The sun shone gently over the vine-wrapped courtyard. Beaux knelt on one knee, a diamond ring cradled in his palm, his voice so tender it could melt into water: "Melody, marry me." The next second—a blur of motion. "Boom—!" A fist slammed into Beaux’s jaw, sending him flying backward, crashing into a marble round table. Porcelain cups shattered, tea spilled like blood. Silence blanketed the scene. The attacker was Melody’s mother—Mimi. Barefoot on the broken shards, her white dress flapping in the wind, she stared down with eyes as cold as ice-forged blades. She crouched, gripping Beaux by the throat, her whisper soft as a lullaby: "Call me Mom. You think you’re allowed to marry my daughter? Do you even dare?" Beaux’s brother, Wyatt, shot to his feet, hand instinctively reaching for the tactical knife at his waist. But he didn’t move. His gaze locked onto Mimi, throat tightening—as if staring at a ghost that should not exist. "Mi… Mia?" His voice trembled. No answer came. Only the wind rustling through the courtyard, brushing aside strands of hair from Mimi’s forehead, revealing an old barcode tattoo behind her ear—the military’s top-secret code: M-117. That night, at the family birthday banquet. Beaux’s grandfather sat at the head table, silver-haired and imposing. His eyes swept across the guests before settling on Mimi, lips curling into a sneer. "A madwoman living off my charity—daring to strike my grandson? Guards! Lock her in the basement. Let her keep company with the other ‘failures.’" Before the words fully faded— "Shing!" A dragon's cry rang out as steel left its sheath. Mimi tore free the Chinese sword mounted decoratively in the corner. Her blade flashed like snow—flick, twist, spin—three streaks of frost aimed at three guards’ throats. They didn’t even see her move. All three dropped to their knees, clutching their necks, blood gushing. She turned, the tip of the sword pointing straight at the old man. "Twenty years ago, you pulled me from the battlefield, carved out my memories, labeled me, trained me, raised me like a lab rat." A smile touched her lips, but her eyes held no warmth. "But you forgot one thing—soldiers’ muscles may forget their enemies, but never how to kill." Gasps erupted throughout the hall. Wyatt suddenly laughed low, then ripped open his shirt, revealing the same barcode on his chest: "Mom… I’ve waited eighteen years for this moment." Beaux remained frozen on the floor, watching as the woman he loved stepped slowly toward Mimi, took her hand, and whispered: "Mother, let’s go home." Because Melody was never a daughter. She was a clone—Mimi’s own genetic twin, born of science, shaped by vengeance, grown to replace. And Beaux? Merely a pawn—destined to suffer most deeply—in this long, calculated game. Music still played. The candles on the cake burned quietly. Then—darkness.

The night was ink-black, the bedroom lit only by a bedside lamp. She curled in the man’s arms, her hair clinging to his chest, breathing steady—like a dream that had finally found peace. But the door cracked open, soundlessly. Heels still on, suit still buttoned, he stood in the shadows, a photograph pinched between his fingers: her laughing against another man’s shoulder, sunlight spilling over them both. On the back, in my handwriting: *Congratulations on your marriage*. I stared at her for three minutes. Long enough to memorize the faint crease between her brows even in sleep. Long enough to confirm that every anonymous threat letter sent to her home over the past three years—she’d kept them all, tucked beneath the lowest drawer of her vanity. I hadn’t burned them. In fact… I was almost glad. Her lashes fluttered. She woke. “You…” I raised a finger to my lips, softly shushing her. Then, from my pocket, I pulled out a ring—identical to the wedding band on her finger. "You promised you'd only wear the one I gave you," I whispered, my voice like a blade dragged across bone. "But now you're wearing his." She jerked backward, only to be caught and shielded by the man beneath her. He sat up, bare-chested, muscles taut. "Who the hell are you?" I didn’t answer. Just slowly unbuttoned my cuff, let it drop to the floor. "I’m the bastard she knelt in the rain ten years ago, begging not to leave." "I’m the ex-boyfriend who missed seventeen calls the day she miscarried." "I’m the madman who stood on the street corner the day she walked down the aisle—into someone else’s arms." I paused. Then smiled. "Now, I’ve come to collect what’s owed." The moment he lunged, I was ready. Twisted, struck—elbow to the face—he collapsed with a grunt. She screamed, reaching for the phone. I closed the distance in one step, knee pressing down on her legs, and gently placed the ring into her mouth. "Keep it there," I murmured. "You once said, if I ever found myself again, you’d walk away with me." "Well, I’m back—career, identity, freedom. All rebuilt." "What about you?" "You were the first to give yourself… to someone else." Tears spilled down her cheeks, lips trembling. "It’s not what you think… we were already—" "Shut up." My eyes burned. "You don’t get to explain." Behind me, the man staggered up, swinging a lamp. I dodged, kicked hard into his gut—he slammed against the wall, sliding down, coughing blood. Then she screamed, raw and desperate: "He has heart disease! You’ll kill him!" I froze. Turned. There she was, tears streaking her face, arms wrapped tight around that broken man—like a mother shielding her cub. And suddenly, I laughed. Pulled a document from my coat. Slapped it onto the nightstand. A divorce agreement. Signed by me three months ago. She never knew. "I’m not here to take you back." I looked at her, voice frayed. "I’m here to set you free." Then I turned to the bleeding man on the floor, speaking each word like a curse: "But the ten years she stole from me—you’ll pay them back." "Starting tonight, every time she laughs, I break one of your fingers." "If she ever loves another—" I leaned close, whispering into his ear: "I’ll make sure you live long enough to watch her marry him." Before I left, I gave her one last look. That single glance—ten years of youth—reduced to ash. The door clicked shut. Inside, only gasps and sobs remained. And I? I stepped into the dark, pulling out my phone. "Hello, police? There's been an assault… The address is…" Sirens wailed in the distance, drawing closer. I knew they couldn’t save her. But this time— I wanted her to see, with her own eyes, how I would utterly destroy her happiness. The story has only just begun.

