After Our Marriage of Convenience, He Dreamed I Was Dead

On the day we signed our marriage-of-convenience agreement, my sworn enemy pinned me against the wall. “Honey, your tie’s crooked.”

After a car accident left him with amnesia, he woke up calling me his wife.

I told him our marriage agreement was a love journal, and he believed me. He carried it around and studied it every day, fired the male assistant who brought me coffee, and called me his wife in public.

Then I found the scheduled email on his phone: “The divorce papers are signed. Don’t think I don’t know you stole my project.”

I counted down the seven days, asking him every day, “Does your head still hurt?” He touched my face. “It doesn’t. Don’t worry, honey.”

On the last day, I packed my bags.

He rushed back and smashed his phone. “What did you write on the back of that sticky note?”

“You wrote, ‘If you’re dead, what good is anything I get?’”

He pulled me into his arms. “I recalled the email. It didn’t work. But I smashed my phone. That proves I don’t want a divorce.”

Later, he found my diary, all 128 pages of it. “Mr. Lu, I’ve wanted to marry you since the day we first met, too. I just took three years longer than you to say it.”

Until I woke up. The hospital room was very white. Auntie Chen was crying.

Shen Juan’s grave was in the suburbs.

The last page of the diary read: “If I go first, don’t look. You’ll cry if you do.”

I read it. I cried.

He lied…