Chapter 3 - FOUR HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS OF “BUSINESS EXPENSES”
I took the red folder into my office.
My husband followed.
I stopped at the door.
“This is a financial review.”
“I know.”
“Then unless the CFO needs you, wait outside.”
His face changed.
“Lena.”
“For the next hour, I’m your CEO.”
That landed.
He stepped back.
The CFO, Daniel Wu, entered.
I closed the door.
The first page showed expenses categorized under executive hospitality.
Hotels.
Jewelry.
Luxury handbags.
Private-club dues.
Flights.
Spa charges.
Restaurant bills large enough to feed entire departments.
I looked at Daniel.
“All hers?”
“Charged through President Shiao’s office.”
“Approved by?”
He hesitated.
“Some electronically by President Shiao.”
My stomach tightened.
“Some?”
“Others were processed through delegated authority.”
“Meaning Tong Tong.”
“Yes.”
I looked at the white watch entry.
$48,700.
My mother-in-law’s birthday gift.
There it was.
Charged to Shiaoza’s account after I transferred money from my personal account to reimburse him.
So technically he had been paid twice.
Interesting.
“Why wasn’t this flagged?”
Daniel looked embarrassed.
“It was.”
I raised my eyes.
“What?”
“Three times.”
“When?”
He slid over emails.
Six months ago.
Four months.
Last month.
Each sent to Shiaoza.
Each forwarded from his inbox to Jang Chin Tong.
Each closed with some variation of:
Reviewed. Approved by President Shiao.
I stared.
“Did my husband write those?”
“We don’t know.”
My chest tightened.
“What does that mean?”
“Secretary Jang had access to his executive mailbox.”
I leaned back.
Of course she did.
Another delegated convenience.
Another door left open.
“Who else knew?”
“Internal audit.”
“And?”
“They stopped escalating after being told President Shiao considered the expenses confidential.”
I looked at Daniel.
“Who told them?”
He did not need to answer.
“Secretary Jang.”
“Yes.”
I sat very still.
This was bigger than infidelity now.
In some ways, uglier.
A woman had been exercising borrowed authority at company scale.
And everyone had been trained not to question it because my husband had made her untouchable.
“Was any of the spending legitimate?”
“Yes.”
“Percentage?”
“Maybe thirty.”
I almost laughed.
“Maybe?”
“Several dinners include clients.”
“Good.”
“Several vacations also include clients.”
I stared.
He corrected himself.
“Allegedly.”
I opened the next page.
A three-night stay in Napa.
Two rooms.
My husband’s calendar showed him in San Francisco for meetings.
The hotel charge showed two guests.
Jang.
And Shiaoza.
My hand went cold.
“When?”
“April.”
I remembered April.
He called me from California.
Said the client meetings had run late.
Said he was exhausted.
He had sent me a photograph of room-service coffee at 6:00 a.m.
I looked at Daniel.
“Leave this page.”
He did.
At ten fifteen, I called my husband inside.
He saw the Napa charge.
His face tightened.
“Nothing happened.”
I almost smiled.
Again.
The first defense.
Not:
I shouldn’t have been there.
Not:
You deserved to know.
Nothing happened.
“What did happen?”
“We had a client summit.”
“Why did she stay at your hotel?”
“Half the team stayed there.”
“Where is the rest of the team on this invoice?”
He went quiet.
I waited.
Finally:
“They left Friday.”
“And you?”
“Saturday.”
“Tong Tong?”
“Saturday.”
“Why?”
His jaw tightened.
“She had meetings.”
“With whom?”
“I don’t remember.”
I stared at him.
He looked away.
There are moments in a marriage when you realize the person across from you has begun measuring truth.
Not whether to lie.
How much truth they can safely release.
That realization changes the temperature of a room.
“Did you sleep with her?”
“No.”
The answer came instantly.
I believed that part.
For now.
“Did you kiss her?”
“No.”
“Did she kiss you?”
Silence.
There.
My heart did something strange.
Not break.
Harden.
“When?”
“Last year.”
I looked at him.
“Where?”
“Singapore.”
I had been in Seattle negotiating an acquisition.
He had texted me goodnight from Singapore.
Apparently after being kissed by another woman.
“Did you stop her?”
“Yes.”
“Immediately?”
He hesitated.
That was enough.
I stood.
He did too.
“Lena.”
“How long?”
“It was seconds.”
“Seconds can contain decisions.”
He looked ashamed.
“I stopped it.”
“And then what?”
“I told her it couldn’t happen.”
“Did you fire her?”
“No.”
“Move her?”
“No.”
“Tell HR?”
“No.”
“Tell me?”
He closed his eyes.
“No.”
“Why?”
“I thought it would destroy everything over one mistake.”
I laughed.
Not loudly.
“Whose mistake?”
He looked at me.
“Hers?”
There it was.
The question inside the answer.
I shook my head.
“You kept her beside you.”
“I set boundaries.”
“She calls you Tong Tong.”
“That’s her nickname.”
“You call her that.”
He said nothing.
“You gave her my mother-in-law’s watch.”
“She had helped close the Takeda deal.”
“So you gave her a fifty-thousand-dollar personal gift?”
“I know how it looks.”
“No.”
