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.

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.

At the elite gala, crystal chandeliers shimmering above champagne towers, Juliet Hayes stepped into the ballroom in a crimson gown, a silver small-caliber pistol aimed at Victor Astor’s chest. “You owe me,” she sneered, eyes sharp as blades. “Did you think I wouldn’t come back—when you left me on that Venetian bridge three years ago?” Silence gripped the room. Victor only smiled, lifting his wine glass with deliberate grace. “Oh? Then tell me—exactly who are you?” The livestream chat exploded: [No way! This Juliet is fake! The real Miss Hayes has been locked away in a sanatorium by Victor for five years!] [Plot twist incoming! Every move she makes is part of his script!] [Even her name was given by him… oh god, she’s just a doll he created…] Juliet froze. She remembered the night she fled the slums—he gave her the name "Juliet," taught her aristocratic diction, sent her into Parisian high society. She thought it was love. It was training. “You think you’re here for revenge?” Victor set down his glass, stepping closer. “But you don’t even realize it—your dress, your words, even the way you hold that gun—all written by my brother, Jasper, just for you.” She pulled the trigger. The gunshot rang out. But it wasn’t Victor who fell—it was the bodyguard rushing in behind her, blood blooming across his chest, the Hayes family crest pinned to his jacket. “He’s the real one.” Victor’s voice turned icy. “And you? You wouldn’t pass a DNA test.” Staggering backward, Juliet crashed into the champagne tower. Glass shattered. On the grand screen at the far end of the hall, surveillance footage flickered to life—a pale woman in a wheelchair, smiling quietly at the camera. *That* is Juliet Hayes.” Victor said. “I’ve killed seven impostors before you. You’re the eighth.” She finally understood—no one ever intended for her to walk out alive the moment she stepped onto that red carpet. In the next breath, she dropped to her knees—not in surrender, but raised the gun to her own temple. “If I’m not her… then who am I?” Victor looked down, whispering like a lover’s kiss: “You were my most perfect forgery. Pity—even the finest counterfeit must burn.” Flames crept from the hem of her dress. Music swelled once more. At the center of the dance floor, only a pair of bloodstained red dancing shoes remained, slowly spinning.

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.”