Chapter 6 — The Ten-Million-Dollar Patent

Looking back to my early school days, when I first enrolled and languished at the bottom of the rankings, my relationship with Tong Mien was remarkably close. However, as I began to display an astonishing aptitude for mathematics, physics, and chemistry, frequently drawing praise from our teachers, her "congratulations" became perpetually laced with a vague, lingering bitterness.

She would say, "The teacher praised you again! My best friend, I am so proud of you! But the university entrance exam counts the total score, and at this rate, even getting into a vocational college is going to be a struggle."

Or, "Oh, such a difficult problem and you solved it—that is impressive! But why did you miss such a simple literature question?"

These insidious, subtle jabs became a daily routine. Back then, I was still naive, clinging to fragile hopes for familial love and true friendship. A tiny red notification dot appeared on my social media profile. I clicked it; it was a post Khuong Tu Tu had shared an hour ago. Attached was a photo from a wedding. The scene was filled with fresh flowers and radiant crystal chandeliers; she stood on the stage in a wedding gown, posed in profile. The composition was meticulous, bathed in a warm, gentle filter. The caption read: "Thank you all for coming to witness my happiness."

I closed the app. Chu Tu had sent a friend request with the message: "Sister, I am truly sorry for what happened today. I did not understand the situation, and I said things I should not have. I hope you can give me a chance to apologize in person." Chu Canh Xuyen had sent one as well, his message consisting of only eight characters: "Doctor Khuong, looking forward to our cooperation. Canh Xuyen." I turned my phone facedown on the sofa armrest. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass lay the night view of Hai Thanh, the lights of millions of homes stretching out like a shimmering, hazy sea.

Ten years ago, my family was not destitute, yet my parents would lecture me, saying, "A girl must be raised in poverty to prevent her from developing a penchant for envy." The endless fees for study materials and class activities were a constant burden, and the teachers would press me repeatedly. My youthful pride left me burning with shame. Meanwhile, Khuong Tu Tu was draped in luxury brands, provided with private tutors, and granted every whim by our parents the moment she asked. Back then, I promised myself that one day, I would achieve great success and return home in glory, repaying every instance of contempt and cold indifference tenfold.

But now that the day had arrived, I stood at a summit gazed upon by countless people. I no longer needed to tally the balance in my bank account; beneath my feet lay the highest point of the city. The eighteen-year-old girl who once woke up shivering on the sofa because of the heat, the girl who had been struck by a porcelain bowl until her forehead bled and had to crouch on the floor to scrape together a hundred yuan for food, the girl who had wept in secret so many times over her family’s neglect—that version of me felt a lifetime away.

The current Khuong Duong does not require anyone’s apology, nor does she crave anyone’s favor. She has reached a height so great that the traumas that once stole her sleep now look like nothing more than specks of dust upon the earth. I set down my wine glass, extinguished the lights, and went to bed. The bed was vast, and the air conditioning was set to the perfect temperature. It was a dreamless sleep.

At eight o'clock the next morning, I dressed and walked through the hotel lobby. A black car was idling outside the revolving doors. Khuong Tu Tu stood there, looking as though she hadn't slept a wink. Seeing me emerge, she straightened up.

"Sister." Her voice was rasping. "I want to talk to you."

I asked, "Talk about what?"

She reached out and tugged at my sleeve, her fingertips icy. "Sister, could you..." Her throat worked, her voice choking. "Could you say a few words to me? Just a few words."

I had never seen this side of Khuong Tu Tu before.

"All right. Ten minutes," I said.

We found a nearby coffee shop.

"That social media post..." She bit her lip. "It was because I didn't want others to laugh at me. The truth is, the wedding was never finished."

She continued, "After Grandfather Chu left, Chu Tu was summoned to the old family estate by his father, and he hasn't called me since. Sister, I don't know what to do."

I tapped my fingers against the table, meeting her gaze directly. "Speak clearly. You have eight minutes left."

Her eyes welled up again. "Sister, could you put in a good word for me with Grandfather Chu? Surely Chu Tu was just afraid of the old man’s scolding, which is why he didn't continue the ceremony. It’s not that he doesn't want to marry me. Please, just tell Grandfather Chu not to blame him..."

"First," I interrupted, "I did not ask Elder Chu to do anything to either of you, and I certainly do not have that kind of spare time."

Khuong Tu Tu went blank.

"Second," I looked deep into her eyes, "in the situation yesterday, Chu Tu’s choice was to abandon you and walk away alone. Whether or not he is a man of responsibility is something you should reconsider."

The expression on her face stiffened. The fragile mask of weakness she had labored to maintain began to crack, exposing the sharp, resentful edge beneath.

"Khuong Duong," she said, no longer calling me sister. "You’re feeling quite smug, aren't you?"