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.

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?

The poor college student Riley Black, pressured by her mother, accidentally marries Malik Sterling, the hidden CEO of the Warwick Group, in a whirlwind romance. After the marriage, Riley Black believes he is just an ordinary barbecue vendor, completely unaware that he has been silently protecting her from behind the scenes. At her sister's engagement party with the Warwick Group's executive director, Riley Black is humiliated. Malik Sterling then appears, reveals his true identity, and rescues her. After experiencing numerous misunderstandings and crises, the two finally open their hearts to each other and join hands.

When her sister betrays her and a ruthless CEO targets her family farm, fiery small-town cowgirl Avery Rogers clashes—and sparks—with Tyler Sinclair, the corporate heir sent to take her land. But as lust and loyalty collide, a small-town cookout—Tyler’s bold bid to save Avery and her father’s legacy—turns enemies into something dangerously close to lovers, and turning their worlds upside down.

The man in the wheelchair kept his eyes lowered, fingertips gently rubbing the silver wolf head atop his cane. His polished shoes were spotless, just like the man himself—never bowed, even after three years of paralysis. "Well, well, look who it is—the legendary 'war god' of Miller Group?" Michael kicked over the IV stand beside the wheelchair. The metallic crash echoed through the empty hospital corridor. Holding his belt in one hand, he laughed arrogantly. "A crippled old man still pretending to be CEO? That seat should’ve been mine long ago." Nurses around them held their breath and stepped back. Even the surveillance camera slowly turned away, as if unwilling to witness the storm unfolding. Jeff slowly lifted his gaze. His eyes cut through Michael’s smug face like blades of ice. "When your mother knelt before me, begging for shares," he said quietly, each word piercing bone, "she didn’t dare touch the dust on my shoes." Michael’s expression twisted. He raised the belt to strike— *Thud!* A dull sound—but not from a belt. A fist. Jeff had suddenly pushed himself halfway up from the wheelchair and slammed a punch straight into Michael’s face. Blood sprayed as Michael staggered backward, collapsing to the floor, his nose clearly broken. Silence swallowed the entire corridor. Calmly, Jeff adjusted his cufflink, then spoke into the intercom: "Inform the board—a special meeting tomorrow at nine sharp." He paused, his eyes lingering on a distant room number, voice softening slightly, "And... I’ll protect her." The wind hadn’t ceased, but the game had already shifted. Who truly held power? The answer was never in the wheelchair—but deep within the human heart.

On Christmas Eve, snow fell in silence. I was standing on tiptoe, about to kiss Alex's lips, our shadows stretched long by the streetlamp—when his arms around me suddenly stiffened. "Emma... this is..." He let go of me, voice dry. "This is my fiancée, Isabella." I followed his gaze—there she stood, wrapped in a designer wool coat, pearl earrings glowing coldly under the snowy light. She smiled faintly, as if bestowing pity: "So you're the daughter of that rural farmer? I heard your grandfather left you some broken pocket watch as a family heirloom. How touching." I said nothing. Just picked up each shattered fragment of the broken watch and carefully placed them into my handkerchief. At the family dinner, they made me sit at the servants' table. Seven silver courses were laid out, untouched, as everyone waited—waiting for me to admit defeat. I smiled, then reached into my wicker basket and gently placed a jar of dark gray caviar in the center of the table. "Sorry to keep everyone waiting," I said, my voice calm, cutting through the glare of the crystal chandelier. "Tonight’s appetizer is sturgeon roe from our own pond—hand-cured, extremely limited. Unlike certain people’s status… ours isn’t bought." Gasps echoed across the room. Then, from the doorway, a deep voice rang out: "Who said my daughter can't sit at the head table?" Everyone rose. James Thompson—the sole director of Miller Group, ranked number one on the global list of most influential people—stepped forward, placing a mink shawl gently over my shoulders. "Miss Emma Miller," he announced, "your inheritance of fifty-one percent controlling shares in the group officially takes effect today." He paused, eyes sweeping over Alex, whose face had gone pale. "And by the way—you’re fired, Alex. Starting tomorrow, stay away from my daughter." Candles flickered. I raised my champagne glass and took a slow sip. In the reflection of the glass, snow and fire burned in my eyes. And their shock? That was only just beginning.