.

—Then send me the contract.

He became silent.

—Send me the board approval.

Nothing.

—Send me anything proving it’s an investment.

His voice softened.

—We’ve been together eight years. Do you really distrust me this much?

There it was.

When evidence failed, he reached for history.

—Eight years are exactly why I know when you’re lying.

I ended the call.

Three days later, Ha Vy came to my apartment carrying a laptop.

—You need to see this.

She opened a social media account.

The woman traveling with my husband had posted photographs from Germany.

Most were harmless.

Coffee.

Snow.

A university building.

Then Ha Vy opened an archived post that had already been deleted.

My husband stood beside her in front of their hotel.

The caption read:

“Finally beginning the life we’ve waited four years for.”

Four years.

My hands became cold.

This wasn’t a recent affair.

While I was paying his mother’s medical bills…

While I was guaranteeing his sister’s loan…

While I was rebuilding our savings…

He had been planning another life.

Then Ha Vy opened another file.

—There’s more.

It was a property reservation agreement.

A small apartment outside Frankfurt.

The deposit had been paid six months earlier.

Using money transferred from one of Tham Nghien Chu’s business accounts.

The emergency fund I had helped establish after his startup failed.

I called my lawyer.

—Prepare divorce papers.

He asked:

—Do you want to negotiate privately?

I looked at the photograph.

—No.

—Then what do you want?

—An audit.

That single word changed everything.

Because Tham Nghien Chu had forgotten one detail.

When his company collapsed years ago, I didn’t simply give him money.

I became a silent investor.

Twelve percent.

He had begged me not to tell his mother because he was ashamed.

Later, when the company recovered, I never interfered.

But twelve percent came with rights.

Including the right to request an investigation if company funds were being misused.

The audit began Monday.

By Wednesday, my husband’s “four-year research project” started falling apart.

There was a project.

But his participation was only six months.

There was no four-year foreign posting.

No guaranteed senior partnership.

He had invented all of it.

Why?

Because he intended to relocate permanently.

With her.

Then the auditors discovered something worse.

The 1.7 million scheduled from our joint account wasn’t their first attempt.

Over the previous eighteen months, money had repeatedly moved through consulting contracts connected to the woman.

Small amounts.

Easy to miss.

Together, they exceeded three million yuan.

On Friday morning, Tham Nghien Chu flew home unexpectedly.

He arrived at my apartment looking exhausted.

—Tri Ha.

I didn’t invite him inside.

He held out his phone.

—Stop the audit.

—Why?

—You’re destroying my career.

I looked at him calmly.

—I thought Germany was the most important opportunity of your life.

His face turned white.

He knew I knew.

—I made mistakes.

—Plural.

—I’ll end things with her.

—That’s your problem.

He stared at me.

—What do you want?

I handed him the divorce agreement.

For several seconds, he simply looked at it.

Then he laughed bitterly.

—So that’s it?

—Yes.

His expression suddenly became strange.

—Then maybe you should know why I really went to Germany.

I paused.

He reached into his coat and pulled out an envelope.

—The woman you think is my lover isn’t the reason I left.

—I’m not interested.

—You will be.

He placed the envelope at my feet.

Then he said quietly:

—Because she wasn’t helping me leave you.

He looked directly into my eyes.

—She was helping me investigate you.

I frowned.

—Investigate me for what?

He swallowed.

—For the 2.3 million yuan you said came from your projects.

My entire body went still.

He continued:

—Tri Ha, I found records connected to your old company.

—And?

His next words erased every thought from my mind.

—According to those records, the company that paid you that money never existed.

I stared at him.

Impossible.

I had personally worked on those projects.

I remembered the office.

The clients.

The contracts.

Everything.

Tham Nghien Chu slowly opened the envelope.

Inside was an old photograph.

I picked it up.

Five people stood outside an office building.

Four were former colleagues.

The fifth was me.

On the back was a date from nine years earlier.

And beneath it, one sentence written in red ink:

“Four of these people died eight years ago.”

My fingers tightened around the photograph.

Tham Nghien Chu looked at me with an expression I had never seen before.

Then he whispered:

—Tri Ha, the investigator in Germany says there is no official record of you existing before the year we met.