On Christmas Eve, snow fell in silence. I was standing on tiptoe, about to kiss Alex's lips, our shadows stretched long by the streetlamp—when his arms around me suddenly stiffened. "Emma... this is..." He let go of me, voice dry. "This is my fiancée, Isabella." I followed his gaze—there she stood, wrapped in a designer wool coat, pearl earrings glowing coldly under the snowy light. She smiled faintly, as if bestowing pity: "So you're the daughter of that rural farmer? I heard your grandfather left you some broken pocket watch as a family heirloom. How touching." I said nothing. Just picked up each shattered fragment of the broken watch and carefully placed them into my handkerchief. At the family dinner, they made me sit at the servants' table. Seven silver courses were laid out, untouched, as everyone waited—waiting for me to admit defeat. I smiled, then reached into my wicker basket and gently placed a jar of dark gray caviar in the center of the table. "Sorry to keep everyone waiting," I said, my voice calm, cutting through the glare of the crystal chandelier. "Tonight’s appetizer is sturgeon roe from our own pond—hand-cured, extremely limited. Unlike certain people’s status… ours isn’t bought." Gasps echoed across the room. Then, from the doorway, a deep voice rang out: "Who said my daughter can't sit at the head table?" Everyone rose. James Thompson—the sole director of Miller Group, ranked number one on the global list of most influential people—stepped forward, placing a mink shawl gently over my shoulders. "Miss Emma Miller," he announced, "your inheritance of fifty-one percent controlling shares in the group officially takes effect today." He paused, eyes sweeping over Alex, whose face had gone pale. "And by the way—you’re fired, Alex. Starting tomorrow, stay away from my daughter." Candles flickered. I raised my champagne glass and took a slow sip. In the reflection of the glass, snow and fire burned in my eyes. And their shock? That was only just beginning.

On Christmas Eve, the mansion blazed with light. The old tycoon stood at the center of the grand hall, swirling his wine glass, laughing arrogantly. "Ladies and gentlemen, please admire—the diamond necklace of Queen Mary, appraised at thirty-five million dollars." The guests held their breath, cameras flashing wildly. Only Kyle let out a cold laugh. He slowly removed his gloves and stepped forward, voice sharp as a blade: "Fake. My father swapped it with the real one." Chaos erupted in the room. "Who the hell are you?" A man beside the tycoon shot to his feet, eyes blazing with fury. "How dare you spout nonsense here?" Before the words fully faded, a gun cocked. Kyle drew his pistol, aiming straight between the man's eyes. "I said—it belongs to my family." Panic exploded. Women screamed, men roared. Bodyguards rushed in but dared not approach. At that moment, the main doors crashed open. Snow-laden wind howled into the hall as an elegantly dressed elder strode in, silver-haired, his gaze like tempered steel. "Enough," he boomed. Silence fell instantly. "Essex Smith?" someone whispered the name in trembling awe—the heir of the Smith family, vanished for twenty years. The elder ignored him, his eyes fixed on the necklace, filled with pain and hatred. Then he turned to Kyle, voice hoarse. "You've finally come back." In the next second, he removed his wristwatch, revealing an old scar beneath—its pattern matching perfectly with the mark on Kyle's palm. "Blood recognizes blood. The heirloom returns to its master." Essex slowly knelt, holding up the family genealogy toward Kyle. "Young master... we've waited for you twenty years." Truth shattered the lies. And Kyle, gazing upon the crowd who once trampled his dignity, gently tightened his finger on the trigger— "The next one who lies," he said with a cold smile, "won't be so lucky to miss."

A homeless girl named Lil saves an expensive watch belonging to nightclub owner Nathan Sterling. He takes her into his home, where tension and romance begin to spark between them. But Lil turns out to be more than she seems — she helps uncover a web of fraud at the casino. Nathan offers her a job and a place to stay, and though they try to resist their feelings, the attraction only grows stronger. However, looming in the background are Nathan’s jealous fiancée and dangerous enemies from his past.

My father was going to sell the family airline, and I knelt, begging him all night. He sneered, "What do you know? The Four Families are colluding to drive prices down—we can't hold on." With tear-filled eyes, I tremblingly dialed Rudra’s number. "Help me… they’re selling Skyjet to the Chen family." "Don’t be afraid," he said. "I’m on my way." Half an hour later, the grand ballroom doors burst open. He walked in, dressed in a black suit, and silence fell across the room. My father frowned. "Aren’t you the illegitimate son I cast out? How dare you show your face here?" I froze. Illegitimate son? But Rudra only smiled, slowly untying his tie. "Father, you’re mistaken. I’m not your illegitimate son—I’m your firstborn heir, the one you personally sent away. Records can be altered. DNA cannot." The room erupted in shock. Then he turned to me, his gaze soft as firelight in a snowstorm. "Aylia, I’m sorry I kept this from you for three years." He pressed play on his phone. A recording began—four male voices, the heads of the Four Families, conspiring to swallow Skyjet whole. And leading it all? My own father. "Just marry your daughter off to the Chen heir, and thirty billion will hit your account immediately." I felt like I’d been struck by lightning. Rudra gently took my hand. "I won’t let you marry him. And I won’t let them sell." "Because—" he lifted his eyes, scanning the crowd, voice cold as ice—"over the past three months, I’ve quietly acquired 51% stakes in all four families’ companies through offshore entities." My father collapsed into his chair. "You… when did you…?" "From the moment you first forced Aylia to sign that contract," he replied calmly. "You said she wasn’t fit to lead. But the one truly unfit… is you." Tears streamed down my face. Now I understood why he always took secret calls late at night, why he knew every merger clause by heart, why he once whispered, “I’ll give you a home that’s safe forever.” He didn’t come to save me. He came to take everything back. And I? I had already fallen willingly into the game he designed. In the epilogue, I browsed his old phone and found the first note he ever wrote: [Wait for the day her father betrays her—that’s when I reclaim everything.] Beneath it, in smaller text: [Oh, and I genuinely fell in love with her. Unplanned.]

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.]