The Lost Quarterback Returns

True heir Kai of Hale was framed, lost an arm in exile. Back home he suffered family’s unfair treatment till Marshal Ash rescued him. The fake son mutated and summoned monsters. Kai defeated them, abandoned his family and started a new life with Ash.,

On her half-sister Victoria's wedding day, 25-year-old nurse Lily Watson is forced to marry Dominic Castellano, a ruthless mafia king rumored to have murdered his last wife. When Victoria flees, Dominic's hitmen threaten Lily's family. To save them, Lily takes Victoria's place at the altar—only to become the bride of a man she fears may be a killer.

In 2026, top designer Fiona dies and wakes up in 1995 as an obese, despised wife whose husband, Carter, wants a divorce. Using her future fashion sense, she sheds weight, pays debts, and builds a fashion empire. Witnessing her independence, Carter fights to win her back. Ultimately, they reunite at the top.,

A hidden heiress of Sinclair family builds her husband into a luxury tycoon—until his affair with the restaurant manager and a viral electro-eel attack expose his betrayal. Revealing her true identity, she destroys the empire she built for him.,

The glass doors of the hospital lobby shattered inward just as I crouched in the corner of the pediatric IV area, swabbing the palms of a little girl with a fever using an alcohol pad. She was delirious with heat, clutching the cuff of my white coat. Her voice was faint: “Sister… are you the one who gave me the injection last time—the one that didn’t hurt?” I didn’t answer. Just pressed the pad even more gently. Then—screams tore through the air. “Lin Wan! You actually have the nerve to show up here?!” My ex-husband, Chen Zhe, seized his former wife’s arm. His wedding ring still gleamed on his finger, blindingly bright. “You’ve brought *him*—some random man—to steal our child?!” Behind him stood a man in an Armani suit, his gold watch catching the light as he calmly adjusted his cufflinks—her current husband, Xie Yan. “Steal?” Xie Yan smiled faintly—soft-spoken, yet the entire hall fell half a beat silent. “Dr. Chen, the third coronary bypass you performed? I stepped in and completed it. Dare you claim your daughter is standing here today because of *your* hands—hands that have trembled for three years?” A murmur rippled through the crowd. I kept swabbing the girl’s palms. The sharp scent of alcohol spread like a silent fuse. Then—she seized. Not from the fever. It was status epilepticus—the EEG report had just flashed in. The monitor shrieked. Red alarm lights pulsed across the tiled floor, like blood beating. The head nurse rushed over, shoving me aside: “Hurry—call Chief Lin!” No one answered. Because Chief Lin wasn’t in the lobby. She was inside the ICU, gowned in full isolation gear, kneeling on one knee—barehanded, steadying an ECMO pump on the verge of failure. The seventh-generation artificial heart-lung system she’d personally modified. The only person in the hospital qualified to recalibrate its parameters. Meanwhile, in the center of the lobby, Chen Zhe pointed straight at me: “*Her!* That new night-shift nurse! She altered my daughter’s medication records yesterday—*in secret!*” Xie Yan turned—and locked eyes with me. Three seconds passed. He removed his watch and tossed it to his assistant. “Clear Operating Room One. Then call Director Shen—and tell him: ‘Qingluan is awake.’” Silence crashed down—absolute, suffocating. Even the monitor’s shrill beep seemed to stutter. I finally released the girl’s hand, rose, and smoothed my white coat—its hem stained with fresh, glistening alcohol, shimmering cold-blue under the lights. I pulled off my mask. At my left earlobe, a silver earring shaped like a needle caught the light—the insignia of the National Young Neurosurgeon Championship, melted down and recast by my own hands. Xie Yan walked toward me. His dress shoes crushed rumors beneath each step. He stopped before me, bent, and picked up the alcohol pad I’d dropped—his fingertip brushing mine, damp with antiseptic. Then, in full view of everyone, he gently traced the old scar running across the back of my hand—the one carved by splintered bone three years ago, in a field hospital in Africa, when I’d held open a child’s neck wound with my bare hands to extract shrapnel lodged in the carotid artery. “Dr. Lin Wan,” he said softly—yet the chandeliers above hummed in resonance. “It’s time you returned to the operating table.” The LED screen mounted high in the lobby flickered once. Then switched automatically—to live surgery feed. The surgical lamp flared. A pair of gloved hands lifted the titanium neuro-dissector—the only three such instruments in existence. The camera panned slowly upward. Revealing a face calm to the point of austerity. And eyes—washed clean with alcohol, yet forever stained with blood.

