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."

Scholarship student Mavis Wynn's first kiss is stolen by star quarterback Julian Sterling at Harper High, making her Public Enemy No. 1. After a Christmas betrayal shatters her heart, Julian saves her and claims he wants to win her heart. Is this her bully's twisted game or the real thing?

The moment the spotlight hit, I sat in my wheelchair and heard the entire audience gasp. "Alicia Winston? How is she here? I thought she withdrew because of her injury?" "My God... Did she crawl here if she had to?" I ignored their whispers. Slowly, I lifted my hand and pulled the blanket from my legs—cold light glinted off the metal brace beneath, like a silent declaration of war. Three months ago, everyone thought I was destroyed. That "accidental" surgery. Jeffrey holding my hand, saying, "Baby, stop dancing. I'll take care of you." My father standing outside the hospital room, sneering, "You're no child of the Winston name, throwing your life away for a man." And Lin Wei, my once-trusted dance partner, whispering in my ear, "Do you really think he loves you? He just needs you broken, so you'll never leave." But they didn't know what I'd already written in my rehabilitation journal: **True ballet isn't on the tips of toes—it's in the moment your spine straightens and rises.** The music began—*The Dying Swan*. I thought I might cry. Instead, I smiled. I pushed the wheelchair back, gripped the barre, and rose—inch by inch. The sound of prosthetic locking into bone echoed clearly, like fate reloading itself. One step. Two. A turn— I spun three and a half pirouettes en pointe, landing as solid as carved steel. Silence. Then, an eruption of screams. The judges stood as one; some wept openly. Only Jeffrey didn't clap. He sat in the front row, face pale, as if he were seeing a ghost. Because now he understood— I didn't come here to prove I'm still alive. I came here to tell him: **You wanted me on the ground—I will stand, right on top of your schemes, and finish this dance.** The host’s voice trembled as he announced the result: "This year's National Ballet Competition champion… Alicia Winston!" I raised the trophy, eyes cutting through the crowd to meet his. "Thank you," I said, "for showing me what it truly means to be broken—not the legs, but the heart."

Christmas Eve, the snow fell in silence. When I pushed open the front door, the fireplace still glowed with warmth. Dinner was set on the table—cutlery neatly arranged, red wine untouched and not yet chilled. My wife’s scarf lay draped over the arm of the sofa, still holding a trace of heat. But where was she? "Mommy?" My daughter, Penny, came running down the stairs, her eyes red as if soaked in blood. She didn’t say a word—just pressed a note into my hand. The handwriting was my wife’s: *Ed, don’t look for me. I’ve been dead for three days.* My body went cold. Three days ago, she was in the kitchen making soup, laughing at the tomato sauce stain on my shirt. Three days ago, she kissed Penny’s forehead and said it would snow for Christmas, reminding her to wear something warm. Three days ago… she was alive! But the coroner later told me—there was no mistake. The signs of slow decomposition under cold conditions don’t lie. She had been gone for more than 72 hours. Then who had spoken? Who had laughed? Who had carefully stitched up Penny’s torn Christmas doll, needle by careful needle? Penny hugged the doll close and whispered, “Daddy, Mommy hasn’t left. She said… as long as we remember her, she can stay a little longer.” I broke down in tears. And on the seventh day, the doorbell rang. Standing outside was a woman with a gentle smile and a voice achingly familiar. “Hello, I’m Mia. The new nanny. I heard you… needed a mother?” The moment she stepped inside, Penny jerked her head up, pupils shrinking in shock. Because behind Mia’s ear was a mole—exactly like the one my dead wife had. That night, I found my wife’s diary in the attic. On the final page, she had written: *If another “me” ever appears, tell her: the child is afraid of the dark. Remember to leave the light on.* Snow began to fall again. At the graveyard, Penny crouched before the grave, placing the doll gently beside the tombstone. Moonlight spilled across the stone as she whispered, “Mommy, I won’t cry this Christmas.” “But promise me one thing—next time you come back… don’t borrow someone else’s body.” The wind passed without a sound. Far away, beneath a streetlamp, Mia stood motionless—and raised a hand to wipe away a tear that wasn’t hers.