On the wedding night, before I could remove all my makeup, my mother-in-law knocked on the door. The luxurious suite of the 5-star hotel turned cold as she placed a wad of bills in my hand: ten hundred dollar bills. Her eyes were not looking at me, and her mouth was overflowing:
“If you want to live, run away from here tonight.”
I was freezing, as if in a panic, my heart was freezing as if ice water had been directly thrown into it.
My name is Thảo, I am 26 years old, and I am an accountant in a construction company in Hanoi. I met Hưng, my husband, at a cooperation meeting between two companies. Hưng was three years older than me, a young, handsome, educated director, and known for being the only son of a wealthy family from Ninh Bình. Our relationship progressed rapidly; Just six months later, he proposed to me.
My family was normal; my parents were retired government employees. When Hưng proposed to me, my mother cried with joy, and my father, although strict, nodded in agreement. When I was young, I was always obedient and I never thought I would choose the wrong person.
The wedding was celebrated with great pomp in a luxurious hotel in the city center. Everyone admired me because I “married a rich man,” but I just smiled: I didn’t marry him for money, but because he made me feel safe.
Until the wedding night…
My father-in-law, Mr. Hoàng Văn Bình, a quiet and reserved man, gave me the impression from the first time I met him that he didn’t like me. But I never thought he would say such words, on the wedding night of his own son.
“I don’t understand… What are you saying, Sir?” I gasped, still reeling from the shock.
He squeezed my hand tightly and whispered as if he was afraid someone would hear him:
“You shouldn’t ask. As you walk out the door, someone is waiting. Don’t look back. This is all I can do.
That said, he stared at me for a long time: a worried look, mixed with fear, as if he were doing something that could cost him his life.
He left, leaving me alone with a storm of confusion in my heart.
I glanced at my wife in the other room. Hưng was on the phone with friends, laughing happily, completely unaware of what had happened. I hesitated, hesitated, and then decided to call my best friend Lan, the only person I trusted outside my family.
“Are you crazy?” Ran away on your wedding night? Is someone threatening you? Lan shouted into the phone.
I told her everything. Lan was silent for a moment and then said:
“If your mother-in-law told you, it can’t be a joke. I’ll come pick you up.”
Ten minutes later, Lan arrived at the hotel lobby. I grabbed my suitcase, head down, and left as if I had run away. It was 2:17 in the morning, and a light rain was falling in Hanoi.
I hid in Lan’s house. I turned off my cellphone. Mom called more than 30 times. My mother-in-law called, my husband called… But I was scared. I didn’t know what I was more afraid of: my husband, or that family?
The next morning, Lan went to work and I was the only one left at home. I opened my phone and hundreds of messages flooded me. Some exchanged words, some begged, some were insulted. But the most striking was a message from an unknown number:
“My father is a good man. But it won’t save you. When you return, you will either find out the truth or… You will be buried forever.”
I shook my head.
That night, my mother-in-law sent me a message:
“If you are still in Hanoi, come see me sometime. Just sometime. At 8 p.m., Đinh cafeteria, second floor. I will tell you everything.”
I went. I had to find out the reason.
The coffee was stale, hidden in the old room. I climbed the wooden stairs, where Mr. Bình was already sitting, his eyes full of fatigue.
He spoke, very quickly, very briefly:
“You know that Dingdong is the only son in our family. But you know… How did his ex-wife die?
I was stunned:
“Was he married before?”
Agreed:
“No one will tell you. He died two months after the wedding. He fell down the stairs. But we all know that it was no accident. No one dares to speak. And I… I am the only one who dares to share this with you, because I know: you will be next.
I am paralyzed. I can’t believe that the man I married yesterday was already married. And he… he is dead. Not because of an accident, as the rumors say, but because of… something darker.
Mr. Bình took a small USB stick from his pocket:
“Take this.” Inside it was a document and several other documents. You need to see them alone. Don’t let anyone know.
I asked, in a trembling voice:
Why don’t you give it to the police?
Mr. Bình smiled faintly:
“Because the police won’t fight this family.
When I returned to Lan’s house, I opened the USB stick on her laptop. Inside it was a series of files:
An audio recording that lasted about eight minutes.
A few scanned images of medical records, and a handwritten statement crossed out.
I opened the audio file first. A woman’s voice, clear, full of fear:
“I can’t stay here anymore. Ever since we got married, Hưng has never left me. Change the lock on the room every week. My mother-in-law said, “I have to give the family a child, and if not… I have to leave like the previous ones. I don’t understand… what did I do wrong…”
I held my breath. Clearly, this was the voice of Ngọc, Hưng’s ex-wife, the only name mentioned in the attached documents. She had left her last will. The recording date was two days before her death.
I continued reading the statement. It was written by Mr. Bình. In it, he recounted the strange things he suspected but didn’t dare to denounce:
My wife’s family has a history of psychological problems, especially since her great-grandfather, who killed his wife because he believed that “only the blood of a virgin can maintain the prosperity of the family.”
My mother-in-law was a very superstitious believer. She once declared: “Any daughter-in-law who does not have the right day and time, or does not give birth to a male child within the first year of marriage, will be ‘sent out.’”
Hưng’s two ex-wives (yes, not just one, but two) died less than a year after they were married. One fell from the third floor, the other hanged himself in the bathroom. Both cases were covered under the label of “accident” or “depression”.
I wanted to throw up. The nausea rose in my throat. Hưng, the man who had kissed my forehead on our wedding day, the man who had made me feel safe, was surrounded by an unimaginable darkness.
I intended to leave that night, but Lan stopped me:
— No. If you leave now, they will find out. We need to plan. I will help you.
With the help of Lan and a friend who works in journalism, I gathered more documents, they were sent anonymously to the authorities, and a lawyer was contacted.
Three days later, an official investigation was opened. The media did not cover it very loudly, but it was enough to create pressure. Hưng’s family was summoned. Mr. Bình, my father-in-law, after many years of silence, finally testified.
A few weeks later, I was officially divorced. Mang Kanor did not react as I had expected. He just looked at me, his eyes empty, and spoke a single sentence:
“You will leave too, just like before.”
I shook my head. There was no trace of remorse in his eyes.
A month later, the case was quietly closed. The Hưng family used their contacts and money to silence the media, but they couldn’t stop the legal professionals from continuing the investigation in secret. I didn’t know what would happen to Hưng, but I didn’t care anymore.
I left Hanoi, moved to Saigon, and started over. My parents were sad, but they supported me. I didn’t want to trust anyone else anymore, but I knew one thing: I had escaped death.
I received a handwritten letter without the sender’s name. In the letter, he simply said:
“You did the right thing. Thank you for giving me courage. Your mother-in-law.”
I burst into tears.
There are things we can’t believe are true, until they happen to us.
I am no longer the Thao who believed in love at first sight. But I do believe in one thing:There is no truth more frightening than the existence of a lie.