On my thirtieth birthday, I just closed my eyes and made a wish. "May our family of three be happy forever." Then my husband's special ringtone for his first love rang. All it took was one tearful sentence from the other end of the phone—"It's thundering, and the power's out in my neighborhood. I'm so scared."—to make both him and our son turn pale. My 7-year-old son was so anxious that he didn't even have time to put on his shoes. He shoved me to the floor. He didn't even look at my lower leg, which had been cut and was bleeding from the broken glass. He cried that he had to take a flashlight to "Mommy Maddie". He even kicked me away in disgust, cursing me as a vicious woman who was deliberately blocking their way out. My husband didn't even offer a perfunctory word of comfort. He simply picked up his phone and skillfully transferred $990,000 to me as "compensation". All the relatives in the room whispered among themselves, waiting to see me, the pitiful wife, finally break down and make a fool of myself in front of everyone. I looked at the beads of blood seeping from my leg and calmly pulled out a tissue to wipe the cake frosting from the hem of my dress. I accepted the money without hesitation. I even thoughtfully booked an express ride for those two. My husband let out a long sigh of relief, thinking I had finally learned to compromise. But just before getting into the elevator, my son turned around and accused me, "What else can you do besides ask for money? You're not even worthy of a single strand of Mommy Maddie's hair!" I didn't argue. I simply smiled and watched the elevator doors close, silently awakening the system in my mind. "Host, your current mission funds have reached $98.01 million. You're only two transfers away from reaching $99.99 million and leaving this world for good."

My son, Jack, died in front of me after an asthma attack. And I couldn't even get through to emergency services.   All because my husband, Charlie Brook, wanted to stand up for his assistant after she lost her child. He locked my son and me in the basement, cutting off every possible way for us to reach the outside world.   My best friend, Yolanda Jones, went to confront him and demand an explanation. But he threw her into the open sea.   With my heart completely broken, I no longer had the energy to keep fighting Charlie. I handed him the divorce agreement and left to start a new life overseas. But every single day, I was tortured by PTSD.   Whenever I dreamed of Jack and Yolanda crying and calling out for my help, I would cut my arm, punishing myself for the stubbornness that had cost me everything.   That nightmare continued until two years later, when I received a call from my future self.   "Emma, wake up! Jack never died. Charlie wasn't cheating on you with some assistant. The other woman was your best friend, Yolanda.   "Everything was a lie! He knew your temper and was afraid you would hurt Yolanda, so he pinned everything on his assistant.   "You refused to divorce him, so they staged the entire thing and even dragged Jack into their act. They wanted to break you until you chose to walk away."   I booked a flight home that very night.   When I arrived, I saw Jack gently massaging the shoulders of the pregnant Yolanda while Charlie fed her fruit. The three of them sat together inside the villa, looking like a picture-perfect family.   At that moment, every bit of pain and heartbreak I had endured felt like the cruelest joke in the world.

The day I was brought back to the Costa family, I knew I had only two family members left in the world: my older brother, Enzo, and my fiancé, Romano Alexander. So even when they favored Aurora, the fake heiress, I never held it against them. I stubbornly believed that once their temporary favoritism passed, the three of us would be an inseparable family.  Then Aurora and I were attacked by intruders at Enzo's villa. I fought with everything I had and narrowly escaped with Aurora, but Enzo and Romano shoved me aside and pulled her into their arms. Enzo said, "Thank God it wasn't you. Don't worry. No matter what happens, you'll always be my only sister."  Romano comforted her, "Federica has been assaulted. How could she possibly compete with you now? Even if I marry her, you'll be the only one in my heart. Don't be upset, okay?"  I stood off to the side and didn't disturb their tender little scene. Instead, I pulled out my phone. "Mr. Gallo, can I still sign the inheritance documents you mentioned and take over the Costa family?"

"No pre-approval, and you won't get a single cent from finance." Vivian Moore slammed the folder onto the conference table, tapping her fingertips against the cover. The white tips of her nails made two soft clicks against the surface. Four senior partners sat across the conference table. None of them spoke, their eyes darting back and forth between me and the expense reimbursement form. I stared at the topmost reimbursement form, the numbers stinging like needles: $58,620. That was the full amount I had paid out of pocket with my own card when I flew to New York to relocate a witness during the eight months I spent securing the Kane Nelson case for the country's wealthiest man. Every last expense had been pre-approved verbally in advance, and every single one had an email approval record. All that was missing was the final step: the official stamp for financial write-off. And now, Vivian had blocked that final step.

I clutched the DNA test report in my hand, standing outside the CEO's office at Harris Tower. I'd come to tell Holden Harris that I was the long-lost daughter of the Argent family—Milan's billionaire industrialists, missing for twenty years. But through the crack in the door, I saw him pressing Blair Whitmore—the college girl I'd been sponsoring—against the floor-to-ceiling window, kissing her. "Holden... what if your wife finds out?" she murmured. Holden let out a scoff. "Wife? That marriage license I gave her? Fifty bucks at a downtown fake-ID shop. Total sham. If my Dad hadn't made that rule—get married first, then unlock the fifty-billion-dollar trust—a gutter rat like her wouldn't even qualify to polish our doorknobs." He placed a hand on Blair's stomach, his voice dropping. "But now that you're carrying my son, next week, after the shareholders vote me in as CEO, we'll get married. For real." Blair giggled and kissed him again. "You're the best, Holden. I love you." I clapped a hand over my mouth to muffle a sob, then turned and ran. I ran until my lungs burned, until I stumbled and fell to the cold concrete of the underground parking garage. A wheelchair rolled to a stop in front of me. It was Thaddeus Harris, Holden's older brother. A car crash ten years ago had shattered his legs. The family had stripped him of his inheritance and shipped him off to a clinic in Switzerland, written him off for dead. "If he's too blind to see what he has," he said, voice low and rough, "how about you team up with me instead?"

I had been engaged to Louis Carter, the godfather of the mafia, for seven years. Seven years ago, my father was shot and killed while saving him, yet he had never brought up the matter of marrying me. Until that night, when I passed by the study and accidentally overheard his conversation with his advisor. "A mistress's daughter should always be a mistress. She is not worthy to be my wife. Once I go through with the alliance marriage, I can keep her in the suburbs." I gripped my coat, too afraid to breathe, tears streaming down my face as I gritted my teeth. I thought how bitterly unjust my father's death was. On my way to visit my father's grave, Louis called me, saying he had a surprise prepared for me. I sneered inwardly. Before I could even mention calling off the engagement, he had already arrived to pick me up and take me to the villa. "Sofia, the suburbs are quiet. It's perfect for us to have some privacy. No one will bother us. You don't want our lives to be disturbed by others either, do you?" I said nothing and followed him to the suburbs. As soon as he left, I lit the fuse and blew up the villa. When he got the news that the villa had been bombed, Louis called me and asked, "Where are you?" I smirked and said, "I'm getting married in a church."