I looked at Duong Vu Nhu sitting in the passenger seat.

Then at Luc Uyen.

He seemed to realize something was wrong.

“Hai Duong, she gets carsick. Just let her sit there today.”

Today.

Everything was only “today” to him.

The divorce was only for today.

His marriage to another woman was only for today.

Tomorrow, I was supposed to return obediently to my original position, as though a marriage certificate could be borrowed and returned like an umbrella.

“No problem.”

I opened the rear door.

Luc Uyen relaxed immediately.

On the way home, Duong Vu Nhu kept holding up their marriage certificate.

“Brother Uyen, look. We actually look good together.”

Luc Uyen laughed.

“Stop making trouble.”

“But today I’m legally your wife.”

She emphasized the word wife.

Then she turned around.

“Ms. Hai Duong, don’t be jealous.”

I looked at her calmly.

“Why would I be jealous of someone else’s husband?”

The smile on her face froze.

Luc Uyen glanced at me through the mirror.

“Hai Duong.”

“What?”

“It’s just one day.”

I nodded.

“Yes.”

One day was enough.

Enough to understand five years.

When we arrived at our apartment, I didn’t get out.

Luc Uyen frowned.

“Aren’t you going upstairs?”

“No.”

“Where are you going?”

“My mother’s.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“No need.”

He finally turned around fully.

Perhaps something in my expression unsettled him.

“Hai Duong, tomorrow at nine.”

“What?”

“Civil Affairs Bureau.”

He smiled.

“I’ll divorce Vu Nhu first thing in the morning. Then we’ll remarry.”

I looked at him for several seconds.

“Okay.”

That night, I packed one suitcase.

Only one.

Clothes.

Documents.

My grandmother’s necklace.

And the ultrasound.

Everything else could stay.

At midnight, Luc Uyen sent me a photograph.

He and Duong Vu Nhu were sitting in a restaurant.

A cake between them read:

HAPPY ONE-DAY WEDDING.

His message followed.

“Don’t overthink. She insisted on celebrating because she won the challenge.”

Five minutes later:

“Sleep early.”

Then:

“Tomorrow I’ll pick you up.”

I blocked him.

At eight the next morning, I was already at the airport.

At nine, Luc Uyen stood outside the Civil Affairs Bureau.

At 9:03, he called me.

Blocked.

At 9:10, he called my mother.

She didn’t answer.

At 9:20, according to what I learned later, he began getting angry.

At 9:40, Duong Vu Nhu arrived.

She was late.

And she didn’t bring her household registration documents.

Luc Uyen’s expression changed.

“Where are they?”

She smiled.

“I forgot.”

“Go get them.”

“Brother Uyen, what’s the hurry?”

“Hai Duong is waiting.”

“No, she isn’t.”

Duong Vu Nhu showed him her phone.

My social-media account had been deactivated.

Luc Uyen called me again.

Nothing.

He drove directly to my mother’s house.

Nobody was there.

Then he returned to our apartment.

My clothes were gone.

My toiletries were gone.

The drawer containing my documents was empty.

On the dining table were two things.

My key.

And a note.

Only four words.

You won. Keep winning.

For the first time, Luc Uyen panicked.

He called everyone who knew me.

Then he remembered the hospital.

He drove there personally.

The pregnant women from our group recognized him immediately.

Nobody greeted him warmly.

One woman crossed her arms.

“You finally came running after one phone call?”

His face tightened.

“Where is Hai Duong?”

Nobody answered.

Then his eyes fell on the obstetrics department sign.

He froze.

“Why was she here yesterday?”

Silence.

He grabbed the registration desk.

“What examination did my wife have?”

The nurse refused to disclose my information.

“My ex-wife,” he corrected automatically.

That word apparently struck him harder than expected.

Ex-wife.

Not temporary wife.

Not wife-until-tomorrow.

Ex-wife.

One of the women finally said:

“She tried to tell you.”

His face went white.

“What?”

“When you asked who she was carrying.”

Luc Uyen stopped breathing.

“She wasn’t joking?”

Nobody answered.

He sat down.

Then he remembered every word.

Who am I carrying?

And his response:

You can’t even think of a better excuse?

Six weeks.

Our baby was six weeks old.

Meanwhile, I was already on a plane.

I moved to another city and transferred to a branch of my company.

I didn’t terminate the pregnancy.

That night, alone in a hotel, I placed my hand on my stomach.

“I’m sorry.”

My tears finally fell.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Neither had I.

