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.

Belinda's voice, silken and alluring, brushed over the gleam of polished chrome. "How about this one? Someone of your distinguished caliber deserves nothing less than a top-tier ride." Nicholas, accustomed to such luxury, gave a subtle nod, accepting the flattery as his due. Hours later, however, the praise felt utterly hollow. Late that night, he lay curled in his cold bedroom, his wife Mina beside him. He spoke in a low voice, a subtle plea in his tone, almost a whisper of humility: "Darling, could I get a new electric scooter? I've had this one for five years." Mina didn't lift her head, focused on the bottles and jars on her dressing table, letting out a dismissive scoff: "You hardly ever go out, what do you need a new one for? Don't be so particular." His phone buzzed. Gillian's school calling. A parent-teacher conference. He'd forgotten. At the school, a teacher eyed him with a scrutinizing gaze. "Gillian's father is already here." Another teacher, Ms. Gao, added, "He's Gillian's *real* father. The gentleman who arrived earlier is Gillian's uncle." Nicholas's face instantly drained of color. He instinctively turned to leave, but Ms. Gao gently, yet firmly, blocked his path: "Today's meeting focuses on celebrating your daughter's essay, 'My Father.'" Nicholas stood there, rigid, watching Gillian approach the stage. Her young voice, clear and earnest, spoke of his endless patience, his warm companionship, and her wish for him never to leave. Every word, like a gentle knife, slowly carved out the image of the father he once prided himself on being. However, once the essay concluded, Gillian didn't walk towards him. Instead, she ran directly to "Uncle" Hank, who sat beside Mina, and hugged him tightly. Nicholas struggled to conjure a smile, but when Hank looked at him, his eyes holding a knowing, almost pitying expression, he asked nonchalantly: "Nicholas won't mind, will he, Nicholas?" In that instant, the smile utterly shattered, leaving behind only a forced facade, beneath which, a lifetime of accumulated regret silently wailed.

In the silent bedroom, the silk wedding dress clung to her like ice, every inch of friction a blade, tearing at her last vestiges of dignity. She hugged herself tightly, fingers digging into her arms, trying to use the pain to fend off the bone-deep chill seeping from the room, and the suffocating predation in the man's abyss-like eyes. **[A pathetic prey, systematically lured into a trap, with no escape.]** She hadn't come here willingly. Sarah, the duplicitous maid, had personally thrust her into this opulent cage. The bridal gown wasn't a garment of joy; it was a shroud for a sacrifice. “The second rule,” his voice, a low thrum, coiled around her throat like invisible chains, constricting her breath, “You are forbidden from touching me without my permission.” His ice-cold gaze declared his absolute dominion over her, and his utter contempt for any hint of defiance, as if her very breath were an affront. **[He savored this power, reveled in her struggle.]** Then came the even more brutal third rule, accompanied by a predatory, almost demonic smile that flickered across his lips—a smile so fathomless it struck terror into her very soul: “You cannot say no to me.” Her heart plummeted like a massive stone into an abyss, humiliation and terror growing wild in her chest, threatening to tear her apart. When he commanded, “Now… take off your clothes,” her voice was barely a whisper, a desperate plea, fragile as a dying butterfly: “But… we don’t even know each other.” **[Acquaintance? That was never what he wanted.]** **[In this devil's game, she was predestined to lose.]** His reply was a bloody, heavy hammer, instantly shattering every shard of her remaining hope. “Listen,” he said, his voice glacially cold, each word a precise stab at her most vulnerable point, tearing at her last thread of resilience and plunging her into agony. “We can still call the hospital and postpone your grandmother’s surgery, can’t we?” Her breath hitched, tears welled in her eyes, but immense fear choked them back, transforming into an ocean of despair. She was trapped—by an unforgiving reality, by the life of her loved one held as a ruthless bargaining chip in his hand, trapped in this gilded cage, more frigid than any hell. She knew, she had no choice.