Chapter 2 — He Only Woke Up After the Divorce

"That is not the kind of punishment I meant! It is... well, it is somewhat similar, I suppose. Just stop asking already!"

Upon arriving at the restaurant, Nhung ordered enough food to cover the entire table. I was enjoying my meal when, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a figure near the window. A man in a tailored suit sat alone, his steak untouched, staring directly at me. His gaze was unwavering, devoid of any attempt to look away. It was Dien. My chopsticks hovered in mid-air. Why was he here? Nhung followed my line of sight and let out a sharp, audible gasp.

"Isn't that your ex-husband?"

"It is."

"Is he stalking you?"

"He has amnesia. He does not remember me."

"Then why is he sitting there?"

A fair question. I wanted to know the answer myself. Dien seemed to realize I had spotted him. He lifted his wine glass for a casual sip, then shifted his gaze toward the window, pretending to admire the view outside. However, the angle of his seat allowed him to observe our table perfectly through the glass reflection. I was far too familiar with this maneuver. Before we were married, he used to do the same thing. I would dine with my best friend, and he would occupy the table next to us. I would meet clients with colleagues, and he would be perched in the cafe across the street. He never approached me, but he was always present. At the time, I was naive enough to think it was merely a coincidence. Only later did I realize it was anything but. I took a deep breath and set my chopsticks down.

"What is wrong?" Nhung asked.

"Nothing." I forced a smile. "Let's keep eating."

Let him sit there. He could choose his own seat. We were divorced now. Even if he were to sit directly opposite me, I would not be afraid. Still, I insisted on paying the bill myself. In the past, every time we dined out, he would sneakily settle the tab beforehand. Throughout our three-year marriage, I never once managed to pay for a meal. But we were divorced now. I would spend my own money. As I walked out, I intentionally avoided looking toward his table. Yet, the moment I crossed the threshold of the restaurant, I heard the scrape of a chair against the floor. He had stood up as well.

Three days after the divorce, I headed to the office. I had founded the Ky Duong design studio myself; it was small, but professional. Previously, Dien had constantly tried to plant his own people in my company.

"This assistant is very capable," he would say. "That driver has a solid moral character."

I had rejected them all. His offers to provide staff were merely a facade; his true intention was to monitor me. Upon entering my office today, I found a bouquet of white roses sitting on my desk. I was startled.

"Who sent this?" I asked, peering toward the reception area.

The receptionist poked her head in. "Manager Ky, it arrived by courier. There was no name, only a single sentence on the card."

I picked up the note. The handwriting was both alien and hauntingly familiar—neat, forceful, with strokes that looked as though they had been carved into the paper. It read: "What did you eat for dinner last night? You seemed to have quite an appetite."

I stared at the card for three seconds, then tossed the bouquet into the trash can.

"Manager Ky?" the receptionist asked, looking startled.

"I am allergic," I said flatly. "From now on, return anything that does not have a sender's name on it immediately."

At noon, as I headed out for lunch, I saw a familiar black car parked by the curb. I took a deep breath, walked over, and rapped on the window. As the glass slid down, it revealed the flustered face of An.

"Sister-in-law—I mean, Manager Ky."

"An." I leaned down. "Has your boss, Director Dien, suffered some kind of brain damage?"

Sweat beaded on An’s forehead. "Well, regarding that... Director Dien, he—"

"He has amnesia, right? He does not remember me, does he? And he was the one who initiated the divorce, correct?"

"That is... correct."

"Then why did he tell you to follow me?"

An opened his mouth, his expression twisting into a look of sheer bewilderment. Finally, he uttered a sentence that nearly made me laugh from sheer irritation:

"Director Dien said he feels a 'baffling sense of responsibility' toward you, so he ordered me to ensure your safety."

A baffling sense of responsibility. How typical.