Chapter 3 — Playing Poor with the Heiress

I knew for a fact he hadn’t read it. On the second page of the third draft, I had intentionally inserted a tiny, inconspicuous line of text: "Manager Wang is wearing his underwear inside out today." Had he actually reviewed the document, he would have surely chewed me out by now rather than maintaining this current facade of professional detachment.

"This client is of the utmost importance."

His voice dropped to a low, ominous rumble.

"Director Tran is overseeing this directly. If you mess this up..."

Director Tran. My father.

"I understand, Manager Wang."

"Good. Send me the fourth draft before you leave today. I will be reviewing this one personally."

"Understood."

I turned on my heel and walked out, my face a mask of indifference. As I returned to my desk, To Niem happened to look up, her gaze locking onto mine for a fleeting second. There was something in that look—not sympathy, nor mere idle curiosity. It was a cold, clinical appraisal. It was brief, withdrawn as quickly as it had arrived, and she immediately went back to organizing her files. I sat down and began editing the fourth presentation deck, but a thorn had lodged itself in my mind. That look was all wrong. It wasn’t the way a typical administrative assistant looks at a colleague. It was the gaze of someone standing on higher ground, evaluating a target. What was she looking for? Was she gauging how much I could endure? Analyzing how I navigated the office hierarchy? Or was there something else entirely?

During lunch, Ly Huong slid over to scavenge from my takeout container again.

"Tran Du, tell me, do you think To Niem has a crush on you?"

"No."

"She brings you breakfast every single day."

"That stopped last week. She hasn't brought anything since."

Ever since I had forced myself to pay her back, the morning offerings had indeed ceased.

"That’s just because she’s embarrassed."

"Can you stop trying to play matchmaker for five minutes?"

"I’ll ship whoever I want."

I couldn't be bothered to argue, so I simply kept my head down and ate. But to be honest, Ly Huong’s words planted a new possibility in my mind. If To Niem wasn't simply "pitying the poor colleague," what if her approach was entirely calculated? I glanced diagonally across the aisle. She was eating her own lunch, a salad she had brought from home. Lettuce, chicken breast, avocado, and those expensive little cherry tomatoes—all meticulously sliced and packed in a high-end glass container. I squinted. There was a small logo on the base of the container: Le Creuset. A glass lunch box costing several hundred yuan. She wasn't particularly good at hiding her status, but something else caught my attention. Her expression was off today. Her brow was slightly furrowed, her chewing rhythmic but lethargic, and she stirred her fork through the salad as if lost in deep, troubling thought.

At three in the afternoon, To Niem received a call. She lowered her voice and leaned away, but I wasn't far enough away to miss the fragmented sentences.

"...Didn't we agree on three months? It's only the second week..."

"...I know... but he still hasn't..."

"...No, I'll handle it myself."

She hung up, took a sharp, steadying breath, and smoothed her features back into their usual composure. When she looked up, she caught me staring. I couldn't look away fast enough. We held each other’s gaze for a second and a half. She offered a small, polite smile, her lips signaling, "It's nothing, just a private call." I smiled back, my own expression conveying, "I didn't hear a word." We both knew, however, that the other was lying.

At five-thirty, Wang Duc Phat finally opened my fourth draft. I knew he had opened it because a roar erupted from his office: "Which bastard wrote this on the second page?!" Oh. I had forgotten to delete the note. Five seconds later, his face purple with rage, Wang stuck his head out the door.

"Tran Du!"

I stood up. "Yes, Manager Wang? Is something the matter?"

"Get in here!"

I walked in. Wang’s shaking finger pointed to the text on the second page. "What is the meaning of this?"

I studied the screen with a look of intense seriousness for two full seconds.

"Manager Wang, that line is a coded note for my own progress tracking. 'Manager Wang is wearing his underwear inside out today' is our internal team shorthand, indicating that this page needs a complete structural reversal."

Wang’s face shifted from crimson to a sickly shade of violet. He stared at me; I stared at him. His eyes searched my face for five agonizing seconds, hunting for even a flicker of mockery or suppressed laughter. He found none. My facial control was perfect.

"...Use standard comments from now on," he growled through gritted teeth.

"Yes, Manager Wang."

I backed out of his office and returned to my seat. Just as I sat down, I heard a faint, sharp "pfft" from across the aisle. I looked up. To Niem was hunched over her screen, her shoulders trembling. She was laughing, trying desperately to stifle it. To my own surprise, the corners of my mouth curled upward. She caught me watching. Instead of looking away this time, she held my gaze, a new light in her eyes—one of intrigue, even a hint of respect. Quietly, she mouthed a few words.

"You have guts."

I mouthed back, equally silent.

"I’m used to it."

This was our first real exchange. No formalities, no probing. Just two people wearing masks, peering through the slits to recognize something familiar in each other's eyes.