Susan is taking her sister Ann away from domestic violence. On the road, they meet Max and his older brother Cole. But no one expects Susan and Max to have a one-night stand. A month later, Susan finds out she is pregnant. What will they do? Now what will happen to these four people?

The moment the spotlight hit, I sat in my wheelchair and heard the entire audience gasp. "Alicia Winston? How is she here? I thought she withdrew because of her injury?" "My God... Did she crawl here if she had to?" I ignored their whispers. Slowly, I lifted my hand and pulled the blanket from my legs—cold light glinted off the metal brace beneath, like a silent declaration of war. Three months ago, everyone thought I was destroyed. That "accidental" surgery. Jeffrey holding my hand, saying, "Baby, stop dancing. I'll take care of you." My father standing outside the hospital room, sneering, "You're no child of the Winston name, throwing your life away for a man." And Lin Wei, my once-trusted dance partner, whispering in my ear, "Do you really think he loves you? He just needs you broken, so you'll never leave." But they didn't know what I'd already written in my rehabilitation journal: **True ballet isn't on the tips of toes—it's in the moment your spine straightens and rises.** The music began—*The Dying Swan*. I thought I might cry. Instead, I smiled. I pushed the wheelchair back, gripped the barre, and rose—inch by inch. The sound of prosthetic locking into bone echoed clearly, like fate reloading itself. One step. Two. A turn— I spun three and a half pirouettes en pointe, landing as solid as carved steel. Silence. Then, an eruption of screams. The judges stood as one; some wept openly. Only Jeffrey didn't clap. He sat in the front row, face pale, as if he were seeing a ghost. Because now he understood— I didn't come here to prove I'm still alive. I came here to tell him: **You wanted me on the ground—I will stand, right on top of your schemes, and finish this dance.** The host’s voice trembled as he announced the result: "This year's National Ballet Competition champion… Alicia Winston!" I raised the trophy, eyes cutting through the crowd to meet his. "Thank you," I said, "for showing me what it truly means to be broken—not the legs, but the heart."

Mafia princess Lucia Capello, secretly trained by her grandfather for three years, returns home at Christmas to discover that “Mrs. Capello” is an impostor—her real mother has been humiliated. Alone, Lucia takes on everyone, reclaims her family’s power, and finds love with her quiet protector, Noah.

Sunlight spilled over the town's streets, like a layer of gilded pretense, unable to mask the smoke simmering beneath. Kevin Brown, sharp in a tailored suit, cradled ninety-nine red roses, arm-in-arm with his new lover, Linda—youthful, radiant, smiling like a queen who’d just claimed her prize. He stepped lightly, as if this day crowned the peak of his life. Then, a sudden shove. He crashed to the ground, roses scattering across the pavement, body slamming into the street. Ava stood before him, coat billowing, eyes cold enough to freeze summer itself. "You've got the nerve to show your face?" Her voice was low, yet it silenced the entire block. Kevin scrambled up, straightening his tie with a smirk. "Ava, don't be dramatic. You're just a page I turned long ago." He pulled a paper from his pocket and waved it. "See this? A ten-billion-dollar contract. Signed by me. I reached the top without you." Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Linda giggled behind her hand, "Oh my, is the ex-wife here to beg for reconciliation? A freelancer scraping by on odd jobs—what right does she have standing here?" The air froze. Ava didn’t look at her. Slowly, she drew a document from her bag. Gold lettering gleamed on the cover: **Washington Family Equity Inheritance Deed**. She placed it gently at Kevin’s feet. "You're right," she said, voice calm. "I am the past. But you forgot one thing—your first startup capital came from me mortgaging my family trust. Those three years you slept in your office, surviving on instant noodles—who drove through the night to bring you meals, rewrite your PPTs, secure your first investor? It was that 'freelancer' who spent five years of her youth lifting you to the sky." She paused, gaze slicing like a blade. "And when the child in my womb bled away, alone in a hospital—you were out buying Linda her engagement ring." The crowd erupted. Linda’s smile shattered. Kevin opened his mouth, but no sound came. In the deafening silence, he suddenly dropped to one knee, pulling a massive diamond ring from his chest pocket. He shouted at Linda, "Marry me! Now! Right here! Let the world see who I choose!" Scattered applause broke out. Phones rose to record. Some cheered. Linda nodded through tears. But just as the ring neared her finger— Ava spoke, soft and clear: "You want this marriage?" She paused, lips curling slightly. "I’ll give it to you." Silence fell. She turned and walked away, coat flaring, silhouette unyielding. Leaving only a whisper, carried off by the wind: "Good luck, Kevin. After all… what I’m reclaiming has never been just a man." The camera pulls back. Sunlight still glows, bright and golden. But everyone knows— the storm has only just begun.

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.

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.