I stared at Chu Minh’s message.

Five million yuan.

That was what I had given Khuong Tri Y after the divorce.

Three million in property.

Two million in cash.

At the time, I thought I had been generous.

Now she had purchased a 4.2-million-yuan house only three months later.

If she had simply sold the property I’d given her, the numbers made sense.

But something bothered me.

I immediately called Chu Minh.

“Check the house I transferred to her.”

He paused.

“General Manager Tham, what exactly should I check?”

“Whether she sold it.”

Ten minutes later, while my car was heading toward the station, he called back.

“She didn’t.”

My fingers tightened around the phone.

“What?”

“The property is still under Miss Khuong’s name.”

I looked out the window.

“So where did the 4.2 million come from?”

“We’re investigating.”

I didn’t answer.

For three years, I had unconsciously imagined Khuong Tri Y struggling without me.

Maybe because that made my decision easier to justify.

She had no powerful family.

No impressive career when we married.

I paid most household expenses.

So somewhere in my arrogance, I had assumed the five million I’d left her had become the foundation of her survival.

Apparently, I was wrong.

Very wrong.

By the time I reached Xi’an, it was already dark.

Chu Minh had sent me the address.

I stood outside the residential complex for nearly twenty minutes.

Then I saw her.

Khuong Tri Y walked toward the entrance carrying groceries.

Beside her were two children.

The little boy held her left hand.

The girl held her right.

My feet stopped moving.

Photographs had not prepared me for this.

The boy suddenly complained:

“Mom, I’m tired.”

Khuong Tri Y laughed.

“Who refused to sit in the stroller?”

The girl immediately pointed at him.

“Brother!”

“I didn’t!”

“You did!”

They started arguing.

Khuong Tri Y crouched between them.

“All right. Whoever reaches home without fighting gets strawberries.”

Both children became silent instantly.

I almost laughed.

Then the little girl turned.

And looked directly at me.

Everything inside me stopped.

Those eyes.

I had seen them every morning for thirty-four years.

In the mirror.

She stared curiously.

Then tugged her mother’s sleeve.

“Mom, that uncle keeps looking at us.”

Khuong Tri Y turned.

Our eyes met.

The grocery bag slipped from her hand.

Oranges rolled across the pavement.

For several seconds, neither of us moved.

Then she pulled both children behind her.

That movement hurt more than anything.

She was protecting them.

From me.

“Why are you here?”

Her voice was completely different from the woman I remembered.

No expectation.

No softness.

Only caution.

“I found out.”

Her face became pale.

“About them.”

She immediately took out her phone.

“Leave.”

“Tri Y—”

“Don’t call me that.”

I stopped.

The little boy peeked around her coat.

“Mom, who is he?”

Before she could answer, a man’s voice came from behind us.

“Honey?”

I turned.

The same voice from the phone.

A tall man approached carrying two children’s jackets.

My stomach dropped.

He walked directly toward Khuong Tri Y.

Then…

He handed her the jackets.

“Your son left these in my car again.”

Your son.

Not our son.

I stared at him.

He noticed.

Then smiled.

“Oh.”

Khuong Tri Y closed her eyes.

“You.”

He pointed at me.

“The ex-husband.”

My jaw tightened.

“You said she was your wife.”

He shrugged.

“You called a woman’s private number after disappearing for three years. I wanted to know whether you’d come running.”

I almost couldn’t believe him.

“You lied?”

“Yes.”

“Who are you?”

Before he could answer, Khuong Tri Y said coldly:

“My cousin.”

I stood there like an idiot.

The man smiled.

“Cousin-in-law, technically.”

Khuong Tri Y glared at him.

“Stop talking.”

He immediately raised both hands.

“All right.”

Then he took the grocery bags and led the children toward the building.

The little girl kept looking backward at me.

I wanted to follow.

Khuong Tri Y blocked my path.

“You saw them.”

Her voice was quiet.

“Now leave.”

“They’re mine.”

The instant those words left my mouth, her expression changed.

“No.”

I froze.

She stepped closer.

“They are not possessions.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“You knew nothing about them yesterday.”

Her eyes reddened, but her voice remained steady.

“You weren’t there when I couldn’t sleep.”

“You weren’t there when they were born.”

“You weren’t there for their first fever, their first words, their first steps.”

She pointed toward the building.

“You don’t get to arrive after three years and say ‘they’re mine’ as if someone stole your property.”

Every sentence landed exactly where it should.

I couldn’t defend myself.

So I asked the question that had been tearing through me since morning.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant?”

She laughed.

It wasn’t a happy sound.

“I tried.”

My chest tightened.

“When?”

“The test stick.”

I remembered.

Bathroom.

Customer call.

My impatient hand telling her to leave.

“That day?”

“Yes.”

She continued:

“Then I scheduled an examination. You said you had a meeting.”

I remembered that too.

“My mother—”

“Your mother found the pregnancy report before I could tell you.”

I went completely still.

“What?”

Khuong Tri Y looked at me.

“She knew.”

For a moment, the entire world became silent.

“My mother knew you were pregnant?”

“Seven weeks.”

My blood turned cold.

“Then why did she keep giving you medicine?”

Khuong Tri Y’s face hardened.

“I never drank it.”

“What?”

“I poured it away.”

She looked exhausted merely remembering.

“She told me not to tell you about the pregnancy.”

“Why?”

“Because she said she wanted to know whether I was carrying a suitable heir before allowing you to become attached.”

I felt sick.

“That sounds insane.”

“It was.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I did.”

She reached into her bag.

Then handed me her phone.

An old screenshot.

