When The Dead Husband Knocks On The Door

“What kind of person was your husband?”

A genius pianist with strikingly handsome looks, a mysterious third-generation chaebol, an artist with sharp yet delicate expressiveness.

People called him by many names.
But to me, he was nothing more than an escape—a refuge from the stifling clutches of my oppressive family.

His life was so scandal-free that rumors once circulated he might actually be impotent.
One year after our sensational marriage.

“After the concert, can we talk for a moment? It won’t take long.”

I already knew what he was going to say.
He wanted a divorce.

Thanks to a slip-up by his manager, I found out he’d booked a plane ticket and even bought a diamond ring.

If either party wanted it, the marriage could be dissolved immediately without any questions.

It was one of the terms of our contract marriage.
I had no intention of going against it.
The only thing that crossed my mind was how early it was, earlier than I’d expected.

And that night, on his way home, my husband died.
Was it fortunate or unfortunate?
Everything he had became mine.

Naturally, the public turned its attention back to his death.

“They say the wife killed him for the inheritance.”

As I lived each day under the weight of suspicion,
a young man approached me, suggesting I write a book about him.

And then, my dead husband came knocking at the front door.

Completely transformed into someone else.

It wasn’t until my husband died that love truly began.