Chapter 11 — Playing Poor with the Heiress

The grand hall stood hollow and silent, save for the solitary glow of the receptionist's desk lamp. We walked side by side toward the exit.

So, who exactly are you?

She posed the question for the second time. Unlike the previous instance, the probe had vanished from her tone. This was a confirmation. She already held the answer; she merely required me to utter it aloud. I pushed open the heavy glass doors, and the night air rushed in, heavy with the sweltering heat of July and the distant, muffled hum of traffic.

What do you think I am?

The son of Chairman Tran from the Than Huy Corporation.

She spoke with serene composure. I came to a halt and turned to look at her.

When did you figure it out?

The moment you handed me that document. An ordinary employee would not go out of their way to shield a stranger who might be scrutinizing company ledgers—unless, of course, that company belonged to him.

I remained silent.

And then there was today, your ability to fast-track the audit by a full day. There are fewer than three people at Than Huy capable of pulling that off. You are neither the vice president nor a member of the board. She tilted her head slightly, peering up at me. So, you must be that hidden young master of the house.

The streetlights cast long, distorted shadows of us upon the pavement. I watched her, and she watched me. Two people who had spent nearly three weeks play-acting at poverty stood beneath the glow of the company streetlamp, finally stripping away one of our many masks.

Since when did you know who I was? she asked in return.

The first week. Your fabric bag—it was a Goyard. She looked startled, instinctively glancing down at the bag hanging at her side. You noticed that too?

The flap opened and revealed a corner of the logo.

I actually thought I was hiding it quite well.

You did hide it well, in truth. The Blue Mountain coffee incident almost blew our cover completely. She covered her face, a rare display of genuine embarrassment. You were actually able to taste the difference? When you claimed it was instant coffee, I nearly crumbled on the spot.

I did it on purpose.

You really are a piece of work.

She lowered her hands and looked at me, a genuine smile breaking across her face. It was the most sincere expression I had seen since we met—devoid of the polite facade of a new hire or the restrained stiffness of an administrative assistant. She was laughing simply because the situation was absurd. Two heirs to fortunes, concealing their true identities, playing at poverty and feigning empathy for one another for three weeks. The premise was, indeed, ridiculous.

So, what now? she asked, the laughter fading.

What do you mean, what now?

Our covers are blown. You are here to experience life, and I am here to conduct an audit. You know what I am doing, and I know what you are doing. What is the next move? I pondered this for a moment.

Does my father know you are here, and does your father know I am here?

To Nien shook her head. My father only told me that this company was worth a look. He didn’t mention that a young heir was hiding out here playing pretend.

If you know who I am now, will your audit conclusions change?

She tilted her head, considering the question with gravity for two seconds. No. The management caliber of a company does not fluctuate based on whether the young master is present or not. The problems that exist will remain. The fact that someone like Vuong Duc Phat could linger in middle management for so long without being addressed clearly indicates systemic flaws in the structure. Sharp observation. Spot on. I nodded. I will see to those issues.

And will your experience of life continue?

It will. It is a one-year commitment, and I am only eight months in.

And what about me?

What about you?

Should I keep up the act?

I looked at her, suddenly wanting to laugh. That is for you to decide. But if you stop, it will be hard for me to keep going. She blinked.

Then let us keep up the act.

To the outside world, we continue to play our parts?

To the outside world, we continue the performance.

She reached out, as if proposing a formal pact. You do not expose me, and I do not expose you. We keep on acting. I studied her hand—pale, slender, with neatly trimmed nails devoid of polish. I reached out and took it.

Deal.

Her skin was colder than I had anticipated. Her fingertips bore faint, light callouses, likely from years of excessive writing. We held the gesture for two seconds before letting go.

I am leaving now, I said.

She stepped back, glancing across the street. Her Maybach had not yet arrived.

Where is your car?

I told the driver not to come today.

Then how will you get home?

I am calling a car.

Calling a car?

I am experiencing life, after all.

She gave me a playful smile and pulled out her phone to open a ride-sharing application. I stood there watching her, and for a fleeting moment, I wanted to tell her that I would take her home. But I was riding a beat-up electric scooter with a top speed of thirty-five kilometers per hour. Driving her? It would take two hours to reach her home. Better not.

Goodbye then, I said.

Goodbye.

She climbed into a ride-share vehicle, waving at me before the door clicked shut. I watched the car disappear into the flow of traffic. Standing under the streetlamp, I pulled out my phone and sent a message to my father: When you had dinner with To Vien Son, did you two plan for his daughter and me to have this accidental meeting?

He replied almost instantly. You finally figured it out.

Could you not have just told me?

If I had told you, would you have gone?

...No.

Then there you have it.

I stared at those words on the screen and took a deep breath. So you and To Vien Son are playing a game of chess, and To Nien and I are the pawns?

What pawns? Look at how much fun you are having now.

Who is having fun?

Old Chu said you were smiling the whole way home after work today.