Chapter 3 - THE WATCH WASN’T THE FIRST GIFT
I stared at him.
“You gave it to her.”
“Yes.”
“The watch I selected for your mother.”
“Yes.”
“The watch you told me was being delivered to your mother.”
His face tightened.
“I bought Mom something else.”
“What?”
“A bracelet.”
I laughed once.
Not because it was funny.
“Does your mother know?”
“Yes.”
“Know what?”
“That the watch went to Tong.”
Tong.
Again.
I folded my arms.
“Why?”
“It was her fifth anniversary working with me.”
“That watch cost forty-eight thousand dollars.”
“I know.”
“Company money?”
“No.”
“Your personal account?”
“Yes.”
Good.
At least one question had an easy answer.
Then I asked:
“What else have you given her?”
His eyes changed.
There.
“Shiaoza.”
“It wasn’t—”
“What else?”
He sat.
I remained standing.
Jewelry.
Designer bags.
A business-class vacation voucher after she handled a difficult acquisition.
A down payment toward a condominium presented as an “executive retention advance.”
That one stopped me.
“Say that again.”
He looked uncomfortable.
“Her housing situation was unstable.”
“So you gave your secretary a down payment?”
“It was structured as a repayable loan.”
“Approved by whom?”
“Me.”
“HR?”
“No.”
“Board?”
“No.”
“Finance?”
“Not necessary. It came through my discretionary executive retention budget.”
My stomach tightened.
Not personal money.
Company money.
“How much?”
“One hundred eighty thousand.”
I stared.
He corrected quickly.
“It was approved under executive retention authority.”
“Approved by you.”
“Yes.”
“For your secretary.”
“Yes.”
“Who was also receiving personal jewelry from you.”
Silence.
The conflict was obvious.
Then:
“Are you sleeping with her?”
His head snapped up.
“No.”
Too fast?
Maybe.
“Have you ever?”
“No.”
“Have you kissed her?”
“No.”
“Touched her sexually?”
“No.”
“Stayed overnight with her?”
“No.”
“Shared hotel rooms?”
“No.”
I watched his face.
Ten years teaches you something.
Not everything.
But something.
I believed those answers.
Strangely, that did not make me feel better.
“Do you love her?”
He closed his eyes.
That answer took longer.
“I care about her.”
“That was not my question.”
“No.”
“Does she think you love her?”
Silence.
That was the real problem.
“I don’t know.”
I almost laughed.
“You call her Tong Tong.”
“It started years ago.”
“She tells employees she has been with you a long time.”
“She means working with me.”
“Does she?”
He said nothing.
Then I asked:
“Does your mother know her?”
“Yes.”
“How well?”
“Very.”
Of course.
I had spent the last six years traveling between Singapore, London, New York, Frankfurt, and Seoul building Meridian’s overseas operations.
Shiaoza stayed at headquarters.
His mother lived nearby.
Jang apparently became part of their daily orbit.
Scheduling.
Dinners.
Hospital visits.
Birthdays.
Errands.
Everything I believed my husband was handling professionally.
A secretary was handling personally.
Then I remembered something.
“Your mother’s surgery last year.”
He looked up.
“What about it?”
“I flew back for three days.”
“Yes.”
“Jang was there.”
“Yes.”
“You introduced her as someone from the office helping with logistics.”
“That’s what she was doing.”
“Your mother held her hand.”
Silence.
I had noticed.
Then dismissed it.
Because I trusted him.
Trust is dangerous only when somebody decides it eliminates the need for boundaries.
Then I asked:
“Does Jang know we’re married?”
He looked genuinely startled.
“Of course.”
I froze.
“She knows?”
“Yes.”
My skin went cold.
“She called me an intern.”
“She must not have recognized you.”
“She has never seen a picture?”
That question created another silence.
Our wedding photographs were not displayed at headquarters.
We kept our marriage unusually private because we worked in the same corporate group and had spent years avoiding accusations that my career depended on him.
Fine.
But never?
Not one photo?
“You never showed your secretary a picture of your wife?”
Shiaoza looked away.
That hurt differently.
Then:
“She knows my name?”
“Yes.”
“So when Chairman Hsu said Vivian Chen…”
He stopped.
Jang had known then.
Maybe not before.
Fine.
Then I asked:
“Why wasn’t she briefed that I was becoming CEO?”
His answer was immediate.
“I told senior management not to spread the announcement before your formal introduction.”
Reasonable.
Partly.
Then:
“Did she help coordinate today?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I kept it away from her.”
“Why?”
He hesitated.
There.
“I knew she’d be upset.”
The office went silent.
“About what?”
“Reporting structure.”
I stared.
“You becoming CEO means she reports indirectly into a structure you control.”
“That affects everyone.”
“She sees herself as different.”
“Because you made her different.”
He flinched.
Good.
Then my phone buzzed.
An email from Chief Human Resources Officer Maya Patel.
Subject:
Requested preliminary review — executive floor access and reporting concerns
I had requested it before entering Shiaoza’s office.
Fast.
Maya had already found:
Seven complaints involving Jang.
Four withdrawn.
Three closed without action.
Why?
All had been referred back to President Shiao’s office.
I looked at my husband.
“Did you know employees complained about her?”
His face changed.
“Some.”
“How many?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Were any investigated independently?”
“She was under pressure.”
That was answer enough.
Then Maya sent a second message.
One complaint alleged Jang influenced:
Intern selection.
Promotion recommendations.
Executive-calendar access.
Bonus discussions.
Vendor introductions.
And disciplinary decisions.
None formally belonged to her job.
I looked at Shiaoza.
“She told me everyone under you has to pass her inspection.”
He rubbed his temples.
“She has strong opinions.”
I laughed.
“No.”
“She has authority.”
“Because employees believe she speaks for you.”
“That isn’t what I intended.”
“Intent is becoming very expensive today.”
He looked up.
I continued:
“Effective immediately, Jang is removed from any personnel, vendor, access-control, or expense approval activity pending review.”
“Vivian.”
I stared.
“Are you objecting as president?”
“No.”
“As her supervisor?”
He hesitated.
Then:
“I think suspension on your first day could look personal.”
Smart.
That was the first good argument he had made.
So I corrected course.
“Fine.”
Not suspension.
Administrative reassignment while an independent review determined facts.
No access to HR systems.
No executive expense approvals.
No vendor authorization.
No role in the review.
And because Shiaoza had a personal relationship with her beyond ordinary supervision, he would also be recused from decisions concerning the investigation.
His face hardened.
“You’re recusing me?”
“Yes.”
“I’m president.”
“And I’m CEO.”
Silence.
Not a marriage line.
Corporate reality.
Then I added quietly:
“And tonight, we discuss whether I’m still your wife.”
May you like
For the first time that morning, Shiaoza looked more afraid of going home than going into a board meeting.
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