Chapter 13 - MY HUSBAND CAME HOME WITH BLOOD ON HIS SHIRT
Shiaoza was late for dinner.
That alone frightened me.
Not because husbands are never late.
But because Shiaoza had built our second marriage around one promise:
If plans changed, he told me.
At seven fifteen, I texted him.
No response.
Seven thirty.
Nothing.
At seven forty-three, headlights swept across the front windows.
I stood.
The door opened.
Shiaoza walked inside.
His white shirt was stained with blood.
I froze.
“Shiaoza.”
“I’m okay.”
Those are three words nobody believes when spoken by a bleeding person.
I crossed the room.
There was a cut near his temple.
His knuckles were scraped.
“What happened?”
“Someone hit my car.”
“An accident?”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“Someone tried to run me off the road.”
Everything inside me became still.
“Sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
“Sit.”
He sat.
I cleaned the cut while he explained.
A black SUV had followed him from his workshop.
At first he assumed nothing.
Then it accelerated.
Hit his rear quarter panel.
Once.
Twice.
The third impact nearly pushed him into a concrete barrier.
“Did you see the driver?”
“No.”
“License plate?”
“Covered.”
I stopped.
“Covered?”
He nodded.
That meant planning.
Not road rage.
Not coincidence.
“Why you?”
He looked away.
And immediately I knew.
There was something else.
Three years earlier, that movement would have destroyed me.
The glance away.
The hesitation.
The silence.
Our old marriage had died inside moments exactly like this.
He saw my expression.
“Lin.”
“Tell me.”
“I was coming to tell you tonight.”
My heart sank.
“Tell me what?”
He reached into his jacket.
For one horrible second, I remembered another box.
Another secret.
Instead he removed a flash drive.
“I received this yesterday.”
“From whom?”
“Arthur Vale.”
My hand stopped.
“What?”
“He asked to meet privately.”
“And you went?”
“Yes.”
Anger rose.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because he said he had information about your father.”
“That is exactly why you should have told me.”
“I know.”
“No. You know now because someone almost killed you.”
His face tightened.
“You’re right.”
The immediate admission almost stole my anger.
Almost.
“What’s on the drive?”
“I haven’t opened it.”
“Why?”
“Because Arthur told me it contains evidence your father committed financial crimes.”
I stared at him.
“And you believed him?”
“No.”
“Then why take it?”
“Because I wanted evidence of what Arthur was trying to do.”
I stepped away.
The old fear was back.
Not jealousy.
Something worse.
The fear of being protected through secrecy.
He stood.
“I made a mistake.”
“Yes.”
“I thought if it was nothing, I could spare you.”
“Stop.”
He did.
“Do you remember the elevator?”
His face changed.
“Every day.”
“Then remember what I told you before we remarried.”
“No protecting you by lying to you.”
“Exactly.”
“I didn’t lie.”
“You withheld something important.”
“Yes.”
He swallowed.
“And that was wrong.”
Silence stretched between us.
Then he placed the flash drive on the table.
“I’m sorry.”
I looked at him.
The old Shiaoza would have explained.
Defended.
Minimized.
The man standing before me did none of those things.
“Next time?”
“I call you before I meet him.”
“Before.”
“Before.”
I nodded.
Then told him about Ethan.
Daniel Hsu.
Northstar.
The forged letters.
Arthur’s phone call.
By the time I finished, Shiaoza’s face had gone pale.
“We need to open that drive.”
“Not on our computers.”
We called cybersecurity.
Two hours later, inside an isolated forensic system, the files appeared.
Bank statements.
Internal memos.
Contracts.
And one video.
Dated twenty-six years earlier.
My father sat at a conference table.
Arthur Vale stood beside him.
The audio crackled.
Arthur said:
“Daniel has to go.”
My father responded:
“No.”
Arthur leaned closer.
“Then you’ll both lose everything.”
My father stood.
“This company isn’t yours.”
Arthur smiled.
“No.”
Then came the sentence that made every hair on my arms rise.
“But one day, your daughter will inherit it.”
He looked directly toward the camera.
“And children are much easier to break than founders.”
The video ended.
Shiaoza and I stared at the black screen.
Then the forensic analyst spoke.
“There’s another file.”
“What?”
“A scheduled transaction.”
I leaned forward.
The amount appeared.
$480,000,000.
Destination:
Northstar Holdings.
Execution date:
Friday.
Three days away.
Shiaoza whispered:
“Someone is preparing to drain nearly half a billion dollars from the company.”
I looked at Arthur Vale’s frozen face on the screen.
“No.”
“What?”
“He isn’t stealing money.”
I finally understood.
“He’s buying something.”
“Buying what?”
May you like
I looked at the twelve-percent ownership documents.
“Enough shares to take my company away from me.”
