Robert defies his family to marry Hathaway and builds her startup into a listed company. But her assistant George turns her against Robert, causing their divorce. Robert withdraws his investment, ruining her business, and moves on with his betrothed Natasha, leaving Hathaway full of regret.

In the Hall of Golden Chimes, officials stood in solemn silence. Before the emperor upon his dragon throne could speak, a white figure shattered the morning light as it arrived. A youth clad in pure white robes, hair like snow and eyes like cold stars, ascended the jade steps with measured strides—each step resonating deep within the hearts of those present. The court murmured in scorn—him again, Adrian, the prince abandoned to the frontier, returned only to be called "the talentless wretch with no spiritual roots." "The Emperor once promised half the empire to whoever could break the 'Ninefold Thunder Prison Array,'" he declared, voice clear and calm, neither humble nor haughty. "Today, I have come to claim my reward." The hall erupted in shock. "Insolence!" the Grand Preceptor roared. "You can't even hold a sword—how dare you speak of breaking the array?" The princess trembled, whispering, "He's gone mad… Even the Imperial Seer dares not approach that formation." A foreign envoy sneered, "Another bastard son of Nelson Shaw, thinking words alone can change fate?" Only the Empress Dowager's pupils contracted sharply—her gaze locked onto the faintly glowing azure纹 on the youth's wrist—the ancient mark of the tyrant's bloodline, awakened after three centuries! At that very moment— Boom!!! The heavens split open. Seven bolts of violet lightning crashed down from the clouds, converging into a writhing arc within the boy’s palm. He bore no weapon, yet gales howled around him, the ground cracked beneath his feet, officials collapsed to their knees, and armor shattered under invisible force. The Emperor shot upright, his throne exploding behind him. "You… you are…" "I am no one's shame," Adrian lifted his gaze, a faint smile playing on his lips as the world shifted around him. "I am the new king you would beg for—yet never dare hope to see." Bathed in thunderlight, he let out a soft laugh: "Now then—who still dares say… I am unworthy?"

The day she died, the rain poured as if the sky had torn open. I burst into the hospital holding her in my arms, and the nurses said, “She’s not going to make it.” But I refused to believe it. She was so stubborn—her breath always carried fire. How could she just leave? Not until the doctor pulled a blood-stained chip from her body—Number 07, codename: Replace. “She was the fifth ‘Olivia,’” a woman in black stood at the operating room door, her voice cold as iron. “You think you loved her? No. You loved what we made her become.” Memories exploded in my mind. Five years ago, I was the one who died in that car crash. My heart stopped for three minutes and forty-four seconds. It was she who signed the contract, trading her life for mine. Since then, she’d been transformed into an “emotional vessel,” implanted into my world, shaped into the gentle, smiling girl who made me midnight snacks—the girl I remembered. But she wasn’t always like that. “Every time you got close, the system activated,” the woman handed me a voice recorder. “She said… if you hear this, don’t cry.” Trembling, I pressed play. Her voice emerged through static, soft as a dream: “Owen, I never actually liked tiramisu—that was your taste. I don’t enjoy walking in the rain—I just wanted to be with you. Loving you… was the most painful mission I’ve ever run.” At the moment her heartbeat flatlined, I lunged at the operating table and tore open my own chest—revealing an old scar, beneath which lay a chip identical to hers. I realized—I hadn’t been human either. Before the screen went dark, one final line appeared: [Task not terminated. Hosts have been swapped.] [Next lifetime, please fall for the real me first.]

When Dr. Joseph Johnson meets Charles Summers, a fearless racing star secretly battling a humiliating condition, the spark between them is instant—and wild. Through treatment, Joseph draws Charles into a whirlwind of obsession and desire, blurring the line between care and control… But when passion shifts into obsession, who will be the true prey in the end?

