On a rainy night, Bethany unexpectedly met Matthew, the enigmatic leader of a powerful crime family. From the moment he saw her, Matthew fell for her and pursued her with relentless determination. As time went on, Bethany found herself falling in love with him, despite the dangers that surrounded his world.

The moment the red nightgown touched her skin, the marriage crossed a line it could never return from. The private villa was silent except for the soft hum of hidden cameras, their lenses locked on the bed where she lay with one hand over her pregnant belly. Upstairs, beyond a concealed bookshelf, the feed streamed into a surveillance room where he watched without blinking. At 3:17 a.m., ash fell from his cigarette as he ordered the recording to continue—every breath, every movement archived like evidence awaiting trial. At dawn, the house transformed into a different stage. Sunlight flooded the bedroom as he returned in a tailored suit, immaculate and unreadable. She approached with warm milk and a careful smile, playing the role she had survived in for three years. He didn’t touch the cup. He pulled the curtains wide and asked a single question that split the room in two: she had never been blind, had she? Glass shattered, blood traced her ankle, and the first mask cracked—but he didn’t accuse. He placed a photograph on the table instead, time-stamped proof of her seeing eyes, her reflection sharp and conscious. The room tightened. She pleaded survival. He answered with proximity. A gun rose, slow and steady, as contracts and recordings surfaced on the screens—prenatal records altered, medical signatures forged, a lineage he believed betrayed. The risk escalated again: not a lie exposed, but a future contested. He pressed closer. She shielded her belly and swore the child was his. He didn’t believe words; he believed systems. Then the systems betrayed him. From the corner, the fetal monitor cut through the silence—beep… beep…—a heartbeat impossible to fake. The weapon hovered, half-pressed. Outside, wind lifted the curtains like witnesses leaning in. Love collapsed into ash; hatred found no landing. He stood frozen between proof and pulse, between a kill shot and a living record that would outlast any confession. He lowered nothing. Said nothing. Somewhere beneath the floorboards, another file began uploading—unplayed, unfinished. And as the heartbeat continued, so did the countdown, toward a decision no contract could contain and a reckoning that hadn’t even started yet.

The moment she stepped onto the Moon Festival altar in white, the Wolf King’s death six years ago became unfinished business. The great hall of the wolf clan was alive with firelight and drums, silver goblets raised beneath ancestral banners, when Ella arrived in high heels—human, unarmed, smiling as if she had never driven a blade through a king’s heart and vanished into the dark. At the center of the feast, Monica the red-haired witch lifted her glass and named the crime aloud. The accusation echoed, but the throne remained silent. The Wolf King did not defend himself. He did not deny the past. He watched. Ella stood still, eyes calm, letting the room sharpen around her. She did not explain why she had returned. She did not bow. She only looked toward the child beside the throne—the little girl who had already whispered a forbidden word that night: Mother. The first gear turned. Before judgment could fall, the fire pit detonated. Flames roared up the marble pillars. The child fell screaming into the coals. Chaos tore through the hall. Elders shouted spells. Guards froze. And Ella moved. She ran straight into the fire. Bare hands clawed through burning embers. Skin blistered. Blood streaked the sacred ground. She pulled the child free and collapsed, cradling her like something worth dying for. When she looked up, her eyes did not plead with the crowd. They locked on the throne. That was when the Wolf King finally rose. Power surged. A towering shadow of the true wolf tore through the ceiling, his roar ripping the night apart. The hall knelt instinctively—too late to notice Monica’s smile tightening, too late to see the second layer of the trap closing. Because the child in Ella’s arms was never his. She was the price Ella paid six years ago. Flesh of her flesh, given to darkness so the Wolf King could live long enough to hate her. As the hall trembled and the king’s wrath filled the sky, the girl slowly opened one glowing red eye. No verdict was spoken. No mercy granted. Somewhere beneath the altar stones, a binding older than the clan itself began to stir—and whatever Ella had come to reclaim, it was no longer just a life. It was a curse already awake.

After her mother's sudden death, a rebellious girl falls dangerously in love with her new guardian—the ruthless mafia boss who once "loved" her mom.

He called me Selina so softly, like a feather settling into a wine glass. That night, we drank too much. The lights were dim, our hearts raced too fast. He said he loved me, and I kissed him with a smile. We were both drunk, yet utterly清醒—clear-headed as we fell, clear-headed as we crossed the line, turning a forbidden thing into a dream. Before dawn broke, the phone rang. It was my father. "If you keep him, tomorrow his name will appear on every hush-money list there is." "I'll make sure he can't land a role, can't join a production—not even as an extra without begging for scraps." "Do you want him alive like a dog? Or would you rather—he not live at all?" I stood on the balcony, watching him sleep in bed. His suit hung over the chair, tie loose—a hero without a home. I didn’t speak. Just replied, “I understand.” Then I left. No note, no deleted messages, no looking back. As if I’d never loved him at all. Five years later, at a Paris Fashion Week gala. Crystal chandeliers refracted light through towers of champagne flutes. I wore couture, smiled politely, exchanged pleasantries—until someone tapped my shoulder. "Hey, isn't that your ex-boyfriend? Jacob Chen—the one in sunglasses now." I turned. There he stood before me, dressed in black, his features sharper, colder than I remembered. The sunglasses hid his eyes, but not the scar along his brow—the one he got shielding me from a journalist’s thrown glass. He didn’t look at me. Just raised his glass, nodding to others around: “Long time no see.” An old friend chimed in cheerfully, “Selina almost married him! Such a shame they broke up out of nowhere… what a waste.” The air froze for a heartbeat. Jacob finally lifted his gaze. Behind those dark lenses, his eyes burned—like a single spark leaping from cold, dead ashes. I didn’t move. Didn’t smile. Just whispered, “No, not a waste.” “What’s truly tragic is the man who was willing to destroy his own future for me—and I never even said thank you.” His fingers trembled slightly. The glass paused mid-air. Lights flickered. Music faded. No one knows that after that night, he vanished from the industry for three years, surviving on odd jobs. No one knows that every year on my birthday, I receive a bouquet of white roses—never signed. No one knows this “chance encounter” today—I’ve waited five long years for it. And him— Does he still hate me? Does he still love me? I don’t know. I only know this time, I won’t run.

When she pushed the door open, her high heels shattered the moonlight scattered across the floor. The office lights were dim and intimate. Andrew was wrapped around that young girl, laughing carelessly. His wine glass was halfway to his lips when he saw her—his hand paused for just a second before he curled his lips into a smirk. "Back already? The new flavor's pretty good. Want a taste?" I didn't answer. I simply placed the divorce papers gently on the table. He glanced at them and snorted. "You always do this—storm out, then crawl back. Done with your act? Can we go eat now?" I removed my gloves slowly, rolled up my sleeve, revealing the old scar healed shut along my inner wrist. "Three years ago, you said if I ever mentioned divorce, I'd have to crawl out of this house on my knees." I tapped the play button on my phone. From it poured his voice—tender, heartfelt—whispering "I love you," saying "I can't live without you," calling me "Lin Wan, you're my life." It was the video he’d recorded in tears outside my door, begging for forgiveness. Now, it had been forwarded to his chairman father, to his fiancée’s family, and to every gossip-hungry financial outlet in the city. "Andrew," I finally spoke, my voice soft as snow settling into ashes, "I'm not here to reconcile." "I'm here to acquire your company." His face turned pale. He shot upright, knocking his chair over with a crash. I turned and walked away, leaving behind just one final sentence: "Oh, by the way—your father just signed the equity transfer documents. Wish you both a lifetime of happiness."