So I refused to let Luc Uyen’s betrayal decide whether my child deserved to exist.

Three days later, an unfamiliar number called.

I answered because I thought it was work.

Luc Uyen’s voice came through.

“Hai Duong.”

I immediately tried to hang up.

“Wait!”

His breathing was frantic.

“You’re pregnant.”

Silence.

“Tell me it’s true.”

“It has nothing to do with you.”

“It’s my child!”

I laughed softly.

“You said it was a lie.”

“I didn’t know!”

“You didn’t want to know.”

“I thought you were trying to stop me from—”

He stopped.

From what?

Divorcing his pregnant wife so he could marry another woman for a dare?

Even he finally heard how ridiculous it sounded.

“I divorced Vu Nhu.”

“Congratulations.”

“I’m waiting for you.”

“Don’t.”

“We can remarry immediately.”

“No.”

His voice cracked.

“Hai Duong, stop being angry.”

That sentence erased the last trace of hesitation inside me.

“I’m not angry.”

He went quiet.

“I’m done.”

“No.”

For the first time, Luc Uyen sounded genuinely afraid.

“You love me.”

“I did.”

“We were married five years.”

“Yes.”

“I made one mistake!”

“No, Luc Uyen.”

I looked out the hotel window.

“You made the same choice for years.”

Duong Vu Nhu called.

You left.

Duong Vu Nhu cried.

You comforted her.

Duong Vu Nhu challenged you.

You proved yourself.

This time, she wanted my position.

And he handed it to her.

“The marriage certificate was just paper,” he whispered.

“Then why are you desperate to get it back?”

He had no answer.

I ended the call.

Months passed.

Luc Uyen tried everything.

Flowers.

Letters.

Money.

He even flew to my new city.

I refused to meet him.

Eventually, through lawyers, we discussed the child.

I never intended to hide his biological father forever.

But fatherhood would not buy him back a marriage.

Our daughter was born on a rainy morning.

I named her An Nhi.

Luc Uyen saw her for the first time through the nursery glass.

He cried.

Later, when the nurse placed her in my arms, he stood several steps away.

“Can I hold her?”

I looked at him.

The man who once told me that Duong Vu Nhu needed proof someone would always stand by her side.

Now he was asking permission to hold his own daughter.

“Yes.”

He took An Nhi carefully.

His hands trembled.

“She looks like you.”

“No.”

I smiled faintly.

“She frowns like you.”

He laughed and cried simultaneously.

Then he looked at me.

“Hai Duong…”

I knew what was coming.

“No.”

He lowered his eyes.

“I haven’t even asked.”

“You’ve been asking for eight months.”

He kissed our daughter’s forehead.

“I still love you.”

“That may be true.”

“Then why can’t we try again?”

“Because love was never our biggest problem.”

He looked at me.

“Trust was.”

Three years later, An Nhi had her father.

Luc Uyen kept his promises to her.

He attended birthdays.

Doctor appointments.

School events.

When she called, he really did come running.

Perhaps he finally learned what those words meant.

Duong Vu Nhu disappeared from our lives long before that.

Her one-day marriage had lasted less than twenty-four hours.

The consequences lasted much longer.

One afternoon, Luc Uyen brought An Nhi home after taking her to the aquarium.

She ran into my arms.

“Mom! Dad bought me a shark!”

Behind her, Luc Uyen carried a stuffed shark almost as large as himself.

I laughed.

For a second, he simply stared at me.

Then he smiled.

Not hopefully anymore.

Just quietly.

He had finally accepted it.

We could become good parents without becoming husband and wife again.

Before leaving, he stopped at the door.

“Hai Duong.”

“Yes?”

“I used to think that because you always forgave me, you always would.”

I said nothing.

“I was wrong.”

“Yes.”

He smiled bitterly.

“I know.”

Then he left.

I closed the door.

On the shelf beside me was an old red booklet.

My divorce certificate.

I had kept it.

Not because I still hated him.

Because sometimes one piece of paper marks the exact moment a person finally sees her life clearly.

Luc Uyen divorced me believing he could return the next morning and pick me up exactly where he had left me.

He thought marriage was a game he could pause for Duong Vu Nhu and resume whenever he wanted.

But people are not placeholders.

And wives are not seats you lend to childhood friends.

That day, Duong Vu Nhu challenged him to prove that he would always choose her.

He accepted.

And he won.

He just didn’t understand the prize.

Because by proving he would choose her at any cost—

he finally taught me to stop choosing him.