The day she signed the divorce agreement, she wore a white dress—like attending a funeral. The pen hovered over the signature line for three seconds. It didn’t descend. The doctor pushed open the door: “Mrs. Lin, your husband’s prenatal exam report is ready—the fetus is perfectly healthy.” She lifted her gaze—and at the end of the corridor, he was crouched before the pregnant woman, one hand resting gently on her swollen belly, the other tying her shoelace. Sunlight slanted through the glass window, gilding the undersides of his lowered lashes—tender, blinding. In her hand, the ultrasound slip bore a diagnosis from the same hospital, same time, another examination room: 【Advanced Endometriosis; Natural Conception Probability < 0.3%】 【Urgent surgery recommended—otherwise, permanent infertility is inevitable】 That slip—she’d clutched it yesterday in trembling silence, walked out of the gynecology clinic alone. No one knew. Not even him. She folded the divorce agreement neatly and tucked it into the deepest compartment of her bag. When she turned, her stiletto heel shattered a mosaic of light across the floor. No one saw her pause at the corner pharmacy after leaving the hospital and buy three boxes of ovulation-inducing injections. No one saw her return that night to the hollow shell of their marital home, open the safe, and lift out a sandalwood box—inside, seven DNA comparison reports, each dated across different years. The earliest, stamped 2018, bore the stark title: *“Negative Biological Parentage Conclusion Between Mr. Lin Yanzhou and Ms. Su Wan”* And “Su Wan”? His current fiancée—the woman hailed across the internet as his “life-saving angel” after his car accident-induced amnesia. Her phone vibrated. An unknown number sent a photo: A storm-lashed night. An ambulance’s rotating red light. He, drenched in blood, lifted onto a stretcher. And standing beneath an umbrella in the rain—her profile, sharp as a blade carved in obsidian— Not Su Wan. Me. I lowered my head and wrote a single line on the bathroom mirror with crimson lipstick—fresh, vivid as blood: **His Goddess Didn’t Wait — She Rewrote the Script.** At the birthday gala, the crystal chandeliers burned so fiercely they stung the eyes. He entered on Su Wan’s arm. The entire room rose, applauding. I glided forward, champagne flute in hand, skirt sweeping over scattered roses—stopping three paces away. He smiled. “Qingyi. Long time.” I smiled back—soft, effortless—and raised an old pocket watch. Its lid sprang open. No hands inside. Just a tiny chip, pulsing faint blue light. “Lin Yanzhou,” I said, voice low—but the ballroom fell utterly silent, breath held, “guess why that voice memo you recorded for Su Wan… never sends?” His face went pale. I tilted my head, the smile freezing, then fading. “Because I hear every word you say.” “From the very first lie.” *“God made me His puppet—but He forgot to teach me how to kneel and love a liar.”* The rim of the champagne flute touched my lips. I tipped my head back and drank it all. Behind me, the main screen flared to life— Footage from *every* secret meeting he’d had with Su Wan over the past three years: timestamps, locations, real-time subtitles, precise to the millisecond. The final frame froze on last night’s private monologue in his study: *“As long as Qingyi doesn’t investigate—this marriage stays unshaken.”* I snapped the watch shut. Turned. Walked away. Each heel struck the marble like a countdown hitting zero. —Revenge isn’t the end. It’s her shattering the altar herself—then picking up every shard, and assembling them, piece by deliberate piece, into a throne.