No story was provided to rewrite.

As Isabella stepped out of the delivery room cradling her newborn, the corridor lights glared—cold, white, and sharp as blades. She didn’t see her husband slip a blood-stained umbilical cord sample into his assistant’s hand, his fingers trembling, his smile tender: “Clean it up. Don’t raise suspicion.” She didn’t hear the muffled scoff from behind the nurses’ station: “Thinks she just laid a golden egg? Raise him for ten years—then strangle him yourself. *That’s* the ‘perfect heir.’” Ten years later, she strode into the Holton family press conference—live-streamed globally—on ten-centimeter red-soled stilettos. As magnesium flashes exploded, she didn’t glance at her husband in his immaculate suit below—or at the board members in the front row, rigid with forced composure. Instead, she lowered her wrist, revealing—after a decade of concealment—a faint, crimson birthmark shaped like an infant’s footprint, nestled just inside her carpal bone. Silence swallowed the room. Then she tore open the cuff of her custom-tailored blazer, exposing another secret: a slender, old scar slicing across her forearm—the “accidental” extra incision from her C-section. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, voice clear as shattering ice, “I’m not here to reclaim my name.” She pulled out a stack of documents and signed them on camera—the pen biting through paper. “I, Isabella Holton—illegitimate daughter, adoption file H-7341—” “Voluntarily renounce all naming rights, inheritance rights, and image rights.” “And irrevocably, unconditionally transfer my entire 51.3% controlling stake in Holton Holdings to my biological son—Lucas Reed.” Before the last syllable faded, the main screen cut to surveillance footage: Ten years earlier. Outside the delivery room. Her husband accepted the swaddled infant—then, mid-turn, handed him to a woman in grey robes. That woman hurried toward the side entrance of the morgue, cradling *another* bundle. Chaos erupted. Her husband shot upright—chair clattering backward—face drained to corpse-pale. “You’re insane! That child is—” “Already shipped off to your Swiss ‘sanatorium’?” She finally looked at him—not with rage, but with glacial, absolute disdain. “Ah. Right. You forgot—I bought that sanatorium three years ago.” She paused—and slipped off her wedding ring. Placed it gently atop the microphone. The metallic *clink* echoed across the stunned hall. “Blood doesn’t lie.” “But liars? They always lose to time.” The camera pushed in—into her pupils. Reflected there: the ashen faces of the elite, and behind her, the massive digital display flashing real-time confirmation: 【TRANSFER COMPLETE. LUKAS REED — 51.3% CONTROLLING SHAREHOLDER.】 In the bottom-right corner, a tiny scrolling footnote appeared: [Note: Lucas Reed, formerly designated “The Little Demon,” age 10—sole legally verified, DNA-matched direct descendant of the Holton bloodline. — Verification Report: H-7341-REVOKED] The storm hadn’t even begun. It had just hit play.

In the dimly lit hospital corridor, the ghastly bloodstains on Luca Stone's white shirt were far less turbulent than the raging storm in his heart. The doctor's words pierced his eardrums like ice picks: "She and the baby are both in danger. We need your signature." His fingertips trembled as he scrawled heavily on the document, growling, his voice hoarse and unrecognizable: "At all costs, save the... child!" However, the medical report the doctor handed him, like a poisoned blade, instantly tore open the fortress he had built in his heart. The DNA test results, those cold, stark words, branded themselves onto his eyes like a curse: Luca Stone, is the child's biological father. Back in the luxurious yet sepulchral office, Luca's shock transformed into an incandescent rage. Like a predatory wolf, he rummaged through Scarlett's bag and pulled out a pregnancy test. Two glaring red lines, like fresh blood, burned into his vision. He slammed it onto the heavy desk with a dull thud, his voice low and dangerous, every word sharp as a blade: "You knew you were pregnant all along. You wanted to go back to the asylum just to keep this bastard child, didn't you?" Scarlett's face instantly went ashen, as if all life had been drained from her. She was terrifyingly calm, like a frozen lake: "Yes, you're right." This unruffled admission completely snapped Luca's remaining sanity. He suddenly gripped her throat, his knuckles white from the force, his eyes burning with the madness of betrayal: "You dare... betray me?!" Scarlett struggled, tears blurring her vision, her chest heaving violently from suffocation. She felt her soul being torn, crying out hoarsely: "Luca, kill me!" He sneered, a whisper like Satan's, and abruptly let go. Scarlett slumped helplessly to the floor, clutching her lower abdomen, like a wounded young animal. "What? Don't want to keep the child now?" Luca's voice carried endless despair and threat, every word like a nail hammered into her heart. "You told me David had been taking care of you, and now I find out you're carrying... *my* child?!" He roared, his voice shaking the entire room, "I don't care whose bastard child this is. If you insist on bringing it into the world, then be ready to suffer torments in hell, both you and it!" Scarlett clutched her stomach, crying out with heart-wrenching agony, that sound seeming to tear through the darkness: "It's not his! I don't know whose it is! I was framed..." But Luca was no longer listening, his gaze cold and resolute, like the deepest, coldest pool in hell. This child would be an indelible curse between them. Scarlett's pleas were pale and powerless, and this innocent little life, from the moment of its conception, was destined to fall into hell.