On a rainy night, I married into a wealthy family on behalf of my twin sister who had run away from marriage.
When the man in the wheelchair pressed his fingerprints on the marriage certificate, his fingertips brushed against my wedding ring—the same style worn by the dying man in the alley three months ago.
That night, my sister sent a text message: "Congratulations, my substitute bride."
And my groom was holding the blood-stained shirt with tweezers and sneered: "Mrs. Li, curiosity will kill people."