Under the chandelier at the birthday party, Molly wore a sequined little dress, carrying a strawberry cake toward the corner. Laughter filled the air, and the champagne tower shimmered with dreamlike sparkles. Suddenly, the front door crashed open. A drenched man stood in the doorway, rainwater dripping from his trench coat onto the carpet. He stared fixedly at Molly, voice hoarse: "You're... Molly?" Silence fell over the room. The little girl looked up, her eyes utterly calm. "You've got the wrong place, Uncle. Mom didn't invite you." The man staggered, nearly losing his balance. "I'm your father... I've been looking for you for three years! After that car accident, they told me you were dead—said both of you died!" "Shut up." Her mother approached in high heels, elegantly linking arms with her well-dressed new boyfriend. "Sir, we've already called the police. Please leave immediately." The man roared, "Lin Wan! Can you say that to your child's face?! I'm her real father! The DNA will prove it!" The mother sneered, "What kind of homeless fraudster chasing compensation are you? My daughter was conceived through IVF—the father's information is confidential. Who do you think you are?" Gasps rippled through the crowd. At that moment, another door on the opposite side of the hall slowly opened. A man in gold-rimmed glasses stepped in, holding a document, followed by two people who looked like lawyers. "I regret interrupting this spectacle," he said, his gaze settling on Molly's face as he spoke softly, "but according to the Supreme Court's final ruling three months ago—I am Molly's biological father." Dead silence. He removed his glasses, eyes glistening. "Your mother illegally obtained my sperm sample. The artificial insemination was carried out overseas. This child... is truly mine." The mother's face paled. "Impossible! That file was destroyed long ago!" "But the surveillance footage wasn't," the man replied calmly. "Every moment you stole the sample from the fertility clinic is preserved in the official records." Molly looked down at the cake in her hands, watching the cream drip slowly onto the floor. Then she spoke, her voice childlike yet clear: "So... do I have two dads now?" No one answered. Only the thunder cracked outside, as if heaven and earth themselves were asking— Blood or nurture, lies or truth, which one truly earns the name of father?

I Kissed a CEO, and He Liked It The champagne tower shimmered coldly beneath the crystal chandeliers. When Alice stepped into the ballroom in ten-centimeter heels, every man’s gaze shifted—just slightly. She wore a black dress, a pearl necklace resting on her collarbone like a drop of poison suspended mid-fall. Jack approached with a wine glass in hand, his tie loosened by one button, eyes flickering over the pearls at her chest. He smirked, “All the female guests tonight have good taste.” Alice didn’t answer. Instead, she slowly traced a finger across his lapel, leaving behind a faint red mark—the color of her lipstick. “You’ve mistaken me,” she whispered. “I’m not a guest.” Before the words faded, a waiter stumbled into her, spilling red wine all over her skirt. Silk clung to her thigh. The crowd tittered. Someone murmured, “Who is she? Pretending to be high society and now completely humiliated.” But she smiled. At exactly 10:07 p.m., surveillance footage showed her entering the CEO’s private elevator. No access card swipe. Yet the door opened for her. Three days later, HR received a complaint: the Finance Director claimed he’d seen a woman’s photo hidden in Jack’s desk drawer. On the back was written: *Gabrielle Taylor, height 178cm, full measurements listed, marital status: married, husband’s surname unknown.* But Alice had never used that name. What truly sent chills down the spine was another security clip retrieved from the archives: that night, before stepping into the elevator, she’d paused in front of the grand hall mirror, adjusting her skirt. The camera zoomed in. She spoke silently to her reflection. No one could make out the words. Until I magnified it three hundred times, frame by frame. She said: “Darling, I’ve found you.” And the “you” she addressed was a charity gala photo on the wall behind Jack—a woman in pearls, arm-in-arm with him, smiling gently in the corner of the image. His wife. The one who died in a car crash five years ago. At her funeral, Jack wept against the coffin until his voice broke. Now, his new lover stood before him in the same dress, wearing the same pearls, drawing him slowly—step by step—back into hell. My phone vibrated. An anonymous message appeared: [Did you know? The real Gabrielle didn’t die in a car accident.] [You were the one who pushed her into the cremation furnace.]