On the wedding day, my husband Gu Huaian personally sent me to a mental hospital.
"She is just a substitute. Weiwei will deal with it when she comes back." When the doctor played the recording, I was tied to the electric shock bed and convulsing.
Three years later, I escaped from hell, only to see Gu Huaian watering the flowers with his "dead wife" in his arms. The woman who looked exactly like me caressed her pregnant belly: "Huai'an, thank you for finding the plastic surgery template..."
Trembling, I held up Lin Wei's photo, and on the back were love words written by me.
And the jade bracelet that slipped from fake Lin Wei's wrist - it was my mother's relic, and the inner ring was engraved with ice cracks that only Gu Huaian knew.
"Who are you?" He grabbed my neck and asked.
I smiled and pressed the detonator: "Go to hell and ask your Bai Yueguang, Mr. Gu."
When memory is a lie and identity is a trap, who is the real prey in this stand-in game?
