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.

After her mother's sudden death, a rebellious girl falls dangerously in love with her new guardian—the ruthless mafia boss who once "loved" her mom.

He called me Selina so softly, like a feather settling into a wine glass. That night, we drank too much. The lights were dim, our hearts raced too fast. He said he loved me, and I kissed him with a smile. We were both drunk, yet utterly清醒—clear-headed as we fell, clear-headed as we crossed the line, turning a forbidden thing into a dream. Before dawn broke, the phone rang. It was my father. "If you keep him, tomorrow his name will appear on every hush-money list there is." "I'll make sure he can't land a role, can't join a production—not even as an extra without begging for scraps." "Do you want him alive like a dog? Or would you rather—he not live at all?" I stood on the balcony, watching him sleep in bed. His suit hung over the chair, tie loose—a hero without a home. I didn’t speak. Just replied, “I understand.” Then I left. No note, no deleted messages, no looking back. As if I’d never loved him at all. Five years later, at a Paris Fashion Week gala. Crystal chandeliers refracted light through towers of champagne flutes. I wore couture, smiled politely, exchanged pleasantries—until someone tapped my shoulder. "Hey, isn't that your ex-boyfriend? Jacob Chen—the one in sunglasses now." I turned. There he stood before me, dressed in black, his features sharper, colder than I remembered. The sunglasses hid his eyes, but not the scar along his brow—the one he got shielding me from a journalist’s thrown glass. He didn’t look at me. Just raised his glass, nodding to others around: “Long time no see.” An old friend chimed in cheerfully, “Selina almost married him! Such a shame they broke up out of nowhere… what a waste.” The air froze for a heartbeat. Jacob finally lifted his gaze. Behind those dark lenses, his eyes burned—like a single spark leaping from cold, dead ashes. I didn’t move. Didn’t smile. Just whispered, “No, not a waste.” “What’s truly tragic is the man who was willing to destroy his own future for me—and I never even said thank you.” His fingers trembled slightly. The glass paused mid-air. Lights flickered. Music faded. No one knows that after that night, he vanished from the industry for three years, surviving on odd jobs. No one knows that every year on my birthday, I receive a bouquet of white roses—never signed. No one knows this “chance encounter” today—I’ve waited five long years for it. And him— Does he still hate me? Does he still love me? I don’t know. I only know this time, I won’t run.

When she pushed the door open, her high heels shattered the moonlight scattered across the floor. The office lights were dim and intimate. Andrew was wrapped around that young girl, laughing carelessly. His wine glass was halfway to his lips when he saw her—his hand paused for just a second before he curled his lips into a smirk. "Back already? The new flavor's pretty good. Want a taste?" I didn't answer. I simply placed the divorce papers gently on the table. He glanced at them and snorted. "You always do this—storm out, then crawl back. Done with your act? Can we go eat now?" I removed my gloves slowly, rolled up my sleeve, revealing the old scar healed shut along my inner wrist. "Three years ago, you said if I ever mentioned divorce, I'd have to crawl out of this house on my knees." I tapped the play button on my phone. From it poured his voice—tender, heartfelt—whispering "I love you," saying "I can't live without you," calling me "Lin Wan, you're my life." It was the video he’d recorded in tears outside my door, begging for forgiveness. Now, it had been forwarded to his chairman father, to his fiancée’s family, and to every gossip-hungry financial outlet in the city. "Andrew," I finally spoke, my voice soft as snow settling into ashes, "I'm not here to reconcile." "I'm here to acquire your company." His face turned pale. He shot upright, knocking his chair over with a crash. I turned and walked away, leaving behind just one final sentence: "Oh, by the way—your father just signed the equity transfer documents. Wish you both a lifetime of happiness."

He stood there in a crisp suit, saying he had to travel for a business trip—to meet investors. I wore the red dress he once loved most, waiting by candlelight for three hours. The steak I’d cooked with my own hands sat untouched on the table. The wine glass was still warm, the roses in the vase drooping. Smiling, I handed him the gift—a pair of matching rings, the inside engraved with the date we first met. He didn’t even glance at it. “Just leave it. I’m in a hurry.” The moment the door shut, I heard laughter from downstairs. I looked through the peephole—his tie was loose, one hand resting on another woman’s waist. She leaned into him, her lipstick stain visible on his neck. I stood frozen, fingers tightening around the ring box, nails digging into my palm. Then suddenly, I laughed. I turned and opened the drawer, pulling out that letter returned to me three months ago—“Supplementary Clause to the Gu Pre-nuptial Agreement: In the event of no offspring, all assets shall automatically transfer to the designated heir.” And that heir—was not me. My phone vibrated. The screen lit up—today’s newly installed surveillance app. In the footage, he wrapped his arms around that woman as they entered a hotel suite. On the nightstand sat a photograph—of her holding flowers outside the operating room the day I miscarried, while he was nowhere to be found. Slowly, I slipped off my high heels, walked barefoot to the entrance. Grabbed the car keys, and from beneath the shoe cabinet, pulled out the dashcam. The final frame froze in the rearview mirror—I painted on my lipstick, pressed down on the accelerator. On the passenger seat lay an unopened bottle of sleeping pills, and a one-way ticket overseas. I’ve acted in this drama for five years. Now, it’s my turn to write the ending.