When Leo pushed open the front door, the hallway sensor light didn’t turn on. — Because the power was out. The living room was pitch-black—like a coffin—except for a single candle burning faintly at the center of the dining table. A cream cake sat crooked on its plate, three candles stuck into its surface: one for Leo’s 32nd birthday, one for Mia’s 29th, and the third—small, slightly tilted—bearing Ethan’s name. He’d turned five just three days ago. The candle flame flickered. Beside the cake lay a note—Mia’s handwriting, but not in her usual blue ink. This was dark red, like dried blood. *Happy Birthday.* *Count to three—and I vanish forever.* *One.* His finger trembled. The flame leapt violently upward. *Two.* His phone vibrated in his pocket—Bank Risk Control. He didn’t answer. *Three.* A sharp *pop*—the candle flared, bursting with a tiny bloom of light. In that same instant, the villa’s backup generator kicked in. Harsh, clinical white light flooded the room—cold as the overhead lamps in a morgue. Under that glare, Leo finally saw it: the chocolate script scrawled across the cake wasn’t a greeting. It was a line— **“You didn’t even know I was seven weeks pregnant.”** He sprinted toward the master bedroom. The closet was empty. The nursery door was locked—sealed tight. Taped to the handle: a silver USB drive, engraved with delicate letters—**M.I.A. — “Missing, In Advance.”** He yanked it free, plugged it into his laptop. The video began playing automatically. Shaky, handheld footage—like surveillance. Mia sat before an old upright piano, wearing a simple white maternity dress. Her fingers pressed a single key. The note rang out—dull, resonant, unmistakably clear. She didn’t look at the lens. Just lowered her gaze to her belly, her voice barely above a whisper: *The day you searched my phone, you deleted the ultrasound report.* *When you interrogated my best friend, you missed her saying, “She was still throwing up last week.”* *When you planted the GPS tracker in my purse…* *You forgot my brother used to run tech ops for MI6.* The camera jerked—suddenly, Ethan’s face filled the frame. He smeared strawberry frosting across his nose and giggled. Mia reached out, wiped it away—then lifted her eyes, locking onto the lens with unnerving calm: *Now guess…* *Is the baby in here your final DNA sample,* *Or the last child you’ll ever father?* The screen went black. Outside, a black extended Bentley glided silently past the garden. The window slid down halfway—revealing Mia’s profile. She wore black veiling, her wrist wrapped in plain white silk—not mourning attire. It was the ribbon from a funeral invitation. And the invitation itself, embossed in gold on the cover, read: **“With profound sorrow, we announce the death of Mia Vanderbilt—effective 00:01 AM today.”** Three days later—the Vatican-certified Saint Maria Family Charity Gala. Leo stood at the edge of the terrace, knuckles white around a champagne flute. Crystal chandeliers blazed. The crowd parted like water. She entered. Black gown sweeping the floor, waist cinched tight—but not tight enough to hide the soft swell beneath. On her left ring finger: an antique diamond, icy and brilliant. At her side stood a tall, silent man—sharp-angled brow, military bearing. His cufflinks: miniature satellite insignias—NATO Joint Task Force, classified designation 071. Ethan held her hand, tilting his head up. “Mommy, Daddy said Leo Uncle would be here today.” Mia glanced down—smiled. Slowly coiled a strand of hair around her finger. Her gaze swept past the shadows where Leo stood—cool, detached, like brushing dust off forgotten furniture. Then she spoke. Clear. Crystalline. The entire room fell silent. *Tell Leo Uncle—* *Every dollar he froze has been transferred into the “Mia Vanderbilt Testamentary Trust.”* *And my new husband…* She paused—lifted her hand, gently resting it over her abdomen. A razor-thin smile curved her lips. *Has just received UN Bioethics clearance—* *To design and implant my third embryo.* The champagne flute cracked in Leo’s palm—a hairline fracture. Blood welled between his fingers, dripping into the rose bushes below. Far across the terrace, Mia’s fingertip tapped once, twice, against her wristwatch— On its reverse, etched in microscopic script: **“Countdown: 47 days. Your judgment day.”**

On Valentine's night, nurse Lydia Hale saves a dying stranger—then learns he's Soren Moretti, a feared mafia king. He offers a brutal ultimatum: marry him or die. Trapped in his dangerous world, desire clashes with defiance. As a 30-day love contract ends, Lydia must choose freedom—or life beside a ruthless mafia king.

At the engagement banquet, champagne flutes caught the glitter of crystal chandeliers. Just as Stella Hart reached for the ring Adrian Hawthorne offered, she suddenly turned, her fingertip gliding across the front row of guests—stopping at Victor Miller’s face. “I choose him,” she said, voice calm but cutting through the room like a blade. Silence crashed over the crowd. Victor froze. He was top of the “gold-digger” list—a man who targeted heiresses, swindled fortunes, made headlines, and vanished without a trace. But today, he was merely a pawn brought in to stir chaos, a trap designed to test Stella’s loyalty. He smirked, then signaled the press waiting outside. Cameras flooded in, flashes exploding like fireworks. “Baby, you sure?” He tilted her chin up. “I’ll bankrupt you. And I’ll put your tear-streaked, smudged makeup on the front page.” Stella didn’t flinch. Instead, she leaned close to his ear and whispered, “You know why the Hawthornes picked you as bait? Because you’re just stupid enough to be useful.” Before he could react, she stepped back, yanked a photo from her clutch, and slapped it onto the table—Victor caught in secret meetings with Adrian’s stepmother, complete with timestamps, locations, and offshore transfer records. “You slept with his father’s mistress,” she declared, scanning the stunned audience. “And the money came from his aunt’s offshore account. So tell me—whose farce is this engagement really serving?” Gasps erupted. Then Adrian stepped forward, his black tuxedo sharp as a blade. In his hands, he held a diamond-encrusted golden pistol, which he extended toward Stella. “For you. From now on, anyone who touches you disappears.” She took the gun, fingers tracing the barrel, then smiled coldly. “You say you’ll protect me—but really, you just want to use our marriage to secure a board seat, don’t you?” The air stilled. In one motion, Stella raised the gun and fired at the ceiling—*bang.* Shards of glass rained down like icy tears. Before three hundred elite guests, she tore the marriage contract into pieces, paper fluttering like snow. Then, heels clicking, she strode toward Adrian and murmured in his ear: “Did you think I was choosing a husband? No. I was clearing the board.” As she walked away, every phone in the room vibrated at once. A viral alert exploded across social media: #StellaHartHackedVictor’sPhone Attached: a video of Victor in pink pajamas dancing Swan Lake, complete with audio of him sobbing and begging for mercy. The city roared with laughter. But the real storm was hidden beneath her dress—inside the silver heels, a micro hard drive embedded in the heel, packed with fifteen years of the Hawthorne family’s darkest secrets. She left without love, without grace. But she left with one message: “Next time you play the marriage game, check whether your opponent has already hidden a knife in her wedding gown.”

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At her daughter's one-month banquet, Shen Ruohan discovered her husband Zhou Yan's betrayal with her best friend Sun Qianqian—and that her own biological daughter had been killed by Sun Qianqian and secretly replaced with the child of Zhou Yan and Sun Qianqian. Shen Ruohan endured in silence, raised her enemies' daughter, and carefully planned her revenge. Years later, she revealed the truth publicly and made Zhou Yan and Sun Qianqian pay a heavy price.