Scholarship student Mavis Wynn's first kiss is stolen by star quarterback Julian Sterling at Harper High, making her Public Enemy No. 1. After a Christmas betrayal shatters her heart, Julian saves her and claims he wants to win her heart. Is this her bully's twisted game or the real thing?

As the wedding reached its third movement, the city's bells abruptly fell silent. I stepped into the hall through a pool of blood, my sword dragging behind me, screeching against the stone floor. My black war robes, long torn to shreds by the northern blizzards, flapped like a tattered banner in the wind. The assembled nobles recoiled in unison—except the emperor. He remained seated, fingers tapping lightly on the arm of his throne. Tap. Then again. "Jean Suel," he finally spoke, his voice like a fissure cracking across an icefield. "Your mother stood just like that before she died." I laughed. With a flick of my blade, I sent seven imperial guards flying. Suddenly, text erupted before my eyes— 【Fate Line Activated: Regicide or True Dragon Heir?】 【Warning: Current Affinity -99. Princess is weeping behind her veil.】 【Hint: Your mother’s keepsake is hidden inside the wedding ring. Look now!】 The princess’s fingers trembled slightly. That ring, engraved with the empire’s twin eagles, shimmered under the candlelight in an eerie crimson hue. I knew that shade well—twenty years ago, when she smeared poison onto the marriage decree and murdered my mother, her nails were stained the same red. "Do you really think you're here to crash the wedding?" The emperor rose, his dragon robe rippling as if caught in a gale. "This marriage was set up for *you* from the start." With a thunderous crash, iron nets dropped from the four corners of the hall. Twelve elite assassins emerged from hiding. But I spun around, drew my sword—and the hilt snapped, revealing half of a yellowed baby swaddle cloth embroidered with a star map only royal blood could know. "Wrong," I sneered, plunging the blade into the old scar over my heart. The moment my blood touched the star map, the entire imperial ancestral temple began to tremble. Text flooded my vision: 【Truth Unlocked: The Outcast = Exiled Crown Prince】 【System Announcement: Revenge Meter at 100%. 'Crown Seizure' Ending Unleashed】

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."

At a cliffside church in Sicily, Italy, the crimson twilight bleeds through stained glass. I stand in black performance attire, fingers gliding across strings. As I play the first note of *The Devil’s Aria*, guests are still applauding Olivia’s pearl-veiled bridal gown. But this melody isn’t a blessing—it’s a death knell. “Ladies and gentlemen,” I lift my gaze, bow never pausing, “the accident that struck groom Enzo three months ago… was orchestrated by me. But what you don’t know is—” I sneer, “he was never the true victim.” The camera sweeps the crowd. Enzo sits in the front row, crisp in his suit, lips curled into a faint smile. I continue playing, each note slicing through masks like a blade: “The driver who crashed into him that night? His body still lies buried beneath an olive grove near Taormina. Who was he? Enzo’s most trusted bodyguard. Why did it happen? Because on the eve of the wedding, he caught the bride… in bed with her own brother.” Gasps erupt! Olivia leaps to her feet, her train sweeping over and toppling the champagne tower. She tries to speak—but Enzo gently presses her back down. “Not yet,” he murmurs, voice tender as if soothing a lover. “Your act hasn’t even begun.” In the next second, the church doors slam shut. No media. No police. Just a long Lincoln pulling away silently. Through its tinted windows, I watch Olivia being forced inside by two men in black—her screams muffled behind glass. Three days later. A family dinner. Under crystal chandeliers, at the far end of a long table, Olivia appears in a high-neck velvet dress, bruises shadowing her throat. She eats in silence, eyes down. Enzo raises his glass. “Thank you all for witnessing our wedding. And special thanks to Miss Veronica—for reminding us through music that some sins… cannot stay hidden.” He pauses, eyes locking onto mine. “From today, she joins our household as our chief art advisor.” Shock ripples through the room. Only I understand—this isn’t a reward. It’s a brand of complicity. That night, I light a cigarette on the balcony. Footsteps approach. “What do you want?” Enzo leans against the doorframe, holding a file. “Money? Shares? Or… me?” I exhale a smoke ring, softly laughing. “I want the cassette under your bed. And the video in your safe—the one showing Olivia drugging the driver that night.” His eyes narrow. “How much do you know?” “Enough to put you behind bars. Enough to keep myself alive.” I turn, meeting his stare. “But I won’t expose you. Because I hate her more than you do.” Wind brushes the courtyard. Beneath moonlight, we face each other—two wolves crouched over prey. Meanwhile, deep in the cellar, Olivia claws at the wall with broken nails, carving words: **"They conspired to fool the world—even you, dear reader."** Suddenly, live chat bursts across the scene: [OMG! The side character is the real psycho!] [Stop arguing—the heroine died long ago. This one’s a ghost possessing her body!] [Bet five bucks someone dies on piano keys next chapter.] I crush the cigarette, whispering, “The game has only just begun.” A distant thunderclap splits the sky. Rain pours down in sheets. And above it all—a blood-red moon hangs heavy in the dark.

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.

Christmas Eve, the snow fell in silence. When I pushed open the front door, the fireplace still glowed with warmth. Dinner was set on the table—cutlery neatly arranged, red wine untouched and not yet chilled. My wife’s scarf lay draped over the arm of the sofa, still holding a trace of heat. But where was she? "Mommy?" My daughter, Penny, came running down the stairs, her eyes red as if soaked in blood. She didn’t say a word—just pressed a note into my hand. The handwriting was my wife’s: *Ed, don’t look for me. I’ve been dead for three days.* My body went cold. Three days ago, she was in the kitchen making soup, laughing at the tomato sauce stain on my shirt. Three days ago, she kissed Penny’s forehead and said it would snow for Christmas, reminding her to wear something warm. Three days ago… she was alive! But the coroner later told me—there was no mistake. The signs of slow decomposition under cold conditions don’t lie. She had been gone for more than 72 hours. Then who had spoken? Who had laughed? Who had carefully stitched up Penny’s torn Christmas doll, needle by careful needle? Penny hugged the doll close and whispered, “Daddy, Mommy hasn’t left. She said… as long as we remember her, she can stay a little longer.” I broke down in tears. And on the seventh day, the doorbell rang. Standing outside was a woman with a gentle smile and a voice achingly familiar. “Hello, I’m Mia. The new nanny. I heard you… needed a mother?” The moment she stepped inside, Penny jerked her head up, pupils shrinking in shock. Because behind Mia’s ear was a mole—exactly like the one my dead wife had. That night, I found my wife’s diary in the attic. On the final page, she had written: *If another “me” ever appears, tell her: the child is afraid of the dark. Remember to leave the light on.* Snow began to fall again. At the graveyard, Penny crouched before the grave, placing the doll gently beside the tombstone. Moonlight spilled across the stone as she whispered, “Mommy, I won’t cry this Christmas.” “But promise me one thing—next time you come back… don’t borrow someone else’s body.” The wind passed without a sound. Far away, beneath a streetlamp, Mia stood motionless—and raised a hand to wipe away a tear that wasn’t hers.