Her husband died on their wedding night — and the next day, his family buried her alive.

No one in the village remembered Emily and Mathew’s wedding as lavish or grand. What people remembered was the feeling in the air—soft sunlight, a gentle breeze, and a kind of quiet joy that didn’t need gold or music to feel real. It was a poor man’s wedding, they said. But it was full of love.

For a long time, Emily believed she was the luckiest woman alive.
Three years before the wedding, she had been lying in a hospital bed, her body frail, her skin pale, her breathing shallow. The doctors did not soften the truth. Without a kidney transplant, Emily would not survive more than six months.
Her family was poor. So poor that selling everything they owned would not even cover a fraction of the cost. Dialysis was already draining them dry. A transplant was impossible.
That was when Mathew stepped forward.
“Take mine,” he said.
At first, everyone thought he was joking. But Mathew did not smile. He signed the papers. He passed the tests. He went under the knife without hesitation.
The surgery was successful. Emily lived.
But Mathew lost more than a kidney.
To pay for her hospital bills, he sold the only piece of land his family owned—the land his parents had hoped would one day hold a home for future generations. His mother cried until her voice broke. His brothers called him a fool. His friends slowly disappeared.
Mathew accepted it all in silence.
“As long as she lives,” he said, “it’s worth it.”
A year later, Emily was healthy again. Her cheeks were rosy, her eyes bright. Mathew proposed with a simple silver ring he bought in installments.
They married.
Soon after, Emily gave birth to a baby girl. Mathew named her Hope—because after everything they had endured, she was exactly that.
But life is not a fairy tale.
After Hope was born, Emily began to change.
At first, it was small things. Long silences. Heavy sighs. Eyes that wandered away when Mathew spoke. Then came late nights. Missed dinners. Sharp words that cut deeper each time.
Mathew thought the problem was him.
He worked harder. Ate less. Slept less. He opened a small shop for Emily and let her manage it, while he took on any job he could find. He walked miles every day, his body weakened by the kidney donation, but his spirit unbroken.
People mocked him.
They said love had made him blind.
He did not care.
Then one afternoon, Mathew walked into the shop unannounced.
Emily was there.
So was Kenny.
Kenny was rich. Recently returned from abroad. Confident. Powerful. He stood behind the counter, his hand resting casually on Emily’s waist. They were laughing. Intimate. Comfortable.
The world collapsed.
Mathew tried to speak, but Emily turned toward him with a look of pure contempt.
“You are nothing,” she said. “Just a mistake I made.”
Mathew raised his hand and slapped her—once.
That was all it took.
Kenny’s bodyguards attacked him without mercy. They beat him, dragged him outside, and threw him into a muddy gutter like trash.
The next day, divorce papers arrived.
Mathew refused to sign.
So Emily came back—with the guards.
“I aborted your baby,” she said coldly. “I don’t need obstacles in my way.”
Her words killed something inside him.
With shaking hands, Mathew signed.
That night, alone in the empty house, he tied a rope to the ceiling.
The pain was too heavy. The betrayal too deep.
He stepped onto the chair.
Then he heard a sound.
A child’s cry.
“Daddy…”
Mathew froze.
Hope was standing in the doorway.
Alive.
Emily had lied.
As Mathew held his daughter and cried for the first time in years, a terrifying realization settled in his mind.
Emily had never loved him the way he loved her.
She had been planning her escape for a long time.
She knew the kidney inside her belonged to Mathew. If he died, questions would be asked. Doctors. Police. Records.
She needed him alive—but erased.
And Kenny was her future.
Six months later, Emily married Kenny.
This time, the wedding was extravagant. Gold. Music. Cameras. Power.
That night, Kenny collapsed.
He died on their wedding bed.
Panic spread through the house.
Kenny’s family needed someone to blame.
Emily was the perfect target.
She was the outsider. The beneficiary. The woman with a past.
Without calling the police, without doctors, they made a horrifying decision—one disguised as “ancient tradition.”
At dawn, they buried Emily.
Alive.
Three days later, the grave was opened.
Emily was still breathing.
The man who dug her out was Mathew.
He did not come to save her out of love.
He came for justice.
Kenny’s family was investigated.
Emily lost everything—her reputation, her wealth, her freedom.
Mathew left the village with Hope.
He lived a quiet life.
Not rich.
But free.
And Emily—the woman who thought she had won—spent the rest of her life haunted by the memory of the darkness underground, where she learned too late that betrayal always has a price.