A message sent to me three years earlier.

“Tham Nghien Thanh, I need to tell you something important about the baby.”

Underneath:

Message deleted.

I stared at it.

“I never saw this.”

“I know.”

Another screenshot.

My mother’s number.

“Don’t disturb Nghien Thanh. I’ve already explained everything to him.”

My hand started shaking.

“She had access to my phone.”

“I discovered that later.”

I looked toward the building.

My children were somewhere upstairs.

For three years.

My mother had known.

“How much did she know?”

Khuong Tri Y didn’t answer immediately.

Finally:

“Enough.”

I looked at her.

“What does that mean?”

She took back her phone.

“It means you’re asking questions three years too late.”

She turned away.

I caught myself before reaching for her.

“Khuong Tri Y.”

She stopped.

“The house.”

Her shoulders stiffened.

“You paid 4.2 million in cash.”

She slowly turned.

“How do you know that?”

“I investigated.”

Her expression became cold.

“You investigated me?”

“I wanted to know how you were living.”

“After three years?”

I had no answer.

I asked:

“Where did the money come from?”

Something changed in her eyes.

Then she smiled.

That smile made me more uneasy than anger.

“You still think I lived on the five million you gave me?”

“I—”

“Tham Nghien Thanh, the apartment you transferred during the divorce is still empty.”

“I know.”

“The two million cash?”

She looked directly at me.

“I never touched it.”

I froze.

“Then where did you get the money?”

She walked toward the entrance.

Just before disappearing inside, she said:

“Ask your mother.”

That night, I returned to the hotel and called Tham Ngoc Cam.

She answered immediately.

“Nghien Thanh? Aunt Vuong’s daughter waited for you all evening. Where are you?”

“Xi’an.”

Silence.

Only one second.

But I heard it.

“You went there?”

Not:

Why Xi’an?

Not:

What are you doing there?

You went there.

She knew.

I stood beside the hotel window.

“You knew about the twins.”

Silence.

“Mom.”

She finally sighed.

“Come home.”

“No.”

“We shouldn’t discuss family matters over the phone.”

“They are my children.”

Her voice suddenly hardened.

“Exactly.”

I closed my eyes.

“You knew Khuong Tri Y was pregnant before the divorce.”

“I knew.”

The admission came without shame.

My grip tightened.

“And you said nothing?”

“That woman was going to use the children to hold onto you.”

“She was my wife!”

“She wasn’t suitable for you.”

I almost laughed.

“For three years, you knew I had a son and daughter.”

“I knew they existed.”

“Where were they?”

Another silence.

Then my mother said something strange.

“I didn’t know.”

I frowned.

“What does that mean?”

“Khuong Tri Y disappeared before my people could find her.”

My blood ran cold.

“Your people?”

“She misunderstood my intentions.”

“What intentions?”

“Nghien Thanh, come home.”

“No.”

I spoke slowly.

“What did you do?”

She hung up.

I called back.

No answer.

Ten minutes later, Chu Minh called.

His voice sounded wrong.

“General Manager Tham.”

“What?”

“We found the source of Miss Khuong’s 4.2 million.”

I straightened.

“Tell me.”

“It wasn’t your divorce settlement.”

“I know.”

“It came from an investment account opened eight years ago.”

Eight years?

That was before our marriage.

“Whose account?”

“Khuong Tri Y’s.”

I stared at the wall.

Chu Minh continued:

“She had investments you apparently didn’t know about.”

“How much?”

He hesitated.

“Before the divorce, approximately twenty-six million yuan.”

My mind went blank.

Twenty-six million.

All those years, I thought she depended on me.

I thought the five million settlement was generosity.

I had never even known my own wife’s financial situation.

“There is something else.”

“What?”

“Six months before your divorce, most of the money was transferred.”

“To where?”

“Several accounts.”

“Whose?”

He paused.

“Your company’s.”

I stopped breathing.

“What?”

“We’re still checking the records, but it appears Mercer—”

He corrected himself immediately.

“Your company had a severe liquidity shortage three years ago.”

I remembered.

A failed acquisition.

A financing gap.

Then, unexpectedly, an anonymous private fund stepped in.

The company survived.

I had always believed one of our institutional investors arranged it.

Chu Minh spoke quietly.

“General Manager Tham, the original money appears to have come from Miss Khuong.”

I sat down.

The room suddenly felt too small.

She had been pregnant.

My mother knew.

I ignored every sign.

Then Khuong Tri Y used her own money to save my company.

And afterward, I gave her five million like I was compensating a woman who had contributed nothing.

“Why?”

I whispered.

Chu Minh didn’t answer.

Then my phone vibrated.

A message from Khuong Tri Y.

One photograph.

An old contract.

I opened it.

My heart stopped.

It was the agreement for that anonymous investment.

At the bottom was Khuong Tri Y’s signature.

But beside it was another signature.

Tham Ngoc Cam.

My mother.

Then came Khuong Tri Y’s message:

“You want to know why your mother knew about the children?”

A second message appeared.

“Because she didn’t discover my pregnancy by accident.”

Then the third.

“She was waiting for it.”

I stared at those words.

A final photograph loaded.

It was an agreement dated one month before my wedding.

The title consisted of six words:

SUCCESSION AND MATERNAL COMPENSATION AGREEMENT.

My mother’s signature was at the bottom.

So was Khuong Tri Y’s father’s.

But Khuong Tri Y’s signature was missing.

Then her final message arrived.

“Tham Nghien Thanh, our marriage began with a contract.”

I couldn’t move.

Another line appeared.

“And you were the only person who never knew.”