Under the chandelier at the birthday party, Molly wore a sequined little dress, carrying a strawberry cake toward the corner. Laughter filled the air, and the champagne tower shimmered with dreamlike sparkles. Suddenly, the front door crashed open. A drenched man stood in the doorway, rainwater dripping from his trench coat onto the carpet. He stared fixedly at Molly, voice hoarse: "You're... Molly?" Silence fell over the room. The little girl looked up, her eyes utterly calm. "You've got the wrong place, Uncle. Mom didn't invite you." The man staggered, nearly losing his balance. "I'm your father... I've been looking for you for three years! After that car accident, they told me you were dead—said both of you died!" "Shut up." Her mother approached in high heels, elegantly linking arms with her well-dressed new boyfriend. "Sir, we've already called the police. Please leave immediately." The man roared, "Lin Wan! Can you say that to your child's face?! I'm her real father! The DNA will prove it!" The mother sneered, "What kind of homeless fraudster chasing compensation are you? My daughter was conceived through IVF—the father's information is confidential. Who do you think you are?" Gasps rippled through the crowd. At that moment, another door on the opposite side of the hall slowly opened. A man in gold-rimmed glasses stepped in, holding a document, followed by two people who looked like lawyers. "I regret interrupting this spectacle," he said, his gaze settling on Molly's face as he spoke softly, "but according to the Supreme Court's final ruling three months ago—I am Molly's biological father." Dead silence. He removed his glasses, eyes glistening. "Your mother illegally obtained my sperm sample. The artificial insemination was carried out overseas. This child... is truly mine." The mother's face paled. "Impossible! That file was destroyed long ago!" "But the surveillance footage wasn't," the man replied calmly. "Every moment you stole the sample from the fertility clinic is preserved in the official records." Molly looked down at the cake in her hands, watching the cream drip slowly onto the floor. Then she spoke, her voice childlike yet clear: "So... do I have two dads now?" No one answered. Only the thunder cracked outside, as if heaven and earth themselves were asking— Blood or nurture, lies or truth, which one truly earns the name of father?

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.]

On a stormy night, I knelt outside the obstetrics ward, clutching my mother’s critical illness notice. My phone lit up—Owen’s final ultimatum: *"The day the baby is born, your mother gets into ICU. But remember—you're a surrogate, not a wife. Don’t dream."* I didn’t cry. I folded the notice neatly and tucked it into my chest, then turned and walked into the rain. I knew exactly what I was doing. Trading my womb for her life. Three months later, the ultrasound showed twins. The nurse smiled and said congratulations—but Owen’s face darkened. "Who gave you permission to carry two? The contract says one!" He slapped me in front of everyone. "Melissa, you better explain this—or your mother gets discharged tomorrow. Carried out in a body bag." I cupped my cheek and laughed. "Because…" I lifted my gaze, staring straight into his eyes, "this is the last time you’ll ever treat me like livestock." "These two babies? They’re not yours." "My doctor and I switched the embryos. What you’re carrying now—is someone else’s child." Owen snapped. He locked me in the basement of his mansion, threatening to cut them out for DNA testing. But that same night—gunfire erupted. Masked men stormed in, shooting at everything. As a bullet grazed my abdomen, Owen threw himself over me, shielding me with his body. Blood gushed from his shoulder as he roared, “Don’t touch her! Harm her and I’ll kill you!” In the firelight, I finally saw his eyes—not cold, but aching. “Why…” I whispered, trembling, “when you hate me…” He pressed a kiss to my forehead, voice broken. "Because I already knew… that night during embryo transfer, you swapped the samples yourself." "But I let the twins live." "Because the moment you fought to save your mother… I fell in love with you." Sirens wailed in the distance. He held me tight in the pool of blood, guarding me like I was the only light left in the world. But no one knows—the one who pulled the trigger was me. The moment the livestream’s chat popped up: *[The female lead will be betrayed by her closest ally and die on the delivery table]* I struck first. This time, I’m no longer a pawn. I gently touched my belly and whispered, "Kids, Mom’s first lesson for you is—" "Don’t trust tears. Don’t trust vows. Trust only the gun in your hand." The rain still falls. But we—we survived until dawn.

The wedding rehearsal collapses the moment the hospital system refuses her payment—and the refusal cannot be undone. Under the glare of fluorescent lights, she doesn’t beg, doesn’t explain. She lets the rejection screen stay visible while the live cameras outside the chapel warm up. When Aspen arrives in tailored shoes and rehearsed concern, she says nothing—she simply forwards his engagement video to the hospital clerk, timestamps intact. Champagne towers. A promise to transfer “everything” after vows. The contrast is lethal. Stage one: he reframes mercy as ownership. The surgery money appears, labeled a pre‑marital gift. The press is already waiting. He offers her his hand like a leash. She doesn’t take it. Stage two: the intercom detonates the room. A flagged record. A marriage she never consented to. No denial—just a pause while she pulls the registry receipt from her phone, metadata glowing, and lets the whisper ripple through the corridor. Phones rise. Screens capture. The story begins to travel without her saying a word. Stage three escalates at the altar. Suitcases hit the table—cash spilling, cameras swallowing the image whole. A man from her past steps into frame, not as a savior but as proof: an affidavit, a recorded call, a dead name bound to her ID five years ago. A charity hero’s signature. A system bent until it breaks. Aspen sneers; she smiles. She walks forward. Tears the contract on livestream. The chat explodes. Power shifts in real time as the narrative outruns him. But the feed cuts before the end. A final message uploads—scheduled, not sent. A second contract waits in escrow. And somewhere between the chapel doors and the operating room, a countdown starts, promising that what just went viral was only the first release.

After a reckless one-night stand with equestrian champion Phillips Hobbs, hotel maid Cindy Becker is caught in a scandal that forces them into a flash marriage. Bound by pride and passion yet divided by class and circumstance, their fragile union faces relentless tests—from Phillips’ devoted fiancée to the weight of family expectations. But as jealousy, rivalry, and sacrifice threaten to tear them apart, Cindy and Phillips uncover a truth neither expected: their lives have been intertwined long before that night.

The night she shredded her wedding dress, Paris was drenched in cold rain. In the surveillance footage, August lounged in a rooftop champagne pool, arms wrapped around his new lover, laughing like a satiated leopard. I stood on the third-floor terrace, gripping the diamond ring he’d given me, grinding it slowly into my palm until blood mixed with rain trickled down my fingers, dripping onto the red carpet below—the golden velvet path we’d laid for three hundred meters on our wedding day. “Madam, don’t go down,” the maid pleaded, clutching the hem of my dress. I broke free. My heels crunched over shattered glass as I stepped forward. The moment the nightclub exploded, I was tossing his love letters one by one into the blaze. Flashbulbs erupted; guests screamed and scattered. I smiled at the cameras, letting the flames singe the ends of my hair. By morning, the city’s top headline read: [Insane Heiress Burns Wedding Ring—For What, Just a Title?] No one knew that inside the ring I’d thrown into the Seine, engraved beneath the gold, was another woman’s name. When I woke in the hospital, a nurse handed me divorce papers. “Your husband said you need rest,” she said carefully. “And… he’s filed a restraining order. Due to your history of violent behavior.” I stared at the ceiling and laughed softly. Violent? He hasn’t even seen what real revenge looks like yet. My phone vibrated. An anonymous message flashed on screen: [Your husband’s mistress took a genetic test last week.] [Results show—she’s your younger sister, missing for ten years.] Outside, lightning split the sky. This storm had only just begun.