Chapter 4 — He Only Woke Up After the Divorce

Living alone, after all.

He smiled faintly, his expression gentle and unhurried.

Regardless of the circumstances, one must learn how to take care of oneself, he remarked.

The tape measure in my hand froze in place. Living alone. Knowing how to cook. Not clingy. Speaking with a soft, steady cadence. Not waking a partner at three in the morning to confess a nightmare. Not changing the password on a suitcase out of spite. Not picking the lock while a partner was in the shower. I drew a deep breath, and despite myself, the corners of my mouth curled upward.

Miss Ky?

Tham Tu looked at me, his brow slightly furrowed in curiosity. Did you think of something pleasant?

Nothing, it was nothing at all.

I reined in my wandering thoughts, clearing my throat to regain my composure. Shall we head upstairs to inspect the second floor?

As we climbed the staircase, my phone began to chime. Bui Dien. I promptly declined the call. Ten seconds later, it rang again. I rejected it once more. By the third time, I simply powered the device off. Tham Tu glanced at me, though he refrained from asking any questions. After we finished inspecting the site, we exchanged polite farewells at the doorway.

You have worked hard, Miss Ky. Once you have the design plan ready, just send it to my email, he said.

Very well.

Then... goodbye.

He gave a slight nod before turning to walk toward his car. Just as he turned, a black Maybach surged toward us, coming to a screeching halt. The door swung open, and Bui Dien stepped out. He was not wearing his usual formal suit, but rather a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, his face deathly pale. His eyes locked onto me with an intense, suffocating focus before shifting slowly toward Tham Tu. The emotion burning in that gaze was one I knew all too well. Possessiveness. Pure, raw, and entirely unmasked.

You...

Before he could finish his sentence, I cut him off sharply. Bui Dien, what exactly are you doing here?

He stared at me, his chest rising and falling with ragged, heavy breaths.

You turned off your phone.

So what if I did? It is my phone; I will turn it off whenever I please.

You spent an hour and a half inside with that man.

He is my client. I am working.

Does working require you to be alone in a house with him for ninety minutes?

It is a villa renovation. Did you honestly expect me to finish in five minutes?

His jaw tightened, the muscles flexing, and a vein pulsed visibly at his temple.

You are wearing a dress today.

The observation came out of nowhere. I looked down at myself. It was a simple, knee-length white dress—entirely standard professional attire.

...And?

You never used to wear dresses.

I let out a harsh, mirthless laugh, a tremor of long-suppressed anger rising in my chest. First of all, you have amnesia; you do not remember whether I wore dresses in the past or not. Second, even if I did not, that was only because...

I trailed off, catching myself. Because he would not allow it. Bui Dien never liked me wearing dresses when I left the house. He claimed that the mere suggestion of a breeze would allow other men to see my legs. For the three years of our marriage, I wore trousers every time I stepped outside. It was only within the walls of our home that he permitted me to wear skirts, and he would justify it with such suffocating logic: You should only wear this for me to see.

He did not remember now, but I did. I remembered it with painful clarity.

Bui Dien.

I lowered my voice to a cold, steady tone. We are divorced. You have no right to dictate what I wear, whom I meet, or whether I keep my phone powered on. Is that clear?

He stood there, staring at me. In the depths of his eyes, something turbulent and complex churned, too profound to translate into words. In the end, he said nothing. He turned, climbed back into his car, and slammed the door. The vehicle tore away instantly, leaving behind the sharp scent of exhaust and the faint, burnt-rubber skid marks on the pavement. I remained standing where I was, my heart hammering against my ribs—not from lingering affection, but from sheer indignation.

My phone vibrated. A message from Chau An: Miss Ky... since returning, CEO Bui has been tearing his office apart. If I may ask, is that man... your boyfriend?

I typed a single word in reply: Get lost.

The tenth day after our divorce, Tham Tu invited me to a cafe to finalize the details of the project. When I arrived, he was already seated. Before him sat an Americano, and he had already ordered a latte for me.

I remembered you saying you liked lattes, he said, sliding the cup toward me.

Thank you.

I sat down and opened my laptop, ready to work.