“Have you thought about starting over?”

My mother’s question made my fingers pause over the glass of water.

I looked at her.

“Starting over with what?”

“With your life.”

Her voice was weak, but her eyes were unusually serious.

“You’re still young, Tieu Van. Five years is a long time. You shouldn’t spend the rest of your life punishing yourself because of what happened.”

I smiled faintly.

“Mom, who said I was punishing myself?”

She opened her mouth, but before she could answer, someone knocked on the door.

Lam Nhien walked in carrying two bags of fruit.

Behind him was Luc Canh Tham.

The room instantly became quiet.

I lowered my eyes and adjusted my mother’s blanket.

Luc Canh Tham stood by the door, staring at me.

For five years, I had imagined what I would feel if we met again.

Anger?

Hatred?

Regret?

But now, looking at him, I felt something strangely close to indifference.

Perhaps some wounds did not disappear.

They simply stopped hurting when touched.

Lam Nhien sensed the tension.

“I’ll go ask the doctor about Mom’s latest test results.”

He escaped almost immediately.

My mother sighed.

“I’m tired. I want to sleep.”

That was an obvious excuse.

Still, I stood.

“I’ll get some coffee.”

I had barely reached the corridor when Luc Canh Tham followed me.

“Tieu Van.”

I kept walking.

He grabbed my wrist.

I stopped.

Slowly, I looked down at his hand.

His fingers immediately loosened.

“Sorry.”

“What do you want?”

He frowned.

“Do we have to talk like strangers?”

I almost laughed.

“Aren’t we strangers?”

His expression darkened.

“We were married for three years.”

“And divorced for five.”

His jaw tightened.

“You’re still angry.”

There it was again.

That confidence.

As though every choice I had made still revolved around him.

I looked directly into his eyes.

“Luc Canh Tham, anger requires emotional investment. I don’t have that kind of energy for you anymore.”

For the first time, he looked genuinely unsettled.

Then his phone rang.

The screen lit up.

Lam Vu.

He declined the call.

I noticed.

I simply didn’t care.

“Tieu Van,” he said quietly, “what you saw at the airport isn’t what you think.”

“I didn’t think anything.”

“The child—”

“Is none of my business.”

He stared at me.

“You really don’t want to know?”

“No.”

That answer seemed to hurt him more than an accusation would have.

Before he could continue, my phone rang.

I glanced at the caller ID and answered.

“Mr. Zhou.”

A respectful male voice came through.

“Ms. Lam, the board has confirmed tomorrow’s meeting. The acquisition team is waiting for your final authorization.”

Luc Canh Tham’s expression changed slightly.

I turned away.

“Send the revised documents to my email. I’ll review them tonight.”

“There is another issue. Chairman Luc has requested a private meeting before the signing.”

I glanced sideways.

Luc Canh Tham was watching me.

“No private meeting,” I replied.

“Everything goes through the board.”

“Yes, Ms. Lam.”

I hung up.

Luc Canh Tham’s brows drew together.

“What acquisition?”

I put my phone away.

“Work.”

“What company are you working for?”

I smiled.

“You’ve become very curious about a stranger.”

Then I walked past him.

The next morning, I left the hospital early.

A black sedan was waiting outside.

My assistant, Daniel Zhou, stepped out and opened the door.

“Ms. Lam.”

I entered without hesitation.

Forty minutes later, the car stopped before the headquarters of Canh Tham Group.

Five years ago, I had entered this building through the side entrance.

Back then, I was merely Luc Canh Tham’s wife.

A woman whom the board members politely greeted but never truly respected.

Today, nearly twenty senior executives were waiting in the lobby.

The moment I entered, they stepped forward.

“Welcome, Ms. Lam.”

At the front stood Chairman Luc—Canh Tham’s father.

His face stiffened when he recognized me.

“Tieu Van?”

Daniel calmly corrected him.

“Chairman Luc, this is Ms. Lam Tieu Van, executive director of L&V Capital’s Asia-Pacific division and the authorized representative for today’s acquisition.”

