Chapter 8 — He Only Woke Up After the Divorce

I would like to get to know you on a level that has nothing to do with our professional relationship. If you are willing.

A silence stretched between us for two seconds. I parted my lips, about to respond, when my phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out and glanced at the screen. A text message from an unknown number. It contained only one line:

Ky Duong, I have remembered everything.

My fingers tightened around the device, the words on the screen glowing like burning coals, stinging my eyes.

Ky Duong, I have remembered everything.

Six words. Like a stone dropped into water that had only just begun to settle. I stared at the message for ten full seconds.

Miss Ky?

Tham Tu’s voice drifted over from across the table.

Are you alright?

I flipped the phone facedown on the table.

I am fine.

I lifted my head, forcing a smile onto my face.

Just some spam, nothing more.

Tham Tu searched my expression but did not pry further.

Where were we just now? I asked. He paused for a moment, then shook his head.

There is no rush. We can talk another time.

He offered a smile, his eyes filled with a gentle, patient consideration—and perhaps a trace of loss. I felt a pang of guilt for him. But those words were now rooted deep in my mind, impossible to uproot. He remembered. Remembered what? That I was his ex-wife? How he had pursued me back then? How he had locked me away, step by step, inside a cage called love? Or did he remember exactly why he had married me in the first place? No. Regardless of what he recalled, it was of no consequence to me now. We were divorced. The decree was signed and sealed. The billion was already in my account. What did his memory have to do with me?

As I stepped out of the restaurant, the sky had begun to weep. Rain pelted the pavement. Tham Tu handed me his umbrella.

My car is right over there. Just take this for now.

Thank you.

I took the umbrella, and he turned and sprinted toward his vehicle. His silhouette in the rain was clean and decisive. He was not the kind of man to open an umbrella to shield his companion while murmuring, Do not get wet. He would not snatch the umbrella away to pull you into his arms, running toward the car while holding you close. He would not take off his own suit jacket to cover your head, letting himself get drenched while insisting, You go first, I am fine.

Bui Dien had done all of those things. And every single time, he had made my heart race. But a racing heart does not necessarily mean love. Sometimes, it is merely fear. The fear of becoming too dependent on that tenderness. The fear that once addicted, I would never be able to endure the moment he decided to withdraw it.

I walked toward my car under the shelter of the umbrella, the rain drumming rhythmically against the fabric. The moment I opened the door and sat inside, my phone buzzed again. It was the same number. This time, it was a call. I hesitated for a fleeting moment before answering. On the other end, I heard the sound of Bui Dien’s breathing. It was heavy, ragged, and chaotic.

Ky Duong.

His voice was so hoarse it was almost unrecognizable.

Are you… have you been drinking?

I furrowed my brow.

I remember now, he said. I remember everything.

Congratulations to you.

You stopped wearing dresses because I forbade you from doing so.

My fingers gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white.

You never once succeeded in paying for a meal because I always settled the bill in advance.

…

Your chronic stomach pain was caused by me. I forced you to work overtime every single day, leaving you no time to eat a proper meal.

Bui Dien…

You once said you liked sunflowers. You said you wanted to keep a cat. You said you wanted to learn how to surf.

His voice trembled.

All of those things, I forbade you from doing. Because I was terrified that if you found joy in other things, you would no longer find it in me. I was afraid that if you kept a cat, you would stop holding me. I was afraid that if you learned to surf, you would meet other men.

The back of my hand pressed against the steering wheel. The rain hammered relentlessly against the roof of the car.

Ky Duong, I remember now.

I remember exactly what a wretched human being I have been.

I said nothing. I did not know what to say. During those three years, I had said the same thing countless times:

You are being too much.

You are suffocating me.