That winter, there was a heavy snowfall in Seoul that had never happened in a century.
The day I married into Daehan Group, Gu Sungjun stood at the end of the red carpet, like a god carved from ice. The guests said with envy that Ha Ji-soo was the luckiest woman in the world - she rose from the orphanage to become the eldest daughter-in-law of the third generation of chaebol.
What they didn't know was that from the moment I put on my wedding ring, I was already dead.
Instead of dying slowly, they are eaten bit by bit.
My mother-in-law ate my dignity, my sister-in-law ate my time, and my husband ate my youth. They said this was a compulsory course for the daughter-in-law of a wealthy family, to be docile, to be patient, and to learn to keep smiling at the cannibalistic banquet.
I studied for seven years.
In these seven years, I lived my life like an exquisite tombstone. The three words "Ha Ji-soo" are engraved on the tombstone, and underneath are dense epitaphs - On that day and year, he drank with her husband's business until his stomach bleeds;
I thought this was what marriage was all about. Until that day, he pushed me into the sea with his own hands.
The moment the sea water poured into my lungs, I suddenly remembered a sentence I had read a long time ago: In this life, a person can either live as someone else's food, or he can live as his own knife.
If there is an afterlife, I don't want to be someone else's meal.
I want to make that knife.
