Chapter 1 — Tears in the Frost

A quarter to seven in the morning, the forty-second floor of the Việt Thịnh tower was still bathed in the pale blue light of the security lights, with only one window lit up: the executive secretary's private office. Kiều Thư Nhã put the cup of black coffee on the corner of the table, exactly twenty centimeters away from the edge of the table like she had been doing for the past three years, then opened her laptop and reviewed the new day's schedule of General Director Lăng Bách Việt.

Nine o'clock, business sector briefing. At half past ten, meet with a representative of a foreign investment fund about the Eastern trade center project. Fourteen hours, signing strategic cooperation with Japanese partners. She underlined the last line with a red pen — that signing was important, there couldn't be any mistakes, including a chair placed at the wrong angle.

Thư Nhã was twenty-seven, with a delicate face and a serious expression that discouraged small talk. In the eyes of every Việt Thịnh employee, she was the ideal senior assistant: punctual to the minute, able to recite every contract term, and so private that no one had heard a personal story from her, even after working past midnight.

No one knew, not even the most trusted person in the board of directors, that the woman in an ash-gray suit entered the General Director's office every morning with her employee card, then returned to the same apartment with him late at night, opening the same door with a key in her office bag.

She was Lăng Bách Việt's contract wife. It had been three years.

*

At seven forty-five, the office door opened without a sound. Lăng Bách Việt walked in, his tailored black vest hugged his tall and straight figure, his face was as cold as if carved from marble, without a single superfluous expression. He was thirty-four years old, took over the position of General Director of Việt Thịnh five years earlier than expected, and during that time, he never once revealed anything that could be captured by others.

"Today's schedule." His voice was low, without an extra syllable.

Thư Nhã stood and handed over the documents with both hands, following the unwritten rule they kept in public—even when they were alone in a closed room with no cameras and no witnesses. "At nine, you have the business-sector briefing. At half past ten, you meet the investment-fund representative about the Eastern project; I have prepared three options for negotiating the rental price. At two p.m., you sign the agreement with the Japanese partner. The fiftieth-floor meeting room has been arranged according to their feng shui requirements."

Bách Việt glanced through each page, nodding once. That was his way of expressing satisfaction — no compliments, just a nod, and Thư Nhã learned to read it more fluently than any other language in her life.

"You will come with me to the ten-thirty meeting," he said, eyes still on the tablet. "I need the detailed data as soon as they ask a question. I will not wait."

"Yes."

That was all. Between them, in the corporate office, there were only as many words as necessary, as concise as a contract.

*

At noon, Thư Nhã ate a boxed lunch alone in the small break room reserved for executive secretaries on the forty-second floor, a place few people used because it required a personal access card. She opened her desk drawer. Beneath a thick layer of files lay a small moss-green velvet box. Inside was a simple platinum ring without stones or engravings.

It was her wedding ring.

Three years ago, on a bitterly cold winter night, she wore this ring in front of a notary and two witnesses, signing a twenty-page marriage contract with all the terms: three-year term, no emotional requests, no appearing together at any events other than work, and absolutely no one in the Việt Thịnh company knew this truth.

In return, the huge hospital debt of her father — who had undergone a complicated heart surgery — was paid in full, and she was guaranteed a stable, long-term position within the corporation.

She did not ask why Lăng Bách Việt needed a fake marriage. He also didn't explain. There was only one thing he said to her that night, as he passed the contract across the table: "You're the only person I trust who won't use this to demand anything more."

Thư Nhã believed that she could live with an emotionless marriage for three years, just like believing that she could manage a balance sheet without a dime. She was wrong about her feelings, even though she never showed it, even though she kept it carefully the same way she kept the ring in a drawer — only taking it out when no one was around, only wearing it within the four walls of the shared apartment, and taking it off before stepping out the door every morning.

*

In the evening, the penthouse apartment on the 30th floor of a luxury apartment complex in the west of the city glows warmly, different from the cold atmosphere in the office. This is the only place where two people are allowed to be "husband and wife" in the true sense of living - sharing a dinner, sitting on the same sofa watching the news, although there is always enough distance between them so that no one has to touch the other.

"Japanese partners are satisfied with the signing," Bách Việt said, took off his tie, and threw it casually on the back of the chair. "Thanks to you carefully preparing the data, they didn't have any difficult questions."

"That's my job," Thư Nhã replied, placing the soup plate on the dining table.

He looked at her for a moment, his usual sharp eyes softening a little — just a little, enough for her to notice but not enough for her to dare believe it was anything other than fatigue at the end of the day. "Today marks three years."

Thư Nhã paused for a breath. You know. She remembers every day, every hour, even more clearly than her own birthday, because she is the keeper of the contract, the one who counts back each expiring year like a time bomb hanging over the top of her life. But she didn't expect that he also remembered.

"Yes, three years," she replied, trying to keep her voice calm as if confirming a regular meeting.

"Tonight there will be a party to celebrate the successful signing of the Eastern project, at the restaurant on the rooftop of Ánh Dương hotel. The board of directors will all attend," he said, stood up and walked towards the wine cabinet, poured out two glasses of red wine, and gave her one glass as a habit he had formed from previous project celebrations. "Seems like I'm celebrating the project and..." He stopped, didn't say the next sentence, just raised his glass and gently touched hers. The clear sound of glass hitting each other echoed in the quiet room like a wordless congratulation for a marriage that no one was allowed to know about.

Thư Nhã took a sip of wine, the slightly bitter taste melting on her tongue. She looked at the man in front of her - the man she had memorized every gesture, every frown when thinking, every silence before making an important decision, for three long years - and wondered if she was standing at the most dangerous line of a contract: when the heart begins to demand things that legal documents have never allowed.

She did not know that tonight, that line would be completely erased.

*

The party at Ánh Dương Hotel was bustling with lights and the sound of clinking glasses. As a private secretary, Thư Nhã was present in the role of logistical support, standing quietly in the corner of the room, observing Bách Việt conversing with partners, major shareholders, and even Mr. Lăng Chính Nghĩa - his uncle, currently the Honorary Chairman of the Board of Directors, who always looked at her with searching eyes whenever the two appeared near each other for too long.

"Miss Thư Nhã works so hard, let's have a drink to have fun." An older shareholder laughed and thrust a glass of wine into her hand. Refusing forever and becoming lost in the celebratory atmosphere, she had to take small sips, not expecting the alcohol to absorb faster than she thought after the glass of wine in the afternoon.

When the party ended and everyone left one by one, Thư Nhã stood in the hallway waiting for the elevator, her head dizzy. Bách Việt appeared next to her, didn't say anything, just put his hand on her back and led her into the private elevator for the board of directors.

"You're drunk," he said, his voice deeper than usual.

"I'm okay." She shook her head, but her unsteady steps betrayed her words.

In the narrow space of the elevator, the pale yellow light reflected on the mirror, Thư Nhã looked up at him, and in that moment, she was no longer the exemplary executive secretary, nor was she trying to keep the distance of a contractual marriage. She was just a woman who had been secretly moved for three years, standing in front of a man she was not allowed to love.

Bách Việt looked down at her, his eyes - always cold and controlled - momentarily lost their familiar guard. The elevator door opened on the thirtieth floor, but neither of them got out right away.

That night, for the first time after three years of living as strangers signing a piece of paper, the line between contract and real feelings was completely blurred, in the penthouse there was only winter moonlight filtering through the glass window, cold but burning.

Neither of them knew that night would be the beginning of a storm that was about to come, not only to their secret marriage, but to an entire empire called Việt Thịnh.