A young mother just wants to give her dying 8 years old son one last Christmas, but his father just wants his mistress and doesn't realize how much he is about to lose. When will his absent father find out his son has cancer? And will it be too late?

When Lyra feigns amnesia to test her husband Marcus, he ruthlessly hands her off to his brother, Ethan, claiming he's her true spouse. Lyra then uncovers Marcus’s seven-year double life of S&M and infidelity with her best friend. Caught between a fake husband with a real heart and a real husband with a fake soul, the twisted "Husband Swap" begins.

Christmas Eve, snow falling in silence. Emily stood beneath the streetlamp in the alley behind the office, clutching the ultrasound report still warm from her body. The wind cut through bone, but she felt no cold—only the flutter inside her womb, a faint yet stubborn heartbeat tapping against a world that had already cast her aside. She had meant to smile and tell everyone: I can survive on my own. But the moment she pushed open the glass doors of the company, she heard that voice. "That little bastard? Oh, I left it by the trash bin outside. Not even dogs would eat such bad luck. Kept it around just to spite me." Anna Lewis. Her boss. A woman elegant as a magazine cover, lifting her coffee cup with crimson lips parting as if discussing nothing more than the weather. Emily froze. She remembered ten years ago—the rainy night her mother died at the emergency room entrance, turned away because Anna’s father had said, “Don’t let beggars dirty the VIP lane.” And now, kneeling on these cold tiles, her ears ringing, the world collapsing into a black void. She wanted to scream—but no sound came. Until a pair of polished leather shoes stopped before her. "Get up." The man's voice was low, like the first flame kindling in winter night. "You and the child—you belong to me now." She looked up—Noah Evans, the true power behind the corporation, the rumored emperor who never showed his face. He bent down, wrapping her and the report together into his coat, then turned to Anna with a cold smile: "Lay a finger on her, and I’ll make sure your entire family—three generations—won’t be able to afford a single grave plot in Beijing." The blizzard broke loose. And this war had only just begun. Who says an orphaned girl can't become a queen? This time, she will give birth to light.

Sunlight spilled over the town's streets, like a layer of gilded pretense, unable to mask the smoke simmering beneath. Kevin Brown, sharp in a tailored suit, cradled ninety-nine red roses, arm-in-arm with his new lover, Linda—youthful, radiant, smiling like a queen who’d just claimed her prize. He stepped lightly, as if this day crowned the peak of his life. Then, a sudden shove. He crashed to the ground, roses scattering across the pavement, body slamming into the street. Ava stood before him, coat billowing, eyes cold enough to freeze summer itself. "You've got the nerve to show your face?" Her voice was low, yet it silenced the entire block. Kevin scrambled up, straightening his tie with a smirk. "Ava, don't be dramatic. You're just a page I turned long ago." He pulled a paper from his pocket and waved it. "See this? A ten-billion-dollar contract. Signed by me. I reached the top without you." Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Linda giggled behind her hand, "Oh my, is the ex-wife here to beg for reconciliation? A freelancer scraping by on odd jobs—what right does she have standing here?" The air froze. Ava didn’t look at her. Slowly, she drew a document from her bag. Gold lettering gleamed on the cover: **Washington Family Equity Inheritance Deed**. She placed it gently at Kevin’s feet. "You're right," she said, voice calm. "I am the past. But you forgot one thing—your first startup capital came from me mortgaging my family trust. Those three years you slept in your office, surviving on instant noodles—who drove through the night to bring you meals, rewrite your PPTs, secure your first investor? It was that 'freelancer' who spent five years of her youth lifting you to the sky." She paused, gaze slicing like a blade. "And when the child in my womb bled away, alone in a hospital—you were out buying Linda her engagement ring." The crowd erupted. Linda’s smile shattered. Kevin opened his mouth, but no sound came. In the deafening silence, he suddenly dropped to one knee, pulling a massive diamond ring from his chest pocket. He shouted at Linda, "Marry me! Now! Right here! Let the world see who I choose!" Scattered applause broke out. Phones rose to record. Some cheered. Linda nodded through tears. But just as the ring neared her finger— Ava spoke, soft and clear: "You want this marriage?" She paused, lips curling slightly. "I’ll give it to you." Silence fell. She turned and walked away, coat flaring, silhouette unyielding. Leaving only a whisper, carried off by the wind: "Good luck, Kevin. After all… what I’m reclaiming has never been just a man." The camera pulls back. Sunlight still glows, bright and golden. But everyone knows— the storm has only just begun.

Under the cold fluorescent lights of a bridal shop, her nails dug into his arm as she rasped, "Let me go!" He merely chuckled lowly and hoisted her over his shoulder. "You can't escape today." Outside the door stood a man with purple hair, silent as a shadow that had waited a thousand years. She glared at him, mistaking him for a rival lover—but he only sighed softly, "You still haven't recognized me." Three days later, beneath a sunset melting into a golden sea, he knelt on one knee at the edge of a cliff, a ring resting in his palm. She sobbed, shaking her head. "Don't do this—we can never be!" Her phone suddenly vibrated. An anonymous message flashed: [That ring is your future husband's last possession.] In a movie theater, he snapped handcuffs onto her wrists, whispering against her ear, "This is our first date." She thrashed and screamed, "You're sick!" The screen flickered to life, revealing footage of her every day—her waking, her showering—watched and recorded without exception. On her wedding day, church bells rang. Amidst cheers from guests, a gunshot shattered the air. She lay pinned in a pool of blood, looking up as a blonde woman approached, holding an antique oil lamp. The flame illuminated a hauntingly familiar face—the fiancé who had died in a car crash ten years ago. "You thought he was dead?" the woman sneered, igniting the wick. "But he never belonged to you. That accident… you were the one who hit him." Memories tore open like a collapsing sky. She realized—she was the mad one all along. And he? He had never existed outside her delusion.

The moment she stepped onto the Moon Festival altar in white, the Wolf King’s death six years ago became unfinished business. The great hall of the wolf clan was alive with firelight and drums, silver goblets raised beneath ancestral banners, when Ella arrived in high heels—human, unarmed, smiling as if she had never driven a blade through a king’s heart and vanished into the dark. At the center of the feast, Monica the red-haired witch lifted her glass and named the crime aloud. The accusation echoed, but the throne remained silent. The Wolf King did not defend himself. He did not deny the past. He watched. Ella stood still, eyes calm, letting the room sharpen around her. She did not explain why she had returned. She did not bow. She only looked toward the child beside the throne—the little girl who had already whispered a forbidden word that night: Mother. The first gear turned. Before judgment could fall, the fire pit detonated. Flames roared up the marble pillars. The child fell screaming into the coals. Chaos tore through the hall. Elders shouted spells. Guards froze. And Ella moved. She ran straight into the fire. Bare hands clawed through burning embers. Skin blistered. Blood streaked the sacred ground. She pulled the child free and collapsed, cradling her like something worth dying for. When she looked up, her eyes did not plead with the crowd. They locked on the throne. That was when the Wolf King finally rose. Power surged. A towering shadow of the true wolf tore through the ceiling, his roar ripping the night apart. The hall knelt instinctively—too late to notice Monica’s smile tightening, too late to see the second layer of the trap closing. Because the child in Ella’s arms was never his. She was the price Ella paid six years ago. Flesh of her flesh, given to darkness so the Wolf King could live long enough to hate her. As the hall trembled and the king’s wrath filled the sky, the girl slowly opened one glowing red eye. No verdict was spoken. No mercy granted. Somewhere beneath the altar stones, a binding older than the clan itself began to stir—and whatever Ella had come to reclaim, it was no longer just a life. It was a curse already awake.