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.

On Christmas Eve, the mansion blazed with light. The old tycoon stood at the center of the grand hall, swirling his wine glass, laughing arrogantly. "Ladies and gentlemen, please admire—the diamond necklace of Queen Mary, appraised at thirty-five million dollars." The guests held their breath, cameras flashing wildly. Only Kyle let out a cold laugh. He slowly removed his gloves and stepped forward, voice sharp as a blade: "Fake. My father swapped it with the real one." Chaos erupted in the room. "Who the hell are you?" A man beside the tycoon shot to his feet, eyes blazing with fury. "How dare you spout nonsense here?" Before the words fully faded, a gun cocked. Kyle drew his pistol, aiming straight between the man's eyes. "I said—it belongs to my family." Panic exploded. Women screamed, men roared. Bodyguards rushed in but dared not approach. At that moment, the main doors crashed open. Snow-laden wind howled into the hall as an elegantly dressed elder strode in, silver-haired, his gaze like tempered steel. "Enough," he boomed. Silence fell instantly. "Essex Smith?" someone whispered the name in trembling awe—the heir of the Smith family, vanished for twenty years. The elder ignored him, his eyes fixed on the necklace, filled with pain and hatred. Then he turned to Kyle, voice hoarse. "You've finally come back." In the next second, he removed his wristwatch, revealing an old scar beneath—its pattern matching perfectly with the mark on Kyle's palm. "Blood recognizes blood. The heirloom returns to its master." Essex slowly knelt, holding up the family genealogy toward Kyle. "Young master... we've waited for you twenty years." Truth shattered the lies. And Kyle, gazing upon the crowd who once trampled his dignity, gently tightened his finger on the trigger— "The next one who lies," he said with a cold smile, "won't be so lucky to miss."

The restaurant lighting was warm, perfect for a performance. When I pushed the door open, I saw Nathan leaning over his steak, cutting it with precise elegance—his knife and fork arranged just as perfectly as he himself always appeared. Across from him sat Lily, in a faded shirt, her knuckles raw and reddened, the kind of hands that life had clearly never spared. I smiled, walking forward with my bag in hand. "Darling, what are you doing here?" The clink of silverware stopped. Lily looked up. Her gaze was like an ice pick, scraping slowly across my face. She didn’t speak, but her eyes asked a thousand questions: *Who are you? How dare you call him darling?* Nathan glanced up. His pupils flickered, then softened into that familiar gentle smile. "Natalie? What a coincidence." I didn’t answer. Instead, I slipped my arm through his, letting my fingers linger for a second on his cuff—a tiny frayed spot, worn from last night in my bed. I knew. But he didn’t know that I knew. "Not a coincidence at all," I tilted my head, smiling. "I came here specially to have dinner with my fiancé." The air froze. Lily finally spoke, her voice eerily calm. "Fiancé? You two… are getting married?" "Yes," I said, pulling a card from my bag—gold-edged, embossed with our names. "Next month, the eighth. Church ceremony. If you get an invitation, you’re welcome to come." She didn’t reach for it. Instead, she slowly set down her fork and turned to Nathan. "So what was that about being your personal assistant?" Nathan cleared his throat, lifting his water glass. "The company’s short-staffed. You’ve got the qualifications, and I trust you. It’s an opportunity." "I’m not some project of yours," she said coldly. "But you need a job," he replied, still mild, yet firm. "Otherwise, how’s the rent? The medication? Your brother’s surgery—he still needs seventeen thousand, doesn’t he?" At that, Lily’s face paled. I knew about her brother. Congenital heart disease. I also knew she’d been working shifts at three different cafés these past six months, scrambling to save enough for the operation. She bit her lip, then nodded. "Fine. I’ll do it." But in that moment she looked up, I saw it—no surrender in her eyes, only fire. Fire that could burn through lies. I wasn’t afraid. Because I knew better than anyone: the play had only just begun. And the real secret wasn’t here. Hours later, on the other side of the city, in a dim underground casino, Nathan stood in the shadows facing a man with a gold chain around his neck. "You've lost me three million!" the man roared. Nathan wiped the corner of his mouth, speaking quietly. "Don’t worry. As long as I have that girl, her father will keep sending money." In the dark, he pulled out his phone. The screen lit up—a photo. A girl in a hospital gown, a medical wristband stamped with the name: **Lily Chen**. The camera pulled back, revealing a wall covered in photos, maps, surveillance logs. At the center, three words stood out in bold: **Operation Prey.**

That night at the "Skyjet" Cloud Banquet, champagne flutes shimmered beneath a star-strewn sky. My father shattered his glass in front of everyone: "You're not worthy of him!" Yet under the table, my mother gripped my hand—her fingers trembling. And there was Rudra, my softly-spoken CEO fiancé, down on one knee, a diamond ring cradled in his palm— "Arya, marry me. Become the mistress of Skyjet." Thunderous applause erupted around us. But in that moment he looked up, I saw it— the scar on his ring finger, identical to the one etched inside my childhood diary. Ten years ago, the night my family fell into ruin, a boy crouched outside the courthouse, chewing cold buns. I handed him my coat. He stared at me, eyes burning: "Someday, I’ll marry you—and make your entire family kneel as they watch me rise." I didn’t recognize him then. Not until today, when he smiled during our engagement livestream and said, "Thank you, Father-in-law, for pulling your investment back then. Otherwise, I couldn’t have acquired Skyjet so smoothly." Suddenly, the giant screen switched—my father’s hand signing the bankruptcy papers, recreated by AI into a moving image, shaking uncontrollably. Silence swallowed the hall. My mother wept. My father lunged forward, fists raised. And I stood at the end of the red carpet, my phone lighting up silently. [Audio backup complete. Transmission to global media initiated—Countdown: 3, 2...] Rudra walked toward me, his smile as gentle as ever. I lifted my chin and smiled back. "My love," I whispered, "you forgot to check—one crucial detail. Who holds the real shares."

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?