After casting aside his rural wife with a measly 3-billion-dong payout, a newly appointed tech CEO collapses upon realizing he is merely a hired hand for his wife’s family!
I. The Blueprint From the Ashes
That poor corner of the street had never appeared on any urban master plan of the big city. There, illegally extended shacks made of corrugated fiberglass were stacked on top of one another like rain-soaked cardboard boxes, a place where human sighs weighed heavier than the air itself.
Inside a cluttered loft reeking of old electrical wires, discarded computer parts, and the burnt plastic smell of a soldering iron, the only light came from the screen of an obsolete desktop computer. The man sat in front of that screen with deeply sunken eyes, his hands clutching his head, ruffling his hair into a disheveled mess. Lines of code scrolled down the pitch-black monitor, repeating endlessly like an inescapable curse. The tech product into which he had poured his entire heart and soul—the one he deluded himself would revolutionize an entire industry—was standing on the brink of liquidation due to a complete exhaustion of capital.
Sitting right beside him, as silent as a shadow, was his wife.
She knew nothing about algorithms, nor was she fluent in complex programming languages, but she understood the beating heart of the man she had chosen to walk with through the hardest days. When angel investors turned their backs, when venture capital funds rejected him right at the initial screening phase because of his “nobodies from a gray wasteland” label, she was the one who quietly sold her ancestral plot of land back in her hometown—the only independent asset registered in her name, protected by a family trust spanning generations—in order to exchange it for cash flowing into the startup’s bank account.
Not a single complaint. Not a single sigh of reproach. She kept the origin of that money hidden, letting him arrogantly fool himself into thinking that his own innate genius had miraculously secured seed funding.
Every late night, when he slumped forward and fell asleep on his keyboard from sheer exhaustion, she was the one who gently draped a worn jacket over his shoulders, then diligently massaged his weary calves. In her eyes back then, her husband’s career was the future, the sole ticket to pull them both out of a lingering existence at the bottom of society. She willingly acted as a launching pad, the dark mud lining the path for her husband’s grand tree to reach up to the vast sky.
Yet she had forgotten a fundamental law of biology and human nature: there are trees whose branches, once stretched to the azure clouds blocking out the sun, begin to find the deep roots gripping the mother earth that nurtured them an unnecessary hindrance.
II. The Metamorphosis of the Chosen One
Four years passed. The pace of technological growth was like a whirlwind sweeping away all mediocre values. From an obscure startup flickering in a back alley, his company suddenly transformed into a market phenomenon, a tech unicorn valued at tens of millions of dollars.
Soaring glass skyscrapers in the financial district began beckoning. Gleaming supercars pulled up smoothly before the lobby of Grade-A office buildings. And alongside the torrent of billions flowing into bank accounts, the shift in his character happened with a startling speed.
The man who once wore a frayed t-shirt, surviving on instant noodles in a cramped rented loft, had now been replaced by a young CEO sporting custom-tailored Italian suits, wearing an expensive Swiss watch on his wrist, radiating a poised and cold demeanor.
The change wasn’t merely skin-deep. The look in his eyes when gazing at his wife began to acquire hollow voids of apathy, impatient sighs whenever she appeared at the grand office dressed in simple clothes, looking out of place among secretaries and PR specialists attired in high-end luxury brands.
— “Don’t come here anymore,” – he coldly told her one day after a tense meeting, right inside his private office overlooking the glittering panorama of the city lights. – “Your image… it doesn’t fit the brand identity standards of the current executive board. People looking at you will undervalue the stature of the company.”
She froze, holding the homemade lunchbox suspended mid-air.
— “What’s wrong with my image?” – she asked calmly, though a dull ache began to throb in her chest. – “Just because I wear this shirt, or because I don’t know how to smile with social superficiality like those young socialites out there?”
— “Both!” – he turned his back, irritably tossing his signature pen onto the desk. – “You must understand that our status is no longer what it used to be. I am the CEO of a major tech corporation, preparing to go public. Surrounding me are elite partners, intellectual and sharp high-society women. And you… you forever remain a woman from that poor alley, tangled up in kitchen chores and obsolescence. We no longer belong to the same world.”
Those words acted like a razor-sharp blade severing the final, fragile thread binding past to present. She did not cry. Overwhelming trauma sometimes requires no tears; it freezes human consciousness into a block of callous gravel.
Turns out, the sweat she poured out in that loft days ago, the sleepless nights patching together every coin of startup capital, were viewed by the traitorous wretch as rustic blemishes that needed scrubbing clean from his glittering masterpiece of life.
III. Divorce Papers Worth How Much?
The climax of the distortion play unfolded on the exact day the board of directors officially appointed him as the full-power Chief Executive Officer (CEO).
That evening, the luxurious penthouse was overflowing with sparkling crystal chandeliers and premium champagne. Shareholders and major partners arrived to toast the brilliant future of the talented young CEO. Standing beside him at the party was not his steadfast wife who had shared bitter and sweet alike, but a brilliant, beautiful female executive vice president, the daughter of a major strategic investor.
When the party subsided and the guests departed, the space sank into the suffocating quiet of artificial wealth.
He walked over to the marble coffee table, picking up a luxurious leather-bound document folder, and pushed it gently toward her as she sat quietly in the corner of the room.
— “Sign here,” – his voice was steady, dry as a death sentence. – “Ending things right here is the cleanest way for both of us.”
She looked down at the document. On the front page clearly read: Agreement for Divorce and Asset Division.
— “You’ve calculated things very thoroughly, haven’t you?” – she looked up into his eyes, the corners of her lips curling into an insipid smile. – “After all these years of struggling side by side, now you want to discard me with just this piece of paper?”
