On the wedding day, the "wedding gift" Lu Chenzhou gave me was a USB flash drive.
Intimate videos of him and different women played on a loop on the big screen.
Amid the uproar among the guests, my miscarriage blood stained the skirt of my wedding dress red.
Three years later at the International Jewelry Exhibition, I held my French aristocratic fiancé's arm and rubbed shoulders with him.
With red eyes, he asked me where the child was.
I smiled and pointed to the cemetery: "Your son? He is buried next to your first love."
Later, he dug up the grave and found only a B-ultrasound sheet inside.
And in my small apartment, a three-year-old boy is calling daddy to the TV
On the screen was his face in an exclusive financial interview.
