How Does The Sinopsis Of While You Were Sleeping End?

They say that the deepest cuts come from the ones you hold closest to your heart. But I never expected my husband to be the one holding the knife while another woman twisted it in deeper.... My name is Ariana Carter. I am deeply in love with my husband Misha, and we have the perfect marriage. Scratch that, HAD the perfect marriage, or so I thought until he changed. His lies and betrayal broke me. Until I woke up. Now it's time for me to retake everything I lost--my life, my career, my family, and my dignity. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's start at the beginning, shall we?

Suzie Bei was a hard-working woman struggling to make ends meet. One day, her so-called father showed up and told her she was a member of the wealthy Thomson family. The Thomson family accepted her with open arms and treated her well- for two months. Before suddenly throwing a bomb at her that she had an arranged marriage to the Albrecht family's eldest son- who was said to be disabled and comatose. Being scammed into this family and this marriage, Suzie had no choice but to care for this comatose husband. She thought she would just take care of this comatose husband until the other party breathed his last, and thus she would be free. But who would have thought that her comatose husband would wake up?

For two years, I lay in a coma. My body was helpless on a hospital bed, connected to tubes and machines that beeped endlessly. While I fought between life and death, my husband chose to look for another woman. Instead of struggling for my recovery, Roby decided to enjoy his life. He showered that woman with luxury and happiness... using my wealth. Just watch. I will make their hearts stop the moment I set foot again in my own palace.

That night was supposed to belong to Mia. She had spent a month practicing for her first piano recital. I had cooked all afternoon, set the table, and helped her into the pale blue dress Luca loved. She stood beside the piano, cheeks flushed, fingers trembling with excitement. Then Luca's phone rang. Vivienne was spiraling again. After Luca's older brother died, his widow never really came back from it. On her worst nights, she forgot the difference between the dead husband she had lost and the brother-in-law who kept showing up to save her. And Luca always showed up. Every time Vivienne broke, he left us behind. Every time he came home, he brought apologies, pretty gifts, and promises for next time. And every time, I believed him. Until that night. Before he could make another excuse, I placed the divorce papers in front of him. He signed without reading them, then touched my shoulder like he was the one being generous. "When this is over, I'll make it up to you," he said. "You, me, and Mia. The Maldives. No calls. No interruptions." Then he kissed our daughter's hair and walked out before she played a single note. What Luca didn't know was that Mia's passport was already packed. So was the little suitcase under her bed. I was done waiting for a man who only loved us when no one else needed him. This time, he could come home to an empty house.

Four days after my death, my four-year-old daughter finally sensed that something was terribly wrong. The fridge door slammed into her forehead when she tried to get a snack. Normally, I would've been there in a heartbeat—arms open, kisses ready, whispering, "You're okay, sweetheart, Mommy's here." But this time, I just lay on the bed, cold and still.​ She didn't understand. She thought the sweet treat would make me respond. So she held the final piece of chocolate up to my mouth. "Here, Mommy. Have some chocolate..." But I didn't even blink. She climbed into my arms, clutching my clothes tightly. "Mommy... Mommy, wake up..." She waited for me to stroke her hair, to tell her that everything was going to be fine. There was only silence.​ Completely lost and scared, she found my phone. "Daddy, why is Mommy still sleeping?" she asked, her voice filled with desperation.​ In response, Oliver sent a photo of himself having Christmas Eve dinner with his childhood sweetheart. His voice was icy cold when he replied, "She's just sleeping, not dead. It's Christmas Eve, and I'm busy. Tell her to stop playing games and come apologize when she's done sulking." Then he hung up.​ But when the truth finally hit Oliver—when the coroner's report came, when the police knocked on his door right in the middle of his laughter, when he realized I'd been lying dead for four days while he toasted—he broke.

My wife, Wendy Sinclair, has a severe sleepwalking disorder. After she falls asleep, she always wanders out in a state of unconsciousness. The night before our wedding, she disappears without a word. I have no choice but to postpone our wedding. Only then does she walk out of her childhood friend's house next door, rubbing her sleepy eyes. Afraid I might overthink, she cries and apologizes to me. "There's no cure for my condition. From now on, just tie me up when I sleep, okay?" I feel sorry for her, so I just change the door lock to make sure she cannot go out. But in the middle of the night, I wake up and see her standing on the edge of the balcony. She climbs in through the window and goes into her childhood friend's house again. Soon, suggestive and intimate sounds come from inside. My blood runs cold. Her sleepwalking isn't an illness at all—it is out of love.