— “Don’t use that accusatory tone with me,” – he crossed his arms coldly, looking down at his wife arrogantly like a beggar demanding charity. – “I’m not ungrateful. In this settlement agreement, I’ve left you a mid-range suburban apartment and a lump sum of three billion dong. That amount is enough for someone like you to live comfortably for the rest of your life without having to labor hard anymore. Don’t be greedy and ask for things beyond your reach. Shares and power here are things you will never get to touch.”
Three billion dong. Compared to the company’s tens of millions of dollars in market valuation at this moment, that sum was no different than a drop of charity falling from above. Yet the most laughable part lay not in the money, but in the blinding arrogance of the man before her.
He genuinely believed that this entire empire was built single-handedly by him from scratch. He forgot, or chose to forget, who was the one standing behind him, anchoring his earliest, most perilous business steps.
IV. The Truth at the Bottom of the Prospectus
She did not tremble. Slowly opening the document folder, she flipped past the boring divorce agreement pages to stop at the final page—where the list of founding shareholders and investment funds controlling the company was recorded.
— “Are you certain I have no right to touch it?” – she asked, her voice unnaturally calm, echoing within the vast expanse of the penthouse. কয়
— “What tricks are you trying to pull now?” – he scoffed, displaying blatant arrogance and contempt. – “Your name on the initial business license was merely ceremonial, and it has since been completely cleared out through fundraising rounds. The entire voting power controlling the company, 51% of controlling shares, currently rests entirely in my hands. I am the CEO, I am the future chairman of the board, I hold absolute power here! You are a round zero without my generosity today.”
— “Is that so…” – she nodded lightly, withdrawing another legal dossier from her coat pocket—thinner, yet bearing the crimson seal of an international law firm and a financial regulatory agency. – “Then are you curious to know where the true origin of that first ‘seed funding round’ that saved the company from that winter came from?”
He frowned, a sense of unease flashing across his spine at her terrifyingly calm demeanor.
— “That was venture capital from overseas…” – he stammered in reply.
— “Wrong.” – she stood up, walking closer to him, placing the legal dossier on the table. – “There were no overseas funds. That capital was disbursed from an independent Family Trust established thirty years ago by my family in a poor countryside village—the one you so frequently despise.”
He widened his eyes, staring fixedly at the legal text on the paper.
— “You… what nonsense are you spouting?!” – he shouted, though his voice began to tremble slightly. – “Your family are just destitute agricultural peasants in that corner street; where on earth could any family trust come from!”
— “Poor or rich, that’s merely the packaging people prefer to see,” – she smiled coldly, her razor-sharp gaze drilling deep into his soul. – “Why do you think a nobody like you, with mediocre education and no connections, could effortlessly access large financing packages at the most critical moments? You think that was due to your innate genius? You fool. You were merely a pawn chosen to test a technology project, under the protection and total financial sponsorship of my family’s resources.”
She turned the pages, pointing to the core clause of the share structure:
— “According to the trust’s statutes, all 51% controlling shares of this company never belonged to you personally. They are held as non-transferable trust shares, and the holder of supreme veto power—the person with the authority to dismiss the CEO, reclaim all assets, and strip you of executive power at any moment… is none other than the rustic wife you are attempting to evict with three billion dong right now.”
V. The Fracture of the Paper Crown
The room plunged into a deadly silence.
The color vanished entirely from the man’s face, turning from flushed anger to stark white like a blank sheet of paper. His body staggered back a few steps, colliding heavily against the wine display rack behind him, sending expensive champagne bottles crashing to the floor, splashing across his designer leather shoes.
— “No… impossible…” – he muttered, his mouth agape, his hands trembling as he picked up the dossier to read clause after clause repeatedly. – “These… these papers… forged! You definitely hired lawyers to forge them to trick me! I am the CEO! The entire board of directors obeys my commands!”
At that exact moment, the ringing chime of a mobile phone pierced through the panic.
Trembling, he pulled his phone from his pants pocket. It was an emergency call from the company’s personal lawyer who also served as a board member.
The moment he answered, the panicked voice from the other end transmitted straight into the quiet space:
— “Chief Executive Officer! Where… where are you?! The board of directors just received an urgent notice from the trust fund representative officially activating the control takeover clause! All company accounts are frozen, and… and they have voted to strip you of your CEO position immediately! We’re finished!”
Click.
The phone slipped from his trembling hands, dropping onto the floor with a shattered screen.
All illusions of power, eternal wealth, and the pinnacle of fame he had painstakingly constructed collapsed entirely in a split second. He realized he had never been the master of anything. He was merely a puppet guided across a stage, and when the puppeteer pulled the strings back, he plummeted straight down into the abyss of total destitution.
He collapsed onto the floor, his hands clutching tightly at the carpet, raising a dazed, hopeless gaze toward the wife whom he had looked down upon with half an eye just minutes ago.
— “I’m sorry…” – his voice choked, hoarse, tears and mucus streaming together. – “I was wrong… Please… toss me a path to survive… I can’t lose everything…”
She bent down, looking at the man who once shared her pillow now kneeling at her feet, her eyes devoid of any lingering hatred or pity. They were empty, cold, and entirely foreign.
— “You never lost everything, because from the starting line, you never had anything in your hands to begin with except greed,” – she spoke softly, neatly placing the dossier into her handbag. – “The apartment and the three billion dong you intended to toss as charity to me earlier… keep them to spend gradually on your new life. May you find another launching pad more befitting your stature.”
She turned and walked away. The sound of high heels striking the ceramic floor rang out steadily, decisively, closing the door of the luxurious yet cold penthouse.
Outside, the night of that poor city had yielded to the first rays of dawn. Raising her head to look at the sky in absolute freedom, she stepped across the boundary of the past to embark on an entirely new chapter devoid of the traitor’s shadow.
