He Mourned His White Moonlight in a Wedding Dress, While I Married Someone with His Inheritance

The day he married me, his beloved white moonlight slashed her wrists in a suicide attempt.

On our wedding night, he gripped my throat and said, “You’re only her replacement.”

Later, when I was pregnant, he watched coldly as I fell down the stairs. “You don’t deserve to have my child.”

Five years later, at my funeral, he clutched my portrait and laughed like a madman.

But then someone slowly sat up inside the coffin

I took another man by the hand and cheerfully tore up my death certificate.

“Congratulations. You finally killed the only replacement you had.”