Chapter 11 - THE ENVELOPE WAITING ON MY DESK
Three years after a white watch nearly destroyed my marriage, a black envelope appeared on my desk.
There was no stamp.
No return address.
No name.
Just three words written across the front in silver ink.
FOR CEO LIN ONLY.
I stood in the doorway of my office staring at it.
Mei stood behind me.
“Should I call security?”
“Did anyone see who delivered it?”
She shook her head.
“That’s the problem.”
Our headquarters had changed dramatically since the days when Jang Chin Tong treated the executive floors like her private kingdom.
Every visitor was registered.
Every delivery was scanned.
Every elevator required employee identification after business hours.
Yet somehow, somebody had placed an envelope directly in the center of my desk.
Beside my father’s brass key.
I walked toward it.
“Lin.”
Mei’s voice stopped me.
“Maybe don’t touch it.”
I almost smiled.
“You’ve been watching too many crime shows.”
“And you haven’t been watching enough.”
Fair point.
Security examined the envelope first.
Nothing dangerous.
Nothing electronic.
Just paper.
I opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
The moment I saw it, the humor disappeared.
It showed my father standing outside our company headquarters.
The photograph was old.
At least twenty-five years old.
He looked younger than I remembered him.
Beside him stood another man.
Tall.
Gray suit.
Dark hair.
The stranger had one hand resting on my father’s shoulder.
On the back, someone had written:
TWO MEN BUILT THE COMPANY.
Underneath:
ONLY ONE FAMILY KEPT IT.
Mei read over my shoulder.
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
There was another piece of paper.
This one was typed.
Your father left you more than a company.
He also left you his unfinished war.
Ask who owned the missing twelve percent.
My fingers tightened around the page.
“Twelve percent of what?” Mei asked.
I already knew the answer.
Shares.
Years earlier, during the corruption investigation involving Victor, we had audited decades of company records.
But corporations change.
Shares split.
Companies restructure.
Subsidiaries merge.
Old ownership disappears beneath layers of legal paperwork.
Twelve percent from the company’s earliest years could have become enormously valuable.
I called our general counsel.
“Bring me the original incorporation documents.”
“How original?”
“Day one.”
There was silence.
“Lin, those records are almost thirty years old.”
“Then start digging.”
By noon, three attorneys occupied my conference room.
Boxes covered the table.
Old shareholder agreements.
Capitalization records.
Transfer documents.
My father had owned sixty-two percent when the company was founded.
Several early investors controlled smaller positions.
But there it was.
Twelve percent.
Registered to:
Daniel Hsu.
The man in the photograph.
“What happened to his shares?”
One attorney adjusted his glasses.
“They were transferred.”
“To my father?”
“No.”
He turned the document around.
“To a holding company.”
“Which one?”
“Northstar Holdings.”
I frowned.
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“Neither have we.”
That sentence bothered me.
Companies do not simply vanish.
Money leaves trails.
Ownership leaves signatures.
Even dead corporations leave paperwork.
“Find it.”
The attorney hesitated.
“There’s something else.”
He slid another document toward me.
Northstar Holdings still existed.
It had filed almost no public activity for twenty-four years.
Then, six weeks ago, it became active again.
Someone had acquired it.
“Who?”
“We don’t know yet.”
My office phone rang.
Mei answered.
Her expression changed.
“What?”
She slowly handed the receiver to me.
“Someone is downstairs asking for you.”
“Name?”
She swallowed.
“Daniel Hsu.”
I looked at the photograph.
Then at her.
“That’s impossible.”
“Why?”
The attorney answered instead.
“Because Daniel Hsu died twenty-two years ago.”
Nobody spoke.
I lifted the phone.
“This is Lin.”
A male voice answered.
Calm.
Young.
Confident.
“CEO Lin.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Ethan Hsu.”
The surname landed heavily.
“I’m Daniel Hsu’s son.”
I looked at the photograph again.
“What do you want?”
“To correct something your father did twenty-five years ago.”
My jaw tightened.
“If you’re accusing my father of stealing—”
“I’m not accusing him.”
That stopped me.
“Then what are you saying?”
“I’m saying somebody made both our fathers believe the other betrayed him.”
Silence.
May you like
Then Ethan said the sentence that turned an ordinary Monday into the beginning of another war.
“And whoever did it is still sitting on your board.”