I stepped closer.
“You know how it is.”
His face tightened.
I continued.
“You enjoyed being admired.”
He looked away.
“You enjoyed her loyalty.”
Silence.
“You enjoyed having someone in your office who made you feel powerful and necessary.”
“Lena.”
“And because you didn’t sleep with her, you decided none of the other boundaries mattered.”
His eyes filled.
That surprised me.
I did not soften.
He whispered:
“I was lonely.”
I stared.
“So was I.”
That hurt him.
Good.
I continued.
“I spent years traveling too.”
“I know.”
“No.”
My voice cracked for the first time.
“You knew my calendar.”
I looked at him.
“You didn’t know my loneliness because I didn’t turn it into permission.”
He sat down.
For a moment, he looked nothing like President Shiao.
Just my husband.
A man who had made a series of choices because each one felt small enough to survive.
“Did you love her?”
“No.”
“Did you make her believe you might?”
He stopped.
That was the question.
Finally:
“Maybe.”
I looked at the red folder.
Then back.
“Get out.”
His face fell.
“Lena.”
“Not from the company.”
He almost looked relieved.
That angered me.
“From my office.”
He stood.
Before leaving, he turned.
“I will answer anything.”
I nodded.
“Good.”
“Anything.”
“Then start with this.”
I pointed toward the expenses.
“How much authority did you actually give her?”
He looked at the file.
“Too much.”
“Define it.”
“She had my inbox.”
“I know.”
“Calendar.”
“I know.”
“Expense approvals below fifty thousand.”
My eyes sharpened.
“Personnel recommendations.”
I went still.
“What personnel recommendations?”
“Transfers.”
“Promotions?”
“Yes.”
“Terminations?”
He hesitated.
“Recommendations.”
A cold feeling moved through me.
“The people warning me this morning said offending her could end careers.”
His face changed.
“She couldn’t fire anyone herself.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
He looked down.
“How many times did you approve what she recommended without checking?”
No answer.
“How many?”
“I don’t know.”
I closed my eyes.
There it was.
The real betrayal.
Not only the watch.
Not only the kiss.
He had outsourced judgment.
And people below him had paid for it.
After he left, I called HR.
“Bring me every termination, denied promotion, transfer, disciplinary action, and resignation connected to Secretary Jang in the last three years.”
The HR director swallowed.
“That’s a lot.”
“How many?”
She hesitated.
“Maybe sixty.”
I stared.
“Sixty?”
“She sits on executive staffing review.”
“Who put her there?”
“President Shiao.”
Of course.
By noon, I had twelve employee complaints.
By two, twenty-seven.
Anonymous reports appeared the moment people learned I was reviewing her.
Humiliation.
Threats.
Retaliation.
Women accused of “trying to attract President Shiao.”
Older employees pushed out.
One administrative assistant transferred after refusing to pick up Tong Tong’s dry cleaning.
A pregnant analyst denied promotion after asking to work from home twice a week.
Then I found Emily Chen.
The woman from the elevator.
She sat across from me gripping a paper cup.
“I don’t want to lose my job.”
“You won’t.”
Her eyes filled.
“That’s what the last person said.”
I paused.
“Who?”
“President Shiao.”
My chest tightened.
“When?”
“Two years ago.”
She looked embarrassed.
“I reported Secretary Jang.”
“To my husband?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
Emily laughed bitterly.
“He said he would handle it.”
There was that phrase.
Again.
“What did he do?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re sure?”
“Three weeks later, I lost access to the executive elevator.”
My stomach turned.
“And your promotion?”
“Canceled.”
“Reason?”
“Attitude.”
I looked at the employee in front of me.
Quiet.
Professional.
Terrified of one secretary.
“Who signed the decision?”
Emily looked at me.
“Your husband.”
That evening, I went home before him.
Our house felt unfamiliar.
Ten years of marriage suddenly contained too many rooms I had not looked inside.
At 8:12, his mother called.
“Lena?”
“Yes?”
“What is going on?”
I closed my eyes.
“Why?”
“Shiaoza came here.”
My stomach tightened.
“When?”
“This afternoon.”
“What did he say?”
“He brought me a watch.”
I almost laughed.
“White?”
“No.”
I frowned.
His mother continued:
“It’s cheap.”
I actually smiled.
Then:
“He said he owed me the truth about something.”
My smile disappeared.
“What truth?”
She paused.
“He told me about the other woman.”
I sat down.
“What exactly did he say?”
“He said he betrayed his marriage without sleeping with her.”
My eyes filled.
His mother continued.
“And then he said something else.”
I waited.
“He said you may leave him.”
My throat tightened.
“What did you tell him?”
Her answer came immediately.
“I told him that was your decision.”
I cried then.
Quietly.
Because for the first time all day, someone had understood.
Then my mother-in-law said:
“But before you decide anything, you need to know why Tong Tong really wanted that watch.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“She didn’t want it because it was expensive.”
“Then why?”
My mother-in-law’s voice hardened.
“She wanted it because she knew you chose it.”
And suddenly the story changed again.
This was not merely a secretary receiving gifts.
Tong Tong had been collecting things connected to my marriage.
And according to my mother-in-law—
May you like
the watch was not the first.
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