“Tan Tri Y.”

I recognized Tham Hoai An’s voice immediately.

My fingers tightened around the phone.

He sounded exhausted.

Behind him, I could hear the faint echo of an empty room.

Exactly as I had imagined.

“How did you get this number?”

There was silence.

Then he said:

“Where are you?”

I looked through the floor-to-ceiling windows at London glowing below me.

“That’s no longer your concern.”

“Stop acting like this.”

Even now.

Even after forty-seven unanswered calls.

Even after coming home to find my clothes gone, Niem Niem’s toys gone, her little shoes missing from the entrance—

He still thought I was throwing a tantrum.

His voice softened slightly.

“Come home. We’ll talk.”

“Home?”

I almost laughed.

“Which home?”

“Tri Y.”

“You mean the place where your mother reminded me every day that I married above my station? Or the place where my husband slapped me because another woman cried?”

He went silent.

After several seconds, he said:

“I shouldn’t have hit you.”

It was the closest thing to an apology he had offered.

But three years ago, I would have treasured those six words.

Now they sounded painfully cheap.

“I know.”

His breathing changed.

“Then come back.”

“No.”

This time, the silence lasted longer.

Perhaps Hoai An had never seriously considered the possibility that I could refuse him.

“Where is Niem Niem?”

“With me.”

“She’s my daughter too.”

“Then you should have remembered that before hitting her mother in front of her.”

“She didn’t see it.”

“She heard it.”

His voice stopped.

Niem Niem had been sitting with the nanny only a few tables away.

When that slap landed, she had started crying.

Hoai An hadn’t even looked toward her.

He had been too busy helping Lam Thu Van, who had stumbled backward after I pushed her hand away from me.

That was why he slapped me.

Not because I had hurt her.

Because she said, tearfully, “Hoai An, forget it. It was my fault.”

And he believed her before asking me a single question.

I closed my eyes.

“I’ll have a lawyer contact you.”

“A lawyer?”

For the first time, his composure cracked.

“What do you need a lawyer for?”

“The divorce.”

“Tan Tri Y.”

His voice became cold.

“Don’t use divorce to threaten me.”

“I’m not threatening you.”

I disconnected.

Then I blocked the number.

The next morning at ten, I walked into Qin International’s London headquarters.

The receptionist stood up so quickly that her chair rolled backward.

“President Qin?”

I smiled.

“It’s been a while.”

Within twenty minutes, half the executive floor knew I was back.

General Manager Ha nearly crushed my hand when he shook it.

General Manager Ly stared at me for several seconds before saying:

“You finally remembered you have a company.”

“I never forgot.”

“You disappeared for three years.”

“I got married.”

“That bad?”

I looked at him.

He immediately raised both hands.

“Understood. I won’t ask.”

My office had barely changed.

Same dark desk.

Same shelves.

Even the fountain pen my mother gave me when I was promoted was still in the top drawer.

I touched it gently.

Three years ago, I had thought giving this up proved how deeply I loved Hoai An.

Now I understood.

Love that requires you to become smaller so someone else can feel bigger isn’t love worth preserving.

At eleven thirty, Tran Ngan Thu entered with a stack of documents.

“There’s something you should see.”

She placed a file in front of me.

I opened it.

Tham & Partners.

Hoai An’s law firm.

My eyes narrowed.

“What about it?”

“They submitted a proposal six weeks ago to become external counsel for Qin International’s Southeast Asian restructuring project.”

I looked up.

Ngan Thu’s expression was strange.

“He’s been trying very hard to win the contract.”

“How large?”

“Initial legal fees, approximately eight million pounds over three years. More importantly, the appointment would put the firm on our preferred international counsel list.”

I leaned back.

So that was why Hoai An had been coming home increasingly late.

Why he had suddenly become obsessed with landing “the biggest client of his career.”

He had mentioned Qin International several times over dinner.

Once, he even said:

“If I get this account, everything changes.”

I had been feeding Niem Niem and answered absentmindedly:

“I hope you get it.”

He had smiled.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

Now I did.

“Who is handling the final presentation?”

“Tomorrow.”

Ngan Thu paused.

“And Tham Hoai An is leading his firm’s team personally.”

For the first time since arriving in London, I laughed.

“Did anyone tell him I’m back?”

“No.”

“Good.”

The following afternoon, I entered Conference Room One at exactly two.

Six people from Tham & Partners were already seated.

Hoai An was standing beside the screen, reviewing his presentation.

He looked up.

The remote slipped from his hand.

No one moved.

