The old motorbike tore down the slope in the cold wind.
Khai Minh sat behind her,
one hand gripping the edge of the seat, the other not knowing where to go as
the bike jolted over the potholes.
“Hold on to me, or you’ll
fall off.”
He set a hand at her waist,
stiff, mechanical.
“Hey. Ease up on the grip.”
“If I let go and fall, are
you going to take responsibility?”
That same haughty tone. An
Nhien pursed her lips and smiled to herself.
“I’ll call an ambulance.
Whether I take responsibility depends on your attitude.”
“You still talk as much as
you did back at the villa.”
“You’re still as
insufferable as you were at the hospital.”
Wind slapped across their
faces, sweeping their bickering into the thick current of traffic. Khai Minh
heard the engine screaming through the streets, the frantic blare of horns, and
An Nhien’s heartbeat racing beneath his hand.
Thud-the bike shot over a pothole. Khai Minh’s whole body
leapt up and dropped, his chest bumping against her back. He startled and
leaned away, his face flushing hot as if with fever. An Nhien’s own breath
skipped a beat.
For six years he had built
walls of locks, bodyguards, and suspicion around himself, so he’d never have to
hand his safety to a single soul. And yet now, on this cold, slick road, the
only person he could lean on was the very girl who had told him, to his face,
that his heart had gone darker than his eyes.
The bike raced on toward
the Thien Ha Hotel. High in that hotel, the transfer agreement was already laid
out on the table, waiting on nothing but Mai Ngoc’s signature.
“Stop!”
The hotel guard’s shout had
barely rung out when An Nhien’s bike swerved sharply before the front steps.
She braked so hard the rear wheel skidded a stretch, and Khai Minh pitched
forward on the momentum, the hand resting loosely at her waist clamping down.
Before the bike had even
fully stopped, he’d planted a foot on the ground, but the wet stone sent the
tip of his cane slipping off the edge of the step.
An Nhien caught his arm
fast.
“Slow down. Fall now and
you won’t even make it through the door.”
“How long do we have?”
“Four minutes to ten.”
Khai Minh pulled his arm
free and strode straight toward the sound of the automatic glass doors sliding
open.
The cold of the lobby hit
his face, carrying the scent of perfume, coffee, and freshly cleaned carpet.
Unfamiliar sounds crowded in all at once, but he didn’t stop. Six years in the
dark had taught him to piece a path together from the click of shoes, the
movement of air, the echo off a floor, the little hitch in someone’s breathing.
Only today, every strike of
his cane against the stone came faster than usual, as if what lay ahead wasn’t
a conference room, but the last door closing on everything his parents had left
him.
Two security staff stepped
out to block his way.
“Sir, the twelfth floor is
hosting a private event. Please present your invitation.”
“I’m Lam Khai Minh.”
The one on the left fell
silent. The other lowered his voice, clearly having recognized the name, but
still forcing a polite tone.
“Mr. Lam, we were
informed you wouldn’t be attending today.”
“Informed by whom?”
“By the organizers.”
“And the organizers, are
they Truong Sinh, or Mai Ngoc?”
No one answered.
Khai Minh tilted his head
slightly. He heard a guard’s finger brush against a walkie-talkie, heard
footsteps closing in behind them. An Nhien stepped up level with him, pulled
off her helmet, and spoke plainly.
“Step aside. If the deal
upstairs involves his shares, and you deliberately keep the owner out, it won’t
just be the two of you answering for it, the hotel will too.”
“And who are you?”
“Who I am is none of your
concern.”
The guards heard her and
wavered, quietly parting to either side. Khai Minh moved fast; she kept pace at
his side.
Only now did she understand
why he had thrown everything aside to get here. To her, Vinh An Hospital was
first and foremost the place keeping her brother alive, his medicine, his bed.
But to Khai Minh, it was the last piece of the life his parents had left
behind, even after six years of others carving it up like a slab of meat.
The elevator stopped on the
twelfth floor.
The doors slid open, and
the emcee’s voice was already carrying out from the conference room.
“And now, we invite
Director Mai Ngoc, representing Vinh An Hospital, to complete the signing with
the Truong Sinh Bio-Pharmaceutical Group.”
Khai Minh quickened his
pace.
Inside the room, Mai Ngoc
stood with the seal in her hand.
The contract lay open
before her at the final page. Do Quang Vu sat across the table, his suit crisp,
both hands set neatly on the surface, his smile in no hurry at all. He had the
calm of a man who’d already secured his win, because the seal hung only a few
centimeters from the ink line, and the woman holding it had been backed into a
corner with no retreat left.
“Director Mai, put your
mind at ease.”
Quang Vu spoke just low
enough for only those at the table to hear.
“Once you sign, all of Vinh
An’s short-term debt gets restructured. Your key staff stay on. And you remain
director for at least another five years.”
Mai Ngoc stared at the red
seal on the page, her wrist heavy as lead.
Six years ago, it had also
been promises to save the hospital that let her slip past the first line she
should never have crossed. Back then she’d told herself she was only adjusting
how the D-17 report was presented, not directly hurting anyone. Then her sister
died, the lab burned to ash, and Khai Minh lost the light. And again she’d told
herself she stayed silent only out of fear, took guardianship only to protect
the one nephew left, kept running Vinh An only for the hundreds of employees
who lived off it.
But a lie, to keep
standing, needs another lie to prop it up. In the end, you no longer even
recognize what you’re protecting. You only know that if you let go, every sin
you’ve buried will come crashing down on your head.
Mai Ngoc closed her eyes
and pressed the seal down.
“Without my
signature, that contract is nothing but a stack of scrap paper.”
Khai Minh’s voice rang out
from the doorway.
The entire conference room
erupted at once.
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