He thought he had bu.ried me six feet under; little did he know that tonight, I would personally deliver his d3:ath sentence on a live broadcast
He thought he had buried me beneath six feet of cold earth in a mental asylum, stripping away all my assets and identity to marry the daughter of a major conglomerate. Tonight, as he proudly read his vows on nationwide live television, his panicked gasps suddenly echoed from millions of televisions, accompanied by a spine-chilling recording: “Thank you for signing your own death warrant with your own hands.”
PART 1: THE TRAP IN THE MENTAL ASYLUM
Two years ago, in this busy yet cold city, I was the one standing behind his every career advancement. I provided him with capital, connections, and the strategic mind that helped him climb to the position of general director of a major corporation. But once he touched power, ambition corrupted him.
He had an affair with the chairman’s daughter—someone with enough underground influence to help him step completely to the pinnacle of glory. To clear the path to steal all assets and marry this new woman, he didn’t choose a normal divorce. He chose a far more ruthless path: turning me into a mental patient.
Using power and money, he and his family bribed doctors and forged complete psychiatric records for schizophrenia. On a stormy night, I was drugged and dragged straight to an isolated mental asylum in the suburbs. There was no sunlight, no family members, only soundproof padded walls, forced injections paralyzing the nervous system, and the brutal beatings of corrupted medical staff.
He came to visit me once before I was locked in that dark room. He smiled faintly, looking at me with the gaze of a triumphant predator:
“Don’t expect anyone to save you anymore. In this corner, you’ve been dead for a long time. All your shares and assets are mine now!”
He left, walking away into the stifling and hopeless space. But he didn’t know that my mind had never been subdued by drugs. Throughout two long years of enduring that earthly hell, I used my hatred as fuel to memorize every face, every signature, and every dirty money-laundering trick he had pulled off. And most importantly, I had installed an automated backup system buried deep within his corporation’s servers—where with just a remote command, all secrets would be triggered.
PART 2: THE ONLINE ENGAGEMENT NIGHT
Today is his big day. The century’s engagement ceremony between the talented general director and the conglomerate’s heiress is grandly held in the main hall of the city center, broadcast live nationwide through major media channels.
He stands on the brilliantly lit stage, wearing a luxury suit, holding a microphone, smiling contentedly as he looks at his beautiful lover wearing a multi-million-dollar wedding dress. He enjoys the feeling of absolute victory, thinking all past sins have been permanently buried under the grave of silence.
“Today is the happiest day of my life,” his voice echoes through the microphone, traveling across big outdoor street screens and into every household. “Thank you everyone for always standing by me…”
Right at that moment, while the ceremony is proceeding smoothly, the giant LED screen behind his back suddenly flickers continuously. The corporation’s logo vanishes, replaced by a pitch-black screen displaying bold red words: “THE IMPOSTOR AND THE VERDICT FROM THE DEAD.”
THE CLIMAX – THE MOMENT OF COLLAPSE
The husband on stage freezes, the smile on his face stiffening. He panically signals the technical team to turn off the screen. But it is too late.
From the hall’s sound system and on live television, his own voice unexpectedly blasts out crystal clear—not the elegant voice from the stage, but the recorded dialogue from the night he forced me into the mental asylum:
“Just lock her tightly in there! Don’t let anyone see her! When she dies, notify me so I can process the inheritance of all assets! Don’t let this leak out…”
The entire hall is struck dead silent. Millions of viewers watching through small screens stare in sheer astonishment. The young lady standing beside him screams, dropping his hand as if touching something foul. The husband’s family, faces drained of all color, collapse into their seats.
At that very moment, the grand doors of the banquet hall slowly open. Beneath the continuous flashing lights of the press, I step in. No longer a ragged woman in a mental asylum, I wear a sharp white suit, my cold gaze sweeping across every terrified face.
I hold my mobile phone in my hand, smiling as I look at the husband trembling like a leaf on the stage:
“Hello dear, how do you like this engagement gift… is it a surprise?”
