I went blind saving an old woman with white hair. The whole city was talking—Miss Pennington was going to repay my kindness by making me her grandson’s wife. But no one knew the truth—it wasn’t gratitude. It was atonement. When Luke Pennington first saw me, he sneered, "You’re a good actor. A delivery guy willing to risk your life for a hundred thousand in reward money?" He thought I was just another poor scammer, kneeling outside the hospital, faking a sob story for sympathy. I didn’t explain. Because that night, the rain was too heavy, the ambulance lights too blinding—I only remembered how her falling silhouette reminded me of the old grandmother who once gave me a warm bowl of noodles as a child. So I said, "Fine. I’ll marry you." On the eve of the wedding, he stormed into my room with a bottle of red wine, mocking, "Name your price. How much to walk away? The Penningtons won’t let you down if you divorce quietly." I didn’t speak. I stepped off the bed barefoot, trembling hands sliding down his pants, fingertips brushing the tip of his leather shoe. Then gently, I held it. He froze. After that, he started coming every day to put eye drops in my eyes. His fingers always paused slightly against my eyelids. Smiling, I asked, "What are you looking at?" "You," he said. "Making sure you're really blind." I replied, "You’re not ugly. You just don’t want to be seen." Then she appeared—my so-called “mother.” Dressed in cheap clothes, she took the check and tore up the contract in front of Luke. "This marriage is a transaction. She knew the chairman was your grandmother all along. Every move was calculated!" Luke turned and left without a word. The night he threw the engagement ring into the fountain, the entire Pennington family laughed at how foolish I was. But three days later, I removed my sunglasses in court, facing the judge and the press. "There’s something I’d like to say now." "I’m not Joedy. The real Joedy died in a fire three years ago." "And I… am the illegitimate daughter you abandoned in that burning house." The courtroom erupted. Security footage played—showing me rushing into the smoke to save someone. And that “mother”? A nurse paid to take my place. I stood, turning toward Luke in the gallery, his face pale. "You said this marriage was fake." "But tell me—of every tear I’ve shed for you, which one wasn’t real?" Silence swept the hall. Suddenly, he stood, walked slowly toward me, knelt on one knee, and slipped an old ring back onto my finger—the one he had secretly carved by hand when I wasn’t looking. "Joedy," his voice cracked, "this time… let me beg you. Don’t go." Outside, sunlight poured through the windows. I closed my eyes—but for the first time, I truly “saw” the light.

I Kissed a CEO, and He Liked It The champagne tower shimmered coldly beneath the crystal chandeliers. When Alice stepped into the ballroom in ten-centimeter heels, every man’s gaze shifted—just slightly. She wore a black dress, a pearl necklace resting on her collarbone like a drop of poison suspended mid-fall. Jack approached with a wine glass in hand, his tie loosened by one button, eyes flickering over the pearls at her chest. He smirked, “All the female guests tonight have good taste.” Alice didn’t answer. Instead, she slowly traced a finger across his lapel, leaving behind a faint red mark—the color of her lipstick. “You’ve mistaken me,” she whispered. “I’m not a guest.” Before the words faded, a waiter stumbled into her, spilling red wine all over her skirt. Silk clung to her thigh. The crowd tittered. Someone murmured, “Who is she? Pretending to be high society and now completely humiliated.” But she smiled. At exactly 10:07 p.m., surveillance footage showed her entering the CEO’s private elevator. No access card swipe. Yet the door opened for her. Three days later, HR received a complaint: the Finance Director claimed he’d seen a woman’s photo hidden in Jack’s desk drawer. On the back was written: *Gabrielle Taylor, height 178cm, full measurements listed, marital status: married, husband’s surname unknown.* But Alice had never used that name. What truly sent chills down the spine was another security clip retrieved from the archives: that night, before stepping into the elevator, she’d paused in front of the grand hall mirror, adjusting her skirt. The camera zoomed in. She spoke silently to her reflection. No one could make out the words. Until I magnified it three hundred times, frame by frame. She said: “Darling, I’ve found you.” And the “you” she addressed was a charity gala photo on the wall behind Jack—a woman in pearls, arm-in-arm with him, smiling gently in the corner of the image. His wife. The one who died in a car crash five years ago. At her funeral, Jack wept against the coffin until his voice broke. Now, his new lover stood before him in the same dress, wearing the same pearls, drawing him slowly—step by step—back into hell. My phone vibrated. An anonymous message appeared: [Did you know? The real Gabrielle didn’t die in a car accident.] [You were the one who pushed her into the cremation furnace.]

