The second the pool water rose over my lashes, I heard Beth’s stiletto heels crush the crystal champagne tower. “Loyalty?” She crouched at the pool’s edge, the tip of her scissors pressing against the neckline of my wedding gown—its silver gleam stabbing my eyes. “You stole Edward from me for three years, and now you hide behind a chastity monument?” Foam dripped from my chin into the water—green-tinged, like tears gone sour. Guests formed a half-circle around the pool, phones raised, lenses fixed on my soaked lace bodice—where a small patch of dark red bloomed: skin torn open by her fingernails moments earlier. “Look closely.” I seized her wrist—and yanked. The scissors plunged with a dull *thunk* to the pool floor. As Beth shrieked and tumbled in, I whipped off my veil and looped it tight around her throat. At the explosion of water, every livestream feed flickered—three seconds of static snow. A backdoor I’d planted last night, deep inside the villa’s security system. She thrashed, choking, pearls flying from her ears just before vanishing down the drain. I leaned in, lips brushing her burning ear: “Stepmother dear… In your husband’s study safe—the third compartment—you’ll find seven paternity reports.” A sharp, rhythmic *click-clack* echoed from the doorway—leather on marble. Not Edward’s usual Oxford shoes. Boots. Military issue. I wiped foam from my eyes and looked up. Framed in the arched entryway, backlit by the sun, stood a man in black tactical gear. A rusted copper bell dangled from his left ear. The faded eagle insignia on his shoulder patch matched—exactly—the one pinned to the lapel of the officer who stood beside my father’s casket fifteen years ago. Beth froze. Her nails dug deep into my forearm. “...Colonel Lin? You were declared KIA in Afghanistan.” He didn’t glance at her. His gaze locked onto my left hand—my ring finger. Where a diamond should have glinted, only a faint pale line remained. “Anna.” His voice was raw, like sandpaper dragged over corroded iron. “Your mother’s last words were this: *So long as that ring remains, the one who took the fall for you hasn’t died yet.*” The pool water shimmered—an unnatural, electric blue. I looked down. Beneath my waterlogged wedding skirt, glowing digits rose slowly from the depths: **07:23:11** Seven hours, twenty-three minutes, eleven seconds—left on the countdown.

The delivery room lights were harsh and white—like a blade slicing through every illusion of warmth. She held the twins—one swaddled in pink-and-blue striped fabric, the other hastily carried away by a nurse who said, “To neonatology for observation.” No one heard the faint, brittle laugh that rose from her throat. Seventeen years without tears. Seventeen years she’d melted her “Cheer Queen” crown into a dagger, turned cheer chants into incantations, and laced every smile with poison—waiting for this day. Madison Carter ripped off her third audition outfit in the changing room. The varsity uniform was too tight—waistband biting into skin, cuffs frayed, shoulder patches faded to dull gray. Her mother had locked the new uniform in a safe last night: “You don’t deserve that spot, Madison. You don’t even know your father’s name.” Yet when she stormed onto the stage on broken stilettos—her skirt stitched from old team gear, her waist chain strung with pearls pried from her mother’s wedding gown, her hair pulled back crookedly, sweat dripping from her jaw into the glare of the spotlight— The music erupted. She flipped backward, landed hard, knees scraping raw—but lifted her chin, laughing like fire given voice. The judges sat frozen. Then the head judge removed his glasses, voice trembling: “*That’s*… real cheer spirit.” Before the words fully settled— A shattering scream tore through the audience. Victoria Orlando—Liv Orlando’s mother, partner at a top-tier law firm, famed for icy precision—shot upright. Her hands shook so violently she dropped her champagne flute. Golden liquid splashed across her limited-edition Hermès scarf, leaving a jagged, weeping stain. Her eyes locked onto the crimson mole at Madison’s throat—the *exact* match marked on the yellowed prenatal record buried deepest in her safe. And just as every camera in the arena swung wildly toward the ruptured mother-daughter pair— In the labor ward’s surveillance room, the final black screen flickered awake. The footage showed a snow-choked night, seventeen years ago. A nurse pushed an infant cart down the corridor. Inside lay a newborn girl, a silver bell tied to her ankle. The camera drifted slowly downward— Engraved inside the bell, two lines of microscopic script: **“M.D. —— MOTHER’S DEBT.”** **“L.O. —— LIE’S OWN.”** In the bottom-right corner, the timestamp pulsed: **00:00:01** —The countdown had just begun.

