The Maybach stopped outside the Chu family residence at exactly seven.

Before getting out, Chu Tung Dan finally spoke.

—Yen Vu, what exactly do you want?

I turned toward him.

—A divorce.

His hand froze on the steering wheel.

For the first time since I had returned from London, genuine emotion appeared on his face.

—Because Mo Suong used your bathroom?

I almost laughed.

Even now, he deliberately reduced everything to one harmless detail.

—The agreement will reach you tomorrow.

I opened the door.

Chu Tung Dan caught my wrist.

—Stop being ridiculous.

I looked down at his hand.

He released me.

Inside, Mrs. Chu welcomed me warmly.

She immediately noticed I had arrived without my wedding ring.

—Yen Vu, where’s your ring?

The dining room became silent.

Chu Tung Dan’s expression changed.

I answered calmly:

—We’re getting divorced.

Mrs. Chu dropped her chopsticks.

—What?

Chu Tung Dan stood abruptly.

—Do Yen Vu!

His mother turned toward him.

—Sit down.

Her voice was colder than mine.

Then she looked at me.

—Tell me what happened.

I did.

No exaggeration.

No tears.

I simply described returning from London and finding Ly Mo Suong inside our home late at night, wearing my bathrobe while my husband emerged from the same area and treated my questions as unreasonable.

The circumstances were exactly why I had already contacted my lawyer that night.

Mrs. Chu’s expression darkened.

—Tung Dan?

—Nothing happened.

—Then why was she there?

—Work.

Mrs. Chu stared at him.

—Does the Chu Group no longer have offices?

He fell silent.

I almost smiled.

But the real surprise came the next morning.

My lawyer called.

—Miss Do, there’s something you need to see before we finalize the separation proposal.

At the office, he placed three folders before me.

The first contained our jointly invested projects.

The second contained real estate and trust arrangements.

The third contained transactions connected to Ly Mo Suong.

I opened it.

My expression slowly changed.

For six months, Chu Tung Dan had approved unusually favorable contracts involving a small consulting company.

Its registered representative wasn’t Ly Mo Suong.

It was her older brother.

The amounts weren’t enough to destroy the Chu Group.

But they were enough to raise questions.

Especially because several projects involved capital jointly provided by the Do family.

My lawyer asked:

—Did you authorize these?

—No.

That changed everything.

I didn’t need revenge.

I needed separation.

So I immediately requested an independent review of every joint project.

Two days later, Chu Tung Dan stormed into my office.

—You froze the Harbor project?

—I suspended new Do-family funding pending review.

—Do you understand what this could cost?

I looked up from my computer.

—Yes.

—Then why?

I slid the transaction report across the desk.

His face changed.

—Where did you get this?

Wrong question.

Again.

Not “What happened?”

Not “Can I explain?”

Only:

Where did you get this?

I leaned back.

—Tell me about Ly Mo Suong’s brother.

Silence.

Eventually, the truth emerged.

There had been no grand conspiracy.

No secret plan to steal billions.

Something simpler had happened.

And somehow that made it worse.

Ly Mo Suong had repeatedly asked Chu Tung Dan for help.

A contract here.

An introduction there.

A favor for her brother.

He liked being needed.

So he kept saying yes.

—Did you sleep with her?

I asked directly.

His jaw tightened.

—No.

I believed him.

And it changed nothing.

—Then why divorce me?

His voice carried genuine disbelief.

I stood.

—Because fidelity isn’t the minimum requirement for marriage.

He stared at me.

—You brought another woman into our home, gave her access to spaces and privileges that belonged to our marriage, prioritized her family using business interests connected to mine, and then told me I was overreacting.

I pushed the divorce agreement toward him.

—Whether you crossed the final line doesn’t matter anymore.

For the first time, Chu Tung Dan had nothing to say.

Ly Mo Suong resigned a week later.

I didn’t demand it.

The Chu Group’s own internal review handled her employment situation.

The questionable contracts were examined individually.

Legitimate work remained.

Anything requiring correction was corrected.

I refused to destroy thousands of employees simply because my marriage had failed.

That surprised Chu Tung Dan most.

He had expected war.

Instead, I separated our companies carefully.

Property.

Shares.

Trusts.

Joint investments.

It took four months.

The original marriage had been an alliance between two powerful families, and untangling it required far more than two signatures—the financial interests of both families had been intertwined throughout our three-year marriage.

On the day Chu Tung Dan finally signed, he stared at me across the conference table.

—You really don’t want anything else?

—I’m taking exactly what belongs to me.

—The house?

—Keep it.

His expression tightened.

—Why?

I remembered the white bathrobe.

—Because I don’t want it anymore.

He understood.

Six months after the divorce, we met unexpectedly at a charity gala.

Chu Tung Dan approached alone.

—Yen Vu.

—Mr. Chu.

He gave a bitter smile.

—We’re strangers already?

—Business acquaintances.

He looked at me for several seconds.

—Mo Suong left the city.

I said nothing.

—I investigated everything afterward. Some things she told me weren’t true.

—That sounds like your problem.

He laughed quietly.

—You haven’t changed.

—Actually, I have.

That silenced him.

Then he asked:

—If nothing happened between us physically, was leaving me really worth it?

I considered the question.

—You still think the divorce was punishment.

—Wasn’t it?

—No.

I shook my head.

—It was a decision.

He stared at me.

—What’s the difference?

—Punishment is designed to make you suffer.

I picked up my glass.

—Leaving was designed to make me free.

His eyes reddened slightly.

For once, he didn’t argue.

A year later, the Do Group opened its European headquarters.

I returned to London for the launch.

While unpacking, I found an old photograph from my wedding.

Chu Tung Dan stood beside me in an immaculate suit.

Perfect collar.

Perfect cuffs.

Perfect smile.

I remembered why I had chosen him.

I had mistaken cleanliness for character.

So I placed the photograph back inside the box.

Not because I hated him.

Because I had finally understood my mother’s lesson.

Some things can be repaired.

Some misunderstandings can be explained.

Some marriages deserve another chance.

But once respect becomes something you have to beg for inside your own home, leaving isn’t wasteful.

Sometimes it’s simply knowing when something no longer belongs in your life.

The birthday gift I had spent nearly a month choosing ended up in the trash within minutes of my return.

At the time, I thought I was throwing away a present.

I wasn’t.

I was practicing.

Because the next thing I discarded was the marriage that had already stopped respecting me.

And unlike Chu Tung Dan, I never went back to retrieve it.