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?

Anna was once the soul of the team, the queen under the spotlight—until the day her best friend plunged her into the abyss. False evidence, a black contract, and an experimental drug that shattered her career. And standing atop the ruins of her life was the very childhood confidant who had sworn never to betray her. On the night of the championship celebration, lights blazed in dazzling glory. She returned quietly, body scarred and broken, wanting only to glimpse the glory she once owned. But the microphone was handed to the "new manager," who smiled and ripped open her wounds: "Some people don't belong here. Like Anna—the one who used drugs to rise, then went mad in the end." The crowd erupted in laughter. The livestream exploded with comments: [Wait, is that Anna? I thought she was paralyzed!] [That drug was a setup! I have proof!] [Don’t believe them! She was forced to take the shot!] But no one heard. Only Anna stood at the edge of the crowd, fingers trembling, heart frozen solid. A talent scout called with a sky-high contract: "Come back, and the world will worship you." She hung up with a cold laugh. I’m not here for redemption. I’m here for reckoning. Old teammates tore her photos, called her a lunatic, even threw a punch straight at her face. This time, she didn’t flinch. Instead, she caught his wrist, twisted, and slammed him to the ground with a brutal shoulder throw. Silence fell like a blade. "Do you really forget how I led this team to seven straight championships?" She stepped onto the podium, voice sharp as ice. "Now, let me teach you—what true revenge looks like." She pulled out the vial she’d hidden for three years—her "miracle drug"—and injected it into her vein. Muscles rebuilt, nerves reignited, as if fate itself had rebooted. The livestream captured every second. The city trembled. Then, alone, she stormed back onto the field. No team, no coach—just her. One woman against eleven. She crushed her opponents with raw, relentless fury. When the final whistle blew, she smiled at the camera: "This is just the beginning." That night, a hospital room door creaked open. The mastermind behind her downfall lay in bed, trembling, begging for mercy. Anna slowly raised the syringe. "I’ve tested this drug for you. Now, it’s your turn—to know what it means to live worse than death." At that moment, a black luxury car glided through the night outside. The door opened. Polished shoes touched the ground. A figure emerged, walking toward her from the shadows, backlit by the moon. Him—Ethan Hawk, the legendary player who vanished twenty years ago, now a myth across the global football world. He looked at her, voice barely above a whisper: "I’ve waited for this moment… longer than you have." "Welcome back, my captain."

At that glittering gala of political elites, the chandeliers bathed everyone in golden light. I carried a champagne flute toward the terrace, my gown trailing behind me like a fish gliding toward the abyss. They said tonight’s star was Julian Blackwood—my “uncle,” the man who’d cast me into a crematorium ten years ago. Back then, he announced to the world: adopted daughter Lina died in the fire, her ashes scattered to the wind. But no one knew the corpse wore my necklace, while I lay awake in an underground cell, listening to my own obituary. Three years ago, I crawled out from the ashes of that furnace. With only a childhood photograph—on the back, scrawled “Ethan and Lina, forever together”—I uncovered my true bloodline. In Buckingham’s most secret registry of illegitimate heirs, I was the page they tried to hide. And now, Ethan Lancaster—the boy who once took a bullet for me—stood behind me, palm pressed gently against my spine: “Don’t jump. This time, I’ll catch you.” But I jumped anyway. Not a fall—flight. As screams erupted, I leapt from the thirty-story terrace, the wind billowing my dress. The next instant—explosions shattered the glass façade, steel cables caught my waist, I flipped midair, landing with the grace of a black swan. Silence gripped the crowd. Then, the main hall’s screen flared to life. Surveillance footage rolled: Julian signing forged death documents, bribing judges, fabricating DNA reports… and his own voice declaring: “As long as she lives, the inheritance will never be yours.” I walked back inside, stepping on shards of light, my emerald gown blazing like vengeful fire. My earrings swayed—my mother’s heirloom emeralds, also the key to the family vault. Julian turned pale, stumbling back: “You… can’t be alive!” I smiled, raising my glass, my voice clear and sharp across the room: “Thank you all for attending the replay of my funeral. Now, allow me to reintroduce myself—” “I am Lina Blackwood. And the rightful Lancaster heir.” “I’ve been dead for three years—just to return today.” “And every one of you… will pay for the lies of the past.” As my words faded, Ethan pushed open the grand doors, dressed in military precision, leading a squad of armed agents with warrants. A storm of camera flashes burst like gunfire. Someone whispered in trembling awe: “She’s not a ghost… The Queen has returned.”

When her sister betrays her and a ruthless CEO targets her family farm, fiery small-town cowgirl Avery Rogers clashes—and sparks—with Tyler Sinclair, the corporate heir sent to take her land. But as lust and loyalty collide, a small-town cookout—Tyler’s bold bid to save Avery and her father’s legacy—turns enemies into something dangerously close to lovers, and turning their worlds upside down.

He watched coldly as she stepped barefoot onto the ice, his voice like frost frozen for a thousand years: "Luckily, you're not wearing socks today." She smiled, eyes lifting at the corners, red lips parting lightly: "That's not the only thing I'm not wearing." Seven days earlier, they'd signed a contract in an underground parking lot—**partnership on ice, no feelings.** Each clause read aloud, sounding like judgment, like self-deception. The third rule was scribbled the most carelessly: **No kissing.** His fingertips brushed her cheek, cold as if untouched by emotion. She tilted her head away, yet her lips curled upward: "Rule three." He leaned close to her ear, breath burning: "Deal." But when money flowed into the account, their embrace grew tighter than ever before. She broke away sharply: "Let me go." His voice suddenly broke, his gaze cracking open: "What I want has never been money." "I want your heart." She froze. Then, step by step, she moved closer, rose onto her toes, and pressed a kiss sharp as a blade to his lips— The ice shattered, blood threading from the corner of her mouth. "Olivia!" He suddenly roared, pinning her against the wall. "Stop pretending! You only want to skate with *her*, don't you?!" Her eyes widened, uncomprehending—then his voice collapsed again, nearly pleading: "...Say my name. Say Emma’s name… and I’ll go crazy for you." Cut to the locker room. Teammates sat in a circle, smirking suggestively: "Hey, did you notice? The way he looks at her—it hasn’t been right for a long time." And she, head bowed, slowly zipped up her jacket. Deliberately, as if locking away a heart inch by inch into winter. The phone lit up abruptly. The screen showed a playing series—*Thin Ice*. On it, the exact moment they had just kissed. Barrage comments rolled wildly: 【Holy shit! Is this real life?!】 【This isn't partnership—this is love carved with ice blades!】 She stared at the screen, fingers trembling. Turns out the whole world had seen the fire they pretended didn’t exist. Beneath the ice, lava had long been surging. And they were standing at the very center of the crack about to break.

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."