Silence fell.

Chairman Luc stared at me.

“You?”

I smiled politely.

“Long time no see.”

His expression became complicated.

L&V Capital had spent the last six months negotiating the purchase of a major stake in Canh Tham Group’s struggling logistics subsidiary.

What the Luc family apparently had never discovered was what the “L” in L&V stood for.

Lam.

My surname.

Five years earlier, I had left this city with one suitcase and enough savings to survive for six months.

I studied.

I worked.

I failed.

I started again.

Eventually, I joined a tiny investment firm overseas.

Three years later, that firm became L&V Capital.

And today, I had returned not because I missed anyone.

I had returned because my mother was ill.

This deal was merely coincidence.

Or perhaps fate had a strange sense of humor.

The elevator doors opened.

Luc Canh Tham stepped out.

He was speaking to several executives when he saw me.

He stopped.

Then he noticed the people surrounding me.

His gaze shifted to Daniel.

To Chairman Luc.

Finally, back to me.

“What are you doing here?”

Before I could answer, Chairman Luc spoke.

“She’s representing L&V Capital.”

Luc Canh Tham froze.

I walked toward the conference room.

As I passed him, I said quietly,

“Yesterday at the airport, you asked whether I came back to admit defeat.”

His face stiffened.

I stopped beside him.

“I told you that you had the wrong person.”

Then I entered the conference room.

The meeting lasted almost three hours.

When it ended, the board approved the restructuring plan.

Luc Canh Tham barely spoke to me.

But his eyes never left me.

After everyone departed, he remained behind.

“You knew.”

I closed my folder.

“Knew what?”

“That our company was involved in this acquisition.”

“Yes.”

“And you still came personally?”

“My mother is hospitalized here. The timing was convenient.”

His face changed.

“So this really has nothing to do with me?”

I looked at him.

“What exactly were you hoping it had to do with you?”

He had no answer.

At that moment, the conference-room door opened.

Lam Vu rushed inside.

Her eyes were red.

“Canh Tham!”

Then she saw me.

She stopped.

Behind her stood the little boy from the airport.

He slipped free from the nanny’s hand and ran toward Luc Canh Tham.

I expected him to call him Dad.

Instead, the boy ran straight past him.

Toward me.

Everyone froze.

The child stopped in front of me and stared at my face.

Then he pulled a small photograph from his pocket.

My breath caught.

It was an old photograph of me.

Taken nearly six years ago.

Before the divorce.

“Mom said this is Aunt Tieu Van,” he whispered.

Lam Vu’s face turned completely white.

I slowly raised my eyes.

“Why does your son carry my photograph?”

“Give it back!”

Lam Vu rushed forward.

But the child stepped away.

Then he said something that made Luc Canh Tham go still.

“Mom cries when she looks at it.”

I stared at Lam Vu.

“What exactly have you been hiding?”

Her lips trembled.

Luc Canh Tham suddenly spoke.

“Tieu Van.”

His voice sounded strange.

“The child isn’t mine.”

Silence.

My eyes moved to him.

Then to Lam Vu.

She closed her eyes.

Tears slipped down her cheeks.

“He’s not Canh Tham’s son.”

My fingers tightened around the folder.

“Then whose child is he?”

Lam Vu looked at me.

There was fear in her eyes.

Not guilt.

Fear.

Before she could answer, my phone rang.

It was the hospital.

I answered immediately.

“Hello?”

A doctor’s urgent voice came through.

“Ms. Lam, please return to the hospital immediately. Your mother regained consciousness and insists on speaking with you.”

My heart sank.

“What happened?”

There was a brief silence.

Then the doctor said,

“She keeps repeating that she has to tell you the truth about what happened five years ago.”

I looked at Lam Vu.

She was trembling now.

And suddenly I understood.

Whatever had destroyed my marriage five years ago had never been only about Luc Canh Tham.

My mother knew.

Lam Vu knew.

And judging by the terror on my sister’s face—

the truth was far worse than betrayal.