Feng Shuangshuang’s greatest regret before she died was never getting the chance to tell Zhao Yanjing, “I do.”
When she opened her eyes again, she was Feng Shuangshuang in 1980: a simple-minded girl locked in an earthen house, waiting for her uncle to sell her to her rotten cousin.
The night she escaped, it was raining. The whole village was tricked into chasing her through the fishponds with flashlights. At the last moment, a large hand pulled her back from the brink of death.
The man wore a crisp military uniform and had a stern, striking face.
Feng Shuangshuang froze. He looked exactly like Zhao Yanjing.
He helped her escape, found her somewhere to stay, and arranged a referral letter for her, only to be falsely accused of abducting a woman.
With danger closing in, he proposed a fake marriage.
They agreed it was only an act to help him deal with his family and the army, and they’d divorce once things died down. Feng Shuangshuang thought it was a great deal: she wouldn’t have to repay her debt, she could study and take the college entrance exam, and best of all, she wouldn’t have to use an outhouse in the countryside!
She signed her name, delighted.
But later, after Feng Shuangshuang had been spoiled like a little princess, she threatened him with a haughty pout. “I want a divorce. Our marriage was fake anyway.”
“The marriage was fake, but the certificate is real.” Zhao Jingyan slowly unbuttoned his military uniform, one button at a time. “Divorce is a complicated process for a serviceman, Comrade. How about… we don’t get divorced?”
