Chapter 7 — Playing Poor with the Heiress

“You can choose not to believe me.”

“You handed me that note because you knew about the issue with those promotional expenses.”

“I only heard Department Head Wang flying into a rage, and I guessed you might be involved.”

“Guessed?”

There was a flicker of amusement in her voice. “You guess an awful lot, don’t you?”

“I’m quite sensitive to these things.”

“You’re more than just sensitive.”

She stopped walking, and I came to a halt as well. We stood facing each other beside the glass window of a convenience store, the warm, golden light spilling out onto her face.

“To Niem.”

I looked at her.

“If there is something you want to know, you can just ask me directly. However, there are some things I cannot tell you just yet.” She stared at me, her eyes bright, as if she were calculating a deeper truth.

“Then let me rephrase my question: Is your presence at Than Huy voluntary, or is it a calculated placement?”

It was a sharp question. If I said it was voluntary, I was admitting I had the autonomy to choose, yet no one with a five-thousand-a-month salary would “voluntarily” stay in a position where they were being exploited. If I said it was a placement, I was effectively admitting that I had someone backing me.

“It is a bit of both.”

I chose a neutral answer. To Niem fell silent for two seconds. Then, she suddenly smiled—not a polite, social smile, but one of genuine intrigue.

“Fine,” she said. “If you won’t tell me, I will find out for myself.”

“Feel free to try.”

“You are very confident.”

“Because there is nothing to fear.”

She nodded, turned, and began walking toward the other side of the street. After a few steps, she looked back.

“About that note—thank you. Regardless of who you are.”

She raised her hand and gestured toward the opposite curb. A black Maybach slid silently into view and came to a stop before her. She pulled the door open. I stood under a streetlamp five meters away, watching clearly. She knew I could see her. She didn’t even try to hide it. Before the door closed, she looked at me through the glass, her lips curling into a deliberate arc. The meaning was clear: Since you gave me a note, I am returning the favor with a card of my own. You’ve seen my Maybach. Now, we are even.

The car pulled away. I remained under the streetlamp, watching the taillights vanish into the stream of traffic. My hands were tucked into my pockets, my fingertips pressing against my phone. The message from “Old Housekeeper Chu” was still there. The daughter of To Vien Son. The princess of a forty-billion-dollar empire. She was auditing my family’s company books. And she already knew I wasn’t an ordinary person, though she didn’t yet know exactly who I was. This game was becoming increasingly thrilling.

The weekend passed without any contact between us. But when I arrived at the office on Monday morning, a cup of coffee was waiting on my desk. No note, no sticky memo. Just a cup of coffee in an ordinary paper cup. I took a sip. Yirgacheffe, light roast, floral notes. Even more sophisticated than the Blue Mountain from last time. To Niem sat across from me, staring at her monitor, appearing completely oblivious to my presence. Yet, there was a microscopic curve at the corner of her mouth.

Good. This coffee was no longer about empathy. It was an invitation—a silent consensus that said, “I have played my card; when will you play yours?” I finished the coffee and tossed the cup into the trash, then opened my computer to start the day.

At ten o’clock, the company sent out an all-staff email. The internal auditing team from the headquarters of the Than Huy Group would be arriving this Thursday to conduct a semi-annual audit. I stared at the email for five seconds. I hadn’t arranged this, but I knew who had: my father. The old man had always kept a bird’s-eye view. Perhaps he had noticed the promotional expense discrepancies himself, or perhaps information had reached him through another channel. Regardless, the audit was coming, and the timing was impeccable. The lie I had spun to Wang Duc Phat about a “scheduled audit” had suddenly become the truth.

Ly Huong leaned over. “Holy crap, is there really an audit? How did you know about this last time?”

“I guessed.”

“Your guessing skills are terrifying.”

“My ancestors were fortune tellers.”

Ly Huong clicked his tongue and wandered off. I looked toward To Niem. She was reading the same email. Her gaze shifted, meeting mine. Her expression was complex—shock, as the audit had arrived sooner than she anticipated; suspicion, wondering if this was a coincidence or orchestrated; and appraisal, questioning if the “someone” responsible was me.

I winked at her. It was so fast it was almost imperceptible. Her lips moved, forming no sound, but I read the intent.

“Was it you?”

I gave a slight shake of my head. It wasn’t me. But I knew who it was.

By the afternoon, Wang Duc Phat’s composure had clearly fractured. He was making constant calls, and though his door was shut, bits of conversation leaked out.

“…Is there any way to… get that ledger to go through standard procedure… yes, the contracts are all there…”

He was scrambling to cover his tracks. The two hundred and eighty thousand in outdoor advertising expenses—the contracts would exist, the process would have been followed. But a simple inspection would reveal that the advertising agency had registered capital of only one hundred thousand, had no legitimate clients, and its legal representative was a college classmate of Wang Duc Phat. This kind of graft could not be hidden.

At five-thirty, Wang Duc Phat suddenly emerged from his office, his eyes scanning the room.