The chandelier in the ballroom glared harshly, casting sharp light over the scene. Red wine dripped down Alison's crimson dress, trailing like blood. A blonde socialite sneered, "You actually brought a fake bag to my son’s engagement party? Aren’t you ashamed?" Silence swallowed the room. Alison knelt on the floor, fingers clawing at the carpet until her nails nearly split. She looked up at her best friend—the one who once called her “sister”—only to see her quietly sipping wine, avoiding eye contact. She turned to the brand director she’d worked with for three years; he was already walking away. Even her cousin, whom she’d helped countless times, took a quiet half-step back, as if afraid of catching some contagion. Her phone vibrated inside her purse. The butler’s trembling voice came through: “Miss… Mr. Li is boarding now. It’ll take at least forty minutes…” She laughed, a broken sound, tears slipping into the corners of her mouth. “So… I really have no one after all.” Then—**the ballroom doors burst open.** The click of high heels stopped dead. A figure stood in the doorway—gray suit perfectly tailored, tie slightly loosened, eyes so cold they froze the noise in the air. He strode forward, his polished shoes silent on the carpet, yet each step pressed like weight on every heartbeat. The entire room held its breath. He dropped to one knee before her, shrugged off his coat, and draped it gently over her shoulders. His voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the hall like a blade: “Who gave you the right… to touch my fiancée?” He lifted his gaze to the sneering woman, lips curling in disdain. “And that bag? A one-of-a-kind piece I personally commissioned in Paris. You call it fake—so it must be?” The air turned to ice. Suddenly, the chat exploded: 【HOLY SHIT! That’s him—the elusive CEO of the Li Corporation!】 【OMG the female lead just activated her main storyline!!!】 【Don’t cry, girl—this is only the first step of your legendary comeback!!】 Alison stared up at him, stunned. And he—gently wiping the wine stain from her cheek—whispered only for her to hear: “I’ve waited five years… finally found you.”

"You think you've won?" Karin Ashton's red dress flared in the evening wind, a blaze consuming reason. She stood at the edge of the terrace, her stiletto crushing the remains of a champagne glass, fingers still smeared with blood she'd clawed from Nora's cheek. Silence swallowed the crowd. Ten minutes earlier, Nora had stood beneath the spotlight, smirking. "Arrogant little bitch—what makes you think you deserve a seat at the main table?" No one believed the blonde woman could cause a ripple—she had no surname, no lineage, just a face mocked by the media for three years: *that wildcat who slept her way into high society*. Yet here she was tonight, wearing a stolen invitation, standing at the heart of the Ashton estate—a legacy built over centuries—tearing open Karin’s darkest secret in front of every aristocrat present. “You’re not the heir,” Nora said softly, freezing the ballroom in its tracks. “You’re not even an Ashton. The DNA report is in my bag. Want me to broadcast it right now?” Laughter died mid-breath. A crack split Karin’s composure. Then—gunshot. Not real. Just a waiter’s tray crashing to the floor. But everyone flinched as if that sound had pierced through their carefully constructed lives. At that moment—the elevator moved. The long-rusted private lift, sealed since the underground third level, began ascending slowly. When the doors opened, cold air surged forward. A man leaned in the corner—worn suit, crooked tie, left eye covered by a black patch, right hand scarred across the knuckles. Lance Ashton. The patriarch presumed dead five years ago in a maritime disaster. Now he stepped out, gaze sweeping over stunned guests, finally settling on Karin. "You’ve been living in the VIP suite for three years," his voice rasped like steel on stone. "Did you really think I wouldn’t find Mother’s last letter—hidden under your bed?" Karin stepped back—but her lips curled into a twisted smile. She didn’t deny it. Instead, she pulled a USB drive from her chest, tossing it gently into the air. "Father," she whispered, "you forget—dead men don’t inherit. And I’ve already called the board vote." Chaos erupted. Nora suddenly understood. She wasn’t the player. She was bait. From the second she stepped into this house, she’d been engineered—the spark to ignite this coup. And now, the gunpowder was lit. Lance stared at his daughter. Then he laughed. He removed his eye patch, revealing the eye that should have been blind—deep within the pupil, a line of code only he could see flickered to life. "Good," he said. "Then let’s see… whose blood truly carries the name of Ashton." Under the cover of night, the entire estate’s lights blinked out. Only the USB drive glowed faintly blue on the carpet. Like a heart about to detonate. Who will walk out alive? The answer isn’t in bloodlines. It’s buried at the end of the lie.

In the deepest corner of the prison, Ella huddled on a moldy wooden bunk, her nosebleed dripping into a metal basin with a dull plink. Jin stepped on her wrist, smirking. "Champion's daughter? If your old man's so powerful, why hasn't he come to save you?" At that very moment, three hundred kilometers away, in a decaying orphanage, iron gates rusted shut. Judy was locked in the basement, her fingernails scraping against concrete as she whispered, "Daddy will come... He promised." No one believed her. Not even the matron shaking her head. "Another crazy kid." Until— Tires crushed dead leaves. A deep-blue Mercedes tore through the rainy night, screeching to a halt before the orphanage gate. The door swung open. Jack Reynolds stepped out—impeccable suit, knuckles wrapped in old scars, eyes sharp enough to split the darkness. His bodyguards marched in formation. No alarms sounded, yet the air turned to ice. "Where is my daughter?" Not a question. A declaration. Back in the prison, Jin raised a metal spoon toward Ella’s eye— *Boom!* The cell door exploded open. Jack stood silhouetted in the light, flanked by lawyers and guards. His gaze swept over the bruises littering the floor, finally settling on Ella. Without a word, he crouched down and gently wiped the blood from her lip with his thumb. "Does it hurt?" His voice was soft. Ella shook her head. Tears fell. At the same instant, Judy screamed from the basement: "Don’t touch him! He’ll beat every one of you—" But her voice froze. Because what she saw—her father wasn’t holding her. The child in his arms matched the photo perfectly. But… that wasn’t her. The rain kept falling. One girl rescued from prison. One trembling in the dark. And Jack finally lifted his head, staring straight into the surveillance camera, each word carved like stone: "Who locked her up?" The answer lies within a fire that burned fifteen years ago. Next chapter: Blood ties will rip lies apart. The champion’s wrath has only just begun.

