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.

Eight years ago, he knelt in the snow and fastened that necklace around her neck, saying, "Grace, I will spend my entire life loving only you." Eight years later, I broke down sobbing in the hallway of a children’s hospital. My daughter lay in ICU, diagnosed with stage-three leukemia—her match found, yet no one willing to donate bone marrow. The doctor said, "If we don’t get a donor soon, she won’t make it through the month." And him? He stood outside the Oval Office in the White House, listening to his campaign team erupt in cheers: "President elected! The youngest in history!" His mother gripped his hand tightly. "Now you’re the face of the nation. Tomorrow you must appear publicly with Isabella—end all rumors about that Chinese woman." He remained silent, staring out at the storm beyond the window. Inside a drawer lay a faded photograph—she in a qipao, smiling as she teased, "If you become president and forget me, I’ll tell the whole world you’re afraid of needles." Fate has never played fair. That night, desperate and clinging to a final thread of hope, I attended a charity gala, praying to meet a medical expert who might help. In the chaos, a little girl knocked over a VIP table. I bent down to pick up scattered items, fingers brushing against a platinum chain lying on the floor. My heart stopped. It was the engagement gift he’d given me on my eighteenth birthday—bought after selling his family’s heirloom pocket watch. Engraved on the back were tiny words: **To Grace, my only sun in winter.** I didn’t leave. Clutching the necklace, I raced toward the backstage area. He stood before the mirror adjusting his tie, sharp in a tailored suit, radiating power—an untouchable man from another world. I pushed the door open, voice trembling uncontrollably: "Gu Chengzhou, you don’t remember me, do you? But this chain you gave me—it saved my life three times." "Now… it’s my daughter’s turn." He spun around abruptly, eyes locking onto what was behind me. A five-year-old girl stood timidly at the doorway, wearing a pink knitted hat. Beneath it, just behind her left ear, a small red mole—one identical to his. The air froze. His lips moved, but no sound came out. Snowflakes drifted in through a crack in the floor-to-ceiling window, landing on his shoulder—just like the one that had settled on her lashes the day they first kissed so many winters ago. Then, without a word, he ripped off his presidential badge and dropped it to the ground. He strode forward, dropped to one knee before the child, hands shaking as he gently lifted her hat. The moment he saw the mole, tears spilled over. "What… what is her name?" I choked back sobs. "Gu Nian’en. She says her dad is a star in the sky, watching her every time she gets an injection." He looked up at me, eyes shattered with pain and disbelief. "You’re telling me… she calls me *Dad*?" Lights flickered overhead. Live news flashed across screens: [Presidential candidate Gu Chengzhou abruptly withdraws from election!] At the same time, my phone vibrated—a call from the hospital: [Matching results are in. Donor and recipient gene compatibility: 99.98%. Source: Presidential Medical Database.] The storm still raged. Old debts remained unpaid. This time, finally—he owed me, and now he would pay.

The day she died, the rain poured as if the sky had torn open. I burst into the hospital holding her in my arms, and the nurses said, “She’s not going to make it.” But I refused to believe it. She was so stubborn—her breath always carried fire. How could she just leave? Not until the doctor pulled a blood-stained chip from her body—Number 07, codename: Replace. “She was the fifth ‘Olivia,’” a woman in black stood at the operating room door, her voice cold as iron. “You think you loved her? No. You loved what we made her become.” Memories exploded in my mind. Five years ago, I was the one who died in that car crash. My heart stopped for three minutes and forty-four seconds. It was she who signed the contract, trading her life for mine. Since then, she’d been transformed into an “emotional vessel,” implanted into my world, shaped into the gentle, smiling girl who made me midnight snacks—the girl I remembered. But she wasn’t always like that. “Every time you got close, the system activated,” the woman handed me a voice recorder. “She said… if you hear this, don’t cry.” Trembling, I pressed play. Her voice emerged through static, soft as a dream: “Owen, I never actually liked tiramisu—that was your taste. I don’t enjoy walking in the rain—I just wanted to be with you. Loving you… was the most painful mission I’ve ever run.” At the moment her heartbeat flatlined, I lunged at the operating table and tore open my own chest—revealing an old scar, beneath which lay a chip identical to hers. I realized—I hadn’t been human either. Before the screen went dark, one final line appeared: [Task not terminated. Hosts have been swapped.] [Next lifetime, please fall for the real me first.]

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.

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.]