Champagne flutes shimmered along the poolside, refracting shards of light. Aria’s earrings swung—so sharply they made my heart skip. Truth or Dare—she’d drawn “Kiss the person you most want to kiss right now.” The crowd roared. Glasses clinked. Laughter scraped like broken glass against my eardrums. She didn’t look at Miles. Instead, her gaze flickered instinctively toward Ben, slouched alone in the corner of the sofa. But Miles already had her wrist in his grip—his fingers burning hot. “Rules are rules.” She jerked back. Her heel slipped. Her ankle struck the ice bucket—*clatter-shatter*—ice exploding across the marble floor. That’s when Ben stood up. Not walked. *Stood.* He kicked over the entire long table—silver platters crashed, candlesticks toppled, flames licking hungrily up the cascading white chiffon drapes. In the blaze, he lunged forward, seized Miles by the collar of his shirt, knuckles white as bone: “The day you got fired? I buried the footage—the one where you filmed people without consent. And *now*—you dare touch her?” Miles laughed—a wild, ragged, tear-choked laugh. “So what? She’s forgotten my name *three times*. Ben—you’re guarding a living Post-it note. What kind of hero is that?” Before the last word left his mouth, he snatched up an entire Black Forest cake and hurled it to the floor—chocolate and cream detonating like a miniature avalanche. Then he stepped back—twice—and dove headfirst into the pool. As water exploded skyward, Aria yanked off the silver chain Ben had given her—the one resting just above her collarbone—and crushed it tight in her fist until her nails broke skin. She didn’t chase Miles. She walked straight to Ben. Stopped one step away. Lifted her face. Her lashes still dusted with splattered frosting. “I can’t remember other people’s names,” she whispered—soft, but cutting through the chaos like a blade. “Because since I was sixteen… I’ve only ever practiced saying yours—*Ben. J. Carter.*” The wind stilled. Even the pool went silent—glass-smooth, mirror-still. Ben’s throat moved. Slowly, he raised his hand and brushed his thumb across her chocolate-smeared lower lip. She closed her eyes. He kissed her. No hesitation. No testing. Just ten years of restraint—finally incinerating every dam, every silence, every unspoken thing—in one searing, unstoppable flame. Sirens wailed in the distance—growing louder. Someone screamed, “The fire’s spreading!” Another shouted, “Call an ambulance!”—but no one dared step closer. Because on the sofa, their shadows merged—deep, fused, sacred—like a newly finished icon painted in blood and sugar. And in Aria’s clenched palm, the silver chain grew warm—quietly, fiercely, alive.

Nova Sterling, the true daughter of the Sterling family, upon returning home, is immediately met with cold treatment and framed by the fake daughter. When her boyfriend's sister is pushed down the stairs, all evidence points to Nova Sterling, and her brother personally sends her to prison. After her release, she puts away her humility and resolves to take revenge. In her darkest hour, the mysterious CEO Ethan Walton marries her in a strong move, helping her fight back. As Nova Sterling takes step by step to expose the fake daughter's true colors, her family finally realizes their mistake, but it is already too late to regret. Under the affection of Ethan Walton, Nova Sterling is reborn from ashes and becomes the true queen.

Aidan is dumped by his girlfriend on their wedding day and quickly marries Flora, the CEO of the Vale Group. What seemed like a peaceful life turns chaotic when Flora suspects Aidan might be the lost heir, Wyatt. As their fates intertwine, Aidan gets caught in family power struggles... What secrets lie beneath this sudden marriage?

Rainy night. The blue-stone alley is blanched white by lightning. Three children huddle in a corner, their school uniforms soaked in mud and rain, their faces pale as paper. “Mom—!” They cry out and lunge toward the woman who has just dropped from the sky—black clothes drenched, long hair plastered to her neck, umbrella ribs flung with lethal precision into a thug’s wrist. She kicks down the knife-wielding brute in one fluid motion—so fast only afterimages remain. Raindrops shatter off her jawline like shards of ice. But when the children reach for her, she steps aside. Her eyes are cold—frost-forged blades. “I’m not your mother.” Her voice is raw, hollow, barely human. No one believes her. Not until three hours later, in the police station’s interrogation room. Surveillance footage shows her pinning the suspect’s neck to the floor with one knee, interrogating him fluently—in Russian, Arabic, then Spanish—as if breathing. The head translator hands her an official offer on the spot: “Report to the Foreign Affairs Division tomorrow.” She doesn’t take it. Instead, she stares at an encrypted file just received on her phone: A yellowed birth certificate—her name violently crossed out in red ink; A thumbnail of a twenty-year-old child trafficking case file; And a photograph—a barred iron door, behind which another girl, identical in every line of face and brow, sits gagged with tape. On her wrist: the same birthmark. 11:07 p.m. that night. She returns to the old house adorned with a faded red “Fu” character, clutching a kitchen cleaver. The door is unlocked. The stove is cold. Half a bowl of congealed egg-drop soup sits on the counter. She lifts the cellar hatch and drops down—the cleaver’s tip scraping brick, spitting sparks. Deep in the cellar, her sister is bound to a rusted iron chair. Her lashes flutter—but she smiles. Outside, the three brothers stand guard at every exit, gripping iron rods. The eldest grits his teeth: “You knew she wasn’t real—*all along*?” The second brother shouts, eyes bloodshot: “Then what about all those years? What was *that*—some kind of act?!” The youngest suddenly raises his phone. The screen glows—a secretly recorded video: Last Winter Solstice. She’s crouched in the kitchen, peeling tangerines for her sister, feeding her the sweetest segment, whispering: “Don’t be afraid. This time… I *will* bring you home.” In the final three seconds, she lifts her gaze—straight into the lens. No guilt. No explanation. Only ash—cold, absolute, all-consuming. Now, slowly, she raises the blood-smeared cleaver. Its tip points—not at them—but at the family portrait enshrined above the ancestral altar. “Whoever touches my sister,” she says, voice quiet as falling snow, “I’ll cut off their hand. Then burn this house down—beam by beam.” “And leave you *nothing*. Not even ash.”