She knocked on the office door as dusk settled outside. "Professor, I've written a new paper... I'd like you to read it." The door cracked open, slanting light across half of his cool, composed profile. He should have refused—late night, female student, the desk lamp still burning; every element teetered on forbidden ground. Yet there she stood, her coat slightly open, a sliver of collarbone exposed, bearing a line of ink-black poetry: **"You are the only reason I would ever cross the line."** His breath caught. "This paper," he said, voice rough, "requires an in-person review?" She stepped forward, and the coat slipped to the floor—a silent surrender. "Didn't you always say—misplaced punctuation ruins everything?" His gaze fixed on the poem’s end, where the final mark was missing. "Here," he swallowed, throat moving. "It's missing a comma." "Then you add it." Before the words faded, he had her pressed against the bookshelf. The kiss fell like a verdict, like absolution, like finally tearing up the fragile pretense of their three-year teacher-student facade. The folder crashed down, pages scattering like snowflakes; her hair tangled with his wristwatch, and his hand trembled as he placed the long-overdue comma at the end of that verse. Outside, the entire campus sank into silence. But within this small room, ethics crumbled, and desire ran rampant. —This story shouldn’t have begun here. Yet somehow, there was no turning back.

Embers glowed red, like the grip of her mother’s hand in her final moments. Ari stood barefoot on the scorched earth behind the manor, her dress flapping in the night wind like a tattered banner. The nobles formed a circle around her, their golden spectacles reflecting cold, glittering eyes. "Daughter of a traitor—unworthy of bearing the heirloom of the Wolfblood." They pointed at the silver chain around her neck, the one her mother had died to leave behind, engraved with forgotten moon-script: *Blood not cold, oath unbroken.* Ivy screamed from behind iron bars, but her voice drowned beneath the crackling flames. A man who looked like a cook approached, a boning knife in hand, a scar cutting across his face, grinning like a madman. "Heard your sister preferred her feet burned raw rather than give it up?" He hurled a ladle of hot oil into the fire. The blaze roared skyward. "Well then, let's see how much pain the little sister can take tonight." Ari didn’t turn. She only stared into the churning sparks within the coals—seeing again that night ten years past: her mother being dragged into the woods, pressing this very necklace into her palm with her last breath. "You call me the child of a traitor?" she finally spoke, her voice ragged as tearing cloth. "But tell me—who among you remembers who took the hunters’ silver arrows so you could live?" The crowd stirred. Doubt flickered. Then—a shadow cut across the firelight. A man in a tailored suit stepped from the darkness, his polished shoes treading over ash without a sound. His gaze swept over Ari—the trembling spine held unbent—and slowly, he removed his gloves. "Gentlemen," his voice low and heavy, "what you are burning is not a traitor’s bloodline. It is the last living descendant of the final Wolf Lord." He lifted his eyes, their depths dark as an abyss: "And I have come to bring her home." The wind stilled. The fire burned on. A tear traced down Ari’s cheek—but she did not step back. The game was set. Survival has always been written by the victor.

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.”

From the very moment genius scientist Emma fires up her groundbreaking time-machine, the biggest shock isn’t the invention—it’s her sister’s brutal betrayal, fueled by a hospital mix-up that shattered their family years ago. Samantha’s attack triggers a malfunction, and both sisters are violently thrown ten years into the past, straight into a rewritten timeline where Samantha has one goal: steal Emma’s identity, her family, and even her fiancé. As Samantha claws her way toward becoming the Carter family’s heiress, Emma is left with nothing but her mind and grit, battling identity theft, dark family secrets, corporate sabotage, and the dangerous butterfly effects of time travel. When she meets Matthew, a quietly protective stranger masking his true status as a powerful chairman, Emma finds the first spark of hope—along with a love strong enough to challenge fate itself. But with every choice Emma makes, the future she remembers grows more unstable. And just when she finally believes she’s breaking free from destiny’s grip, a chilling truth about Samantha’s real motives emerges, hinting that the deadliest twist isn’t buried in the past… but racing toward them from the future.