I thought I was living my dream when I married Damian, but it turned into a nightmare. Three days after his funeral, drowning in grief, I called a taxi to escape the city. When I slid into the backseat and heard the driver’s voice, my heart stopped.
“Fasten your seatbelt, please.”
It was Damian’s voice.

I spun around and locked eyes with my dead husband.
“Damian?” I whispered. He pulled the car onto a quiet street and confessed everything. He had faked his death. His corrupt, wealthy family wanted to control him, and when he tried to break free, they threatened us both. Faking his death was the only way to protect me.

“I was never in that coffin,” he said, voice trembling. “I had no choice.”

I screamed, cried, and raged for hours. He let me grieve him—let me suffer. But in the end, I understood. His plan wasn’t just reckless—it was selfless. By disappearing, he ensured his family couldn’t touch us.

Weeks later, I finally called him. “Where are you?” I asked. “I’ll come to you. But never do that to me again.”

Now, we live in another country by the beach, far from his family. We had another wedding, and this time, we truly got our happy ending.