I wore a charcoal suit, my hair pulled back, the Qin International executive badge clipped beneath my name.

QIN TRI Y.

Group Executive Director.

Hoai An stared at it.

Then at me.

Then back at the badge.

His face slowly drained of color.

“Tri Y?”

One of our directors looked confused.

“Mr. Tham, you know President Qin?”

Hoai An opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

I took my seat at the head of the table.

“We’ve met.”

His colleagues exchanged glances.

I opened the proposal.

“Please continue, Mr. Tham.”

For the next forty minutes, I treated him exactly as I treated every other candidate.

No humiliation.

No personal questions.

No revenge.

That seemed to unsettle him more than anger would have.

His presentation was good.

Very good, actually.

That was why I had once admired him.

When he finished, I closed the file.

“Thank you. Procurement will contact your firm after the review process.”

Everyone stood.

Hoai An remained behind.

When the room emptied, he shut the door.

“You’re Qin family?”

“Yes.”

“Qin International?”

“Yes.”

His eyes were filled with disbelief.

“For three years?”

“My entire life.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

I looked at him.

“Would it have changed anything?”

“Of course!”

The answer came too quickly.

We both heard it.

Hoai An’s face stiffened.

I smiled faintly.

“That’s exactly why I didn’t tell you.”

He walked toward me.

“So everything was fake?”

“No.”

I stood.

“The apartment I lived in with you was real. Cooking for you was real. Waiting until two in the morning was real. Giving up London was real.”

I paused.

“Loving you was real.”

Something flickered across his face.

“Then why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Coming back here. Sitting across from me like I’m a stranger.”

I looked at him for a long moment.

“You made us strangers when you raised your hand.”

He looked away.

“It happened once.”

“Yes.”

“Thu Van was injured.”

“She grabbed me first.”

His head snapped back.

“What?”

Of course.

He still didn’t know.

“There were security cameras in the restaurant.”

His expression changed.

“Thu Van told me you pushed her.”

“She told you many things.”

I picked up my folder.

“And you always chose to believe them.”

As I passed him, he suddenly asked:

“Are you rejecting our proposal because of us?”

I stopped.

“No.”

His shoulders relaxed slightly.

Then I continued:

“I removed myself from the final vote this morning.”

He stared at me.

“I won’t use Qin International to punish my husband.”

I opened the door.

“If your firm loses, it will lose on merit.”

That evening, the evaluation committee selected another firm.

Not because of me.

Tham & Partners had strong litigation experience but insufficient cross-border compliance capacity.

I signed nothing.

I voted on nothing.

But at 9:16 that night, my old number—still held by Ngan Thu for legal records—received twenty-three messages.

Hoai An accused me of destroying his career.

Then he apologized.

Then he asked to see Niem Niem.

Then he blamed me again.

The final message was different.

Thu Van told me everything.

I stared at it.

A second message appeared.

She admitted she grabbed you first.

Then:

She admitted she knew you were leaving that night.

I felt no satisfaction.

Only exhaustion.

Three minutes later, Ngan Thu called.

“President Qin, there’s another problem.”

“What happened?”

“Mr. Tham is downstairs.”

I looked toward the window.

Far below, beside the illuminated entrance, a man stood in the rain without an umbrella.

Hoai An.

“He says he won’t leave until you see him.”

“Call security.”

Ngan Thu hesitated.

“There’s something else.”

“What?”

“He brought Miss Lam with him.”

I frowned.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

Then another voice came through the office intercom.

My mother’s.

“Tri Y.”

Something in her tone made me stand.

“What happened?”

“Don’t go downstairs yet.”

“Mom?”

She entered my office holding a thin brown envelope.

Her face was colder than I had seen it in years.

She placed it on my desk.

“Your father had someone investigate after he heard Hoai An hit you.”

I looked at the envelope.

“What did he find?”

My mother didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, she took out a photograph.

It showed Hoai An leaving a hotel.

The date printed in the corner was two years earlier.

Beside him was Lam Thu Van.

I stared at it.

Then my mother placed a second photograph down.

A hospital entrance.

Thu Van was carrying medical documents.

Hoai An stood beside her.

My mother finally said:

“Tri Y, the slap isn’t the only thing he’s been lying to you about.”

My fingertips went cold.

“What is this?”

She slid one final document across the desk.

I looked down.

It was a pediatric medical record.

The patient’s age was eighteen months.

The mother’s name:

Lam Thu Van.

And beneath the section marked emergency contact was a name I knew better than my own.

Tham Hoai An.

Relationship to patient:

Father.