I’m 20, a hairdresser, and life was ordinary—until I met Hang. She’s 60, runs a construction materials company, and always tipped me 10 times the cost of service.
Over time, she grew curious about my life. One day, she asked, “Want to change your life? Marry me. I’m old, but I won’t treat you badly.”
I laughed—until she showed me deeds, car documents, and bank statements. “Sign the marriage certificate, and it’s all yours.”
My family was outraged. My mom cried for days, my aunt called me a parasite. But I married her—not just for money. I believed in her.
The wedding was quiet. She gave me a house, a car, and looked beautiful in her dress. But later, helping her change, I saw her back—covered in scars.
She said, “I was abused, mistreated, a mistress… but I rose. No shame in surviving.”
Days later, I found out more. She cried at night. I checked her phone—saw security footage of a man breaking into her company.
Then the truth: he was her biological son, wanted for crimes. She married me to protect her assets from him—by transferring everything to me.
“I didn’t want love,” she said. “I just wanted to die in the arms of someone I could trust.”
Now, I live with wealth and gratitude—but carry her story too.
One night, she hugged me and said, “If I’m gone, burn everything. Live your life, not my dream.”
I’m not just a young husband. I’m the final witness to a tragic, powerful life.