On the day Alison filed for divorce at the hospital, Alex was低头 scrolling through his phone. He didn’t even look up—just grunted “Hmm,” and casually signed the papers, the pen moving as lightly as if he were confirming a food delivery receipt. I died. I lay in bed and thought. Is this really how he lets me go? Three days later, at the Global Military Summit. Gray suit, high heels, I walked into the hall on the arm of the Deputy Minister of Defense. Cameras exploded with light. And Alex? He was hiding in a hotel alley, whispering with a woman: "Freeze her accounts the moment they move. What can a foster kid possibly do?" The woman laughed. "Your ex-wife? Heard she doesn’t even have real parents—lived like a ghost her whole life." He lit a cigarette, exhaling a cold smirk. "She’s my ex now." But the next second— My name flashed across the live broadcast screen: "Alison K., granted special access. Codename: Gray Kite." The entire room rose to its feet, applauding. His hand trembled. The cigarette dropped into the snow. Impossible. That woman who cried beside his bed, begging him not to leave—how could she be standing here? That girl raised in an orphanage, who once needed his name just to get a health card—how could she stand shoulder-to-shoulder with generals? He burst into the hall just as I accepted a medal. Silver with black engravings, its edge inscribed with two lines: "Through blood we open the door. Through sacrifice we guard the light." My parents’ names. And the sole inheritance token of Project "Critical Point"—the military’s most classified program. He grabbed my wrist. "Alison… let’s talk." I looked at him—like he was a stranger. "Talk about what? How you cheated on me during chemo? Or how you sold my parents’ research to foreign agents?" His face went pale. "You… how do you know that?" I didn’t answer. Just gently slipped off my wedding ring and placed it in his palm. Then turned, walking toward the general waiting at the door. Behind me, his voice cracked, desperate: "If your parents were alive, they wouldn’t even recognize you now!" I stopped. Wind lifted the corner of my suit jacket. Finally looked back, my voice colder than frozen steel: "They didn’t die. They gave their lives for this country. And you—you aren’t even worthy to carry their shoes." The final shot is set in a cemetery. I kneel before my parents’ gravestone. The general places the medal in my hands. As a tear falls, my comms device crackles to life: "Gray Kite, emergency mission. Target: your husband. Confirmed as enemy deep-cover agent." I close my eyes. When I open them again, there’s no trace of emotion left. "Received. Executing operation: Zero Clearance."

The poor college student Riley Black, pressured by her mother, accidentally marries Malik Sterling, the hidden CEO of the Warwick Group, in a whirlwind romance. After the marriage, Riley Black believes he is just an ordinary barbecue vendor, completely unaware that he has been silently protecting her from behind the scenes. At her sister's engagement party with the Warwick Group's executive director, Riley Black is humiliated. Malik Sterling then appears, reveals his true identity, and rescues her. After experiencing numerous misunderstandings and crises, the two finally open their hearts to each other and join hands.

Susan is taking her sister Ann away from domestic violence. On the road, they meet Max and his older brother Cole. But no one expects Susan and Max to have a one-night stand. A month later, Susan finds out she is pregnant. What will they do? Now what will happen to these four people?

Sunlight slanted across the white columns of the academy's tennis court, scattering gold like powdered dust. Jack Haveth stood before Alison, his shadow stretched long and silent—still as the quietest second before a storm. "You placed a bet," she said, her voice cold as a blade scraping glass. "You bet I'd lose." He didn't deny it. His Adam's apple bobbed. "I just... wanted you to win." "You only care about yourself." She laughed bitterly, her eyes devoid of warmth. "Did you think I wouldn't know? You're no different from the rest—just another one laughing at me." The air snapped taut. In the next moment, a man in a green jersey stepped out, leaning lazily against the railing, lips curling. "Whoa, fighting over some street rat? She hasn't even held a proper racket for more than a few days." Jack spun around—his fist flew. The punch tore through the air. In an instant, they were tangled in a furious brawl. Students shrieked and scattered. Before security could arrive, Jack was slammed against the wall, blood dripping from his nose onto his chin. Yet he grinned, mouth full of crimson, and roared— "Because I love her!" Silence swallowed the courtyard. Three days later, in the academy auditorium, the tournament results were announced. Men's champion: Jack Haveth—qualified directly for the professional tour. Women's division—Melissa and Daphne tied for first. With identical scores, they would face off in a final, winner-takes-all match. The victor would represent the country; the loser would stay behind. Coach Kruger stood on stage, scanning the crowd. "Tomorrow at three PM. Center Court. Winner leaves. Loser stays." Murmurs rippled through the audience. No one knew that Daphne, the quiet transfer student, had once played for cigarette money on city streets just to survive. Now, at the end of a corridor, Jack finally intercepted Alison. He held out a ticket. His hand trembled. "Will you come... on finals day?" She looked at him—as if staring at a stranger. "I don't need luck," she said softly, brushing his hand aside. "I just need you to disappear—completely." Her heels clicked against the floor, fading into the distance. Jack remained frozen, crushing the rejected ticket in his fist. Wind swept through the arcade, lifting strands of blood-matted hair from his forehead. On the far end of the training ground, Daphne gripped her racket tightly, staring at her reflection in the mirror, whispering: "This match was never just about winning a game."