

I was born with a built-in fortune system. Whenever I'm happy, everyone around me makes money. To keep me in a good mood, my billionaire father takes me out on adventures every single day, showering me with limited-edition sneakers, private yacht charters, and one-of-a-kind luxury items. It all comes down to one thing: the Connolly Group's luck is tied directly to my emotional state. As long as I'm laughing hard enough to snort, the stock price climbs and the money pours in. The moment my mood tanks, the losses start. At worst, the whole thing goes bankrupt. Take last month. One of the cleaning staff accidentally tossed out half a macaron I'd left sitting on the counter, and I was mildly annoyed for about a second. The next day, the Connolly Group's West Coast division posted a hundred-million-dollar loss. Dad spent the entire night buying up ten gourmet bakeries and terminating the cleaning company's contract just to smooth things over. After that, nobody in Manhattan's upper-crust social scene dared so much as look at me sideways. That was, until Dad flew out to Los Angeles on business, and Isabella, the long-lost biological daughter who'd just been found, walked into my room. "You've been leeching off this family for years," she said, looking down at me with pure contempt. "Did you actually think draining the Connolly name dry made you the real heiress? I'm the one with Connolly blood. Now that I'm back, it's time for you to crawl out of my house." I didn't react. She picked up the black coffee sitting nearby and poured it straight onto my keyboard. I watched the screen go dark, and something hollow opened up in my chest. "Get on your knees and clean it up." I wiped the coffee off my face. The air had gone cold. The Connolly Group was about to implode, and I found myself wondering whether Dad, thousands of miles away in LA, was already reaching for his heart medication as he watched billions evaporate off the ticker.

Richard, a broke, sharp-tongued black-market vet, gets evicted from his rundown flat and is hired at an astronomical rate by the mysterious noblewoman Catherine to be the night keeper of Ashford Manor. His plan is simple: coast through the shift, collect his paycheck, and get out. But when he stumbles into a forbidden zone to save a mortally wounded Abyssal Royal Squid, he inadvertently completes the seal on an S-class calamity—and the overflow magic floods straight into him. Suddenly, the entire world thinks some legendary hidden powerhouse just obliterated the disaster. He keeps healing beasts for the money, but the more he heals, the stronger he becomes, earning him an A-rank agent badge from the DMTC. As he digs deeper into the manor's secrets, he uncovers the horrifying truth—this is no mansion, but a crumbling prison built on the souls of fourteen ancestral guardians, barely containing thousands of calamities. And he has been chosen as the sole heir to inherit their power and end a century-long nightmare.

Lydia Nott's mother-in-law falls gravely ill, but Ian Hart, mistakenly thinking the ambulance is for Lydia's ex-boyfriend, blocks its path. At the hospital, he refuses to donate blood and even destroys the blood source needed for the rescue. Despite Lydia's efforts to find help, her mother-in-law dies. Ian skips the memorial to attend Ivy Scott's birthday, only to learn the truth too late. When he tries to expel Lydia from the Hart family, he discovers she's the rightful heir. Stricken with guilt over his mother's death, he is left to face the consequences of his actions.

For Christmas, Harvey Bailey, a humble construction worker, agreed to a flash marriage with his boss, Ember, to ditch her arrogant, wealthy fiancé. But when her family mocked his poverty, his own parents' shocking secret erupted: their "farmhouse" was a vault of priceless artifacts, and Harvey was the hidden heir to a billion-dollar empire. Beginning this Christmas, the humble construction worker will transform into the sole heir of a commercial empire.

Celia, the illegitimate daughter of a noble, endures endless humiliation. Poisoned into muteness by her stepmother, she is sacrificed to the abyss and delivered into the hands of the brutal demon dragon, Draco. Everyone fears the dragon who devours humans, yet he does not kill her. Instead, he makes a pact with her: bear his heir, and he will grant her the power to take revenge. Forced to agree in order to survive, Celia later discovers the truth. The so-called heir pact was nothing more than a scheme that the lonely dragon had plotted for centuries. She is the only one who can tame the bloodthirsty power within him, and she is his fated mate.With the demon dragon's power, she takes her revenge and reclaims everything. But the child growing within her carries both human and demon blood, breaking the laws of the world and drawing the full wrath of the Olympian gods upon them.

My father was one of the first dons to rise out of the Naples mob. My mother was an iron-fisted businesswoman with a reputation that made grown men flinch. When I was ten, somebody had the nerve to hijack one of my father's freight ships. He had the man's arms and legs broken with a crowbar, then stuffed a handful of gold rings down his throat — told him to count his money while he crawled. When I was fifteen, some scheming woman tried to get her claws into my father. My mother hired the filthiest pimps off the docks, shipped her down to a back-alley bar in Marseille, and told her to make her own way. And me — I grew up running the streets of Naples like I owned them. The sons of every other family knew to call me Miss Ferrante and keep their hands to themselves. Then I met him. A rough, quiet man fresh out of the army. For him I put down the knives, traded the silk for plain cotton, and followed him back to that little nothing of a coastal town, Porto Scuro. Today my mother-in-law and my husband went down to the dock warehouses to settle a dispute. They held her face down in a barrel of rotting fish guts. They kicked in three of his ribs. I stared at the salt fish I'd been slicing on the kitchen board, let out a cold laugh, and brought the knife down so hard the oak split in half. Then I dialed my father's private line.

The day I won the eight-million-dollar East Harbor renovation bid, I handed the lead role to Grace Whitman, Ethan Hale’s childhood sweetheart. Ethan thought I had finally learned to be sensible. He happily told me he was taking me to the Maldives for our wedding anniversary. Grace found out that night. She pretended the pressure from work was too much and cried uncontrollably. Ethan panicked so badly that he canceled a board meeting, stayed with her for three days, then called our anniversary trip an emergency client visit and gave Grace the second ticket. When he called me, his tone was still calm, almost entitled. “Sofia, we can talk about emotional stuff later. The company comes first right now. Grace has never handled a project this big on her own. I need to be there with her.” “You’re my wife. You should understand.” I sat alone in our empty apartment and looked at the photo Grace had just posted. In the private airport lounge, Ethan had draped his jacket over her shoulders. Their knees almost touched. Her caption read, [Some people never have to say love. They just show up first, every time.] I didn’t question him. I didn’t cry. I only replied, [Okay.] Ethan probably thought I had finally learned my place. Satisfied, he promised that when he came back, he would give me an even better anniversary. What he didn’t know was that I had already submitted my resignation to Hale Creative. And he didn’t know that the document he had signed three days ago wasn’t a project authorization form. It was our divorce agreement. By the time he realized what he had lost, I was no longer Mrs. Hale. I was Sofia Bellandi again. And Bellandi women do not beg for seats at tables they built.

My father was one of the first dons to rise out of the Naples mob. My mother was an iron-fisted businesswoman with a reputation that made grown men flinch. When I was ten, somebody had the nerve to hijack one