Ryan never thought he'd touch a steering wheel again. Three years after the accident, he was kicked off the racing team—labeled a "washed-up driver," so forgotten even the fuel attendants stopped calling him "Porter." But today, standing at the starting line of the track dubbed "God of Speed: The Legend Returns," he faced not just a hairpin turn guarded by 23 water bottles, but a crowd roaring with mockery. The white car sped past, liquid exploding like fireworks—only two bottles knocked over. Near-perfect control. The rival removed his helmet, smirking: "Letting a fuel jockey race? Don't disgrace the track." No one knew Ryan had spent more nights in the garage than anyone else. He could hear when a single engine cylinder misfired, feel the slightest tremor from a half-degree difference in tire temperature. A driver? They doubted him. But this car—he had tuned it himself. The moment he slid into the driver’s seat, the stadium fell silent. Wind tugged at the edge of his worn coveralls. His gloved hand brushed the steering wheel, like stroking a sleeping beast. The engine roared—not a scream, but a whisper, answering his call. The car shot forward, slicing through air like a blade. Each turn was razor-close, water bottles dancing wildly along the sides—yet not a single one fell. The audience rose to their feet. His rival's eyes widened in disbelief. At the final instant, the car gently kissed the outer edge and came to a perfect stop on the finish line. 23 bottles—**not a single drop spilled.** The scoreboard slowly revealed the result. Dead silence. Then, a thunderous eruption of cheers split the sky. They thought this was a joke? Ryan had just carved a path across the asphalt to tell them all— **Dignity is never given. It's earned.** Click below to witness the true return of speed.

Outside the iron fence of the racetrack, rain poured down in sheets. I crouched in a corner of the pit area, clutching a recommendation letter wrinkled by the rain. "You? You can't even polish your shoes—what makes you think you belong in Hannah's team?" One of the mechanics laughed, kicking over the toolbox I'd just cleaned. I didn't speak. Just stared at my oil-stained coveralls. At the frayed cuff where I’d stitched on a faded racing patch—ten years old now. Hannah arrived, followed by Louis Clark, ranked thirteenth nationally. He leaned against his brand-new GT-R, glancing at me with disdain. "Heard you're applying to be a reserve driver? Rookie, do you even know the minimum requirement for our track?" No one paid me any mind—until an engine roared through the storm. A rust-covered old Evo burst through the curtain of rain and screeched to a halt in the center. The door opened. Ryan Jenkins stepped out. Silence fell over the entire field. Seven-time champion. The legendary creator of the "Phantom Driver." And Hannah’s father—the man she’d never met. His eyes landed on me. His voice cut through the downpour: "One race. Winner takes all." "If you win—you're in." "If you lose—" he paused, "you never touch a steering wheel again." Louis sneered. "Let me show this kid what real racing looks like." The starting lights flared. Six engines screamed into motion. I sat in that forgotten old Evo, gripping the wheel so tight my knuckles turned white. At the first turn, Louis squeezed me toward the guardrail, trying to force me off the track. But as he glanced back in triumph— I slammed the brakes, yanked the handbrake, and swung into a reverse drift, tires carving a black arc across the asphalt. The stands erupted. "Did he just… use 'Counter-Corner'?" "That move—it was the Phantom Driver’s signature! Twenty years ago!" Through the third turn, I took the inside line, brushing past within ten centimeters of the concrete wall. By the fifth lap, I’d overtaken Louis—without hitting the brakes once. Down to the final stretch, our cars raced side by side. Rain exploded across the windshield like splattered blood. I crossed first. The timer flashed. Dead silence. Louis kicked his helmet aside. "Impossible! How could some grease monkey have skills like that?!" But Ryan smiled. He walked up to me, pulling a yellowed photo from his jacket. In it, a teenage boy stood atop a winner’s podium beside a uniquely painted Evo. "Nine years ago," he said quietly, "this should’ve been you. Not hiding in the pits, cleaning boots." I finally looked up, meeting his gaze. The rain still fell. But beneath it, the roar of engines echoed once more—across time itself. 【Suddenly, a barrage of comments flooded in】 【Holy crap! Isn’t that Ryan Walker—the one who was framed and disqualified?!】 【His dad died in a crash, the team erased his name… he’s alive?!】 【The Phantom Driver… has returned!!】

Isabella grew up in a patriarchal home where she and her sister were mistreated in favor of their brother. Despite the odds, she got into Harvard but was forced to quit. With her mother’s help, she left, finished school, and became CEO. When she learned her family planned to marry off her sister to fund her brother’s marriage, she returned to save her mother and sister—this time, determined to fight back.