On the night he signed the divorce papers—abandoning his loyal wife to run off with his mistress—the husband was stunned by a fateful revelation: “Hello, new CEO; all those shares you bought on an installment plan have actually been registered in my name since last year!”
PART I: SMOKE AND WORN-OUT STAIRS
In a certain poor city, where the asphalt was always stained with pools of thin oil from scrap metal workshops and the fishy, pungent stench of a dried-up river’s mud clung tightly to every rusted corrugated iron roof, time seemed to crawl by with the fatigue of obsolete machinery. At a cramped street corner, hidden behind rows of damp, moldy boarding houses, two people had once scraped together every single small coin through days of storms.
In those years, the man was still a dim shadow at the very bottom of a commercial enterprise on the brink of bankruptcy. A yellow-stained collar, a pair of leather shoes mended at the edges of the soles, and sleepless nights spent racking his brains over ink-faded documents were all he possessed. It was the wife—a woman with rough hands from year-round peddling and a face tanned by dust and smoke—who propped up this entire cramped boarding house.
She skipped every breakfast, taking on extra piecework embroidery until her eyes were sunken and dim, just to gather the cleanest pennies to send him for buying neat formal suits to go to job interviews. She believed in his tearful promises beside the flickering oil lamp: “Wait until I pull myself up, and you will be the happiest woman in this world.”
Yet people are all too prone to swearing oaths when starving, and equally quick to break them when radiance begins to shine.
The shift began the day he caught the eye of the female managing director—a sharp, cold woman sitting in the supreme seat of power at a rival corporation. That female superior not only brought him meteoric promotions, multimillion-dollar contracts defying all limits of actual capability, but also opened up a lavish world overflowing with expensive champagne and dazzling chandeliers.
From a lowly employee, he climbed to the seat of deputy general director in less than two years, the entire route paved with transactional flesh and nights fleeing the impoverished rented room. And once standing on the launching pad of power, he looked at his steadfast wife with the gaze of an aristocratic being looking down at garbage on the side of the road.
The damp rented room suddenly became a blemish in the flawless resume he was meticulously crafting. He wanted to cast her off. He craved to wash away his impoverished past to rightfully step into high society, walking arm-in-arm with that powerful woman on the peak of glory.
PART II: THE INSTALLMENT TRAP ON THE CLIFF OF THE ABYSS
His arrogance reached its peak in the final days of the year, when the major corporation prepared to execute a market-shaking merger. To consolidate his absolute position before the board of directors and prove his personal financial capability to the female managing director, he decided to buy out a massive strategic share package of the parent company.
Yet ironically, despite holding the title of deputy general director, his actual cash assets were virtually insignificant compared to the staggering tens of billions of dong demanded by the transaction.
Unwilling to miss the lucrative opportunity to ascend to the throne of general director with full authority, he resorted to the darkest financial tactics: mortgaging all nominal assets, disguised illegal high-interest loans, and signing a special installment share purchase contract via an intermediary foreign investment fund. He thought himself a genius for slithering through legal loopholes, believing that once he got through tonight, upon officially taking the supreme throne of power, all those colossal debts would be wiped clean by profit flows from new privileges.
He smugly admired himself in the luxury office mirror, adjusting his expensive silk tie, whistling a cheerful tune. He had pre-arranged a flawless script for tonight: return to the old rented room, throw the divorce papers into the face of his rustic wife, and kick her out of his life with a cheap, charitable sum of money.
Outside, the poor city continued to drown in a steady, drizzling rain, but in his heart, the sunshine of wealth shone brilliantly. He stepped into his luxury car, speeding straight toward the wretched boarding house, carrying the supreme cruelty of an ingrate.
PART III: THE DIVORCE NIGHT AND THE SMILE ON THE TRAPPED MAN
The door of the rented room swung open. He stepped in, carrying the cold air of the rain and the scent of expensive sandalwood perfume completely out of place in the cramped, mold-scented space.
The wife was sitting by the modest wooden table. On the table, there was no steaming meal like the old years, only a cup of warm water and a neatly stapled folder of documents. Her expression was eerily calm, without a single ripple of sorrow, nor any trace of the anger he had imagined in his mind.
He sneered, throwing his designer leather briefcase heavily onto the floor, pulling the pre-drafted divorce papers featuring the harshest terms out of his coat pocket, and shoving them forward.
“Sign,” – his voice was cold, sharp as a razor. – “Let’s end it here. Look at yourself, rustic, crude, we completely no longer belong to the same world anymore. Don’t drag it out for more humiliation. I’ve prepared a small cash sum for you, take it and get out of here before tomorrow morning.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, lifting his chin, waiting for a breakdown, cries of resentful grievance, or pathetic begging from the woman he was about to discard. He relished anticipating that reaction as the final charity of a superior.
Yet his world froze.
Not a single tear fell. Not a single choked sob broke out.
The wife slowly raised her eyes, looking at him with a flat gaze like the surface of a lake without a ripple, and then a gentle, serene smile appeared on her lips—a smile that sent a sudden, spine-chilling shudder down his back.
She did not pick up his divorce papers. Instead, she slowly pushed the thick stack of documents already placed on the table closer toward him.
“You sign fast indeed,” – her voice rang out, steady and clear in every word. – “Yet it seems you forgot to check what you just put your pen to sign.”
He frowned, a flustered pang flashing through his chest but quickly overpowered by arrogance. He barked: “What the hell is this? Don’t you play smart with me! Sign the divorce papers quickly!”
She took a sip of warm water, then leisurely uttered every word, a hammer striking dead center at his arrogance:
“Greetings, new general director. The entire controlling stock of the corporation that you just painstakingly bought on installment through the intermediary investment fund… in truth, it has all been registered under my name since last year.”
PART IV: THE COLLAPSE OF AN ILLUSORY EMPIRE
The cramped rented room suddenly plunged into a suffocating silence. The only remaining sound was the patter of rain falling on the rusted corrugated iron eaves.
He stared wide-eyed, his ears ringing, his face drained of all color. He lurched forward, trembling as he grabbed the folder of documents on the table, frantically flipping page after page under the yellowish light.
Every single number, every legal clause, every bright red seal emerged clear as day.
That was not an ordinary document. It was the complete legal dossier of a reverse takeover. Over the past two years, while he was lost in delusional triumph, believing himself to be the manipulator of the game thanks to the backing of the female managing director, in reality, all the dark capital flows, risky credit loans, and installment share packages he had clutched onto were converted through a network of shell companies quietly backed, arranged, and legally owned by his wife.
The woman he deemed rustic and garbage turned out to be the supreme strategic shareholder, the primary creditor holding the entire financial lifeline of the corporation he was dreaming of ascending to the throne of.
“No… Impossible!” – he screamed frantically, collapsing into a chair, cold sweat pouring profusely down his spine. – “You… where on earth did you get billions to buy out that system? The female director… she couldn’t let this happen…”
“Your female managing director?” – she smiled faintly, a razor-sharp gleam flashing in her eyes. – “She is merely a hired puppet to manage the surface, and right now, she too is facing an investigation order for embezzlement signed by my own hand this afternoon. Why do you think she so easily promoted a talentless person like you to the position of deputy director? Because you were stupid enough to serve as a scapegoat for the financial deficits they left behind.”
He stood frozen in place. The illusion of wealth, of the general director’s throne, of the prestigious lover… everything instantly shattered into razor-sharp fragments tearing his soul apart. He realized he had never been the hunter; from start to finish, he was merely a puppet pulled by strings, a clown dancing on a minefield pre-arranged by his steadfast wife.
PART V: FAREWELL BENEATH THE RAIN
Outside, the siren of an economic police car suddenly wailed loudly, shattering the quiet night of the poor city. Flashing red and blue lights flickered through the small window pane, casting straight onto the dazed, desperate face of the man who had just lost everything.
She stood up, throwing her old coat over her shoulders, picking up the divorce papers he had brought from the beginning, leisurely signing her own name on them, and placing them neatly back on the table.
“The divorce papers, I’ve signed,” – she whispered, her voice serene to the point of chill. – “Now, invite you to clean up your garbage and step out of my life. Tonight, you are officially wiped out.”
She turned her back and walked out of the rented room, blending into the cold night rain. Behind her, helpless screams and the rattling sound of handcuffs echoed endlessly.
The poor city continued to breathe its grueling rhythms of life, but from this moment onward, the story of the betraying man who buried his own ambition at the bottom of the abyss of greed would forever remain a costly lesson passed down in the shadows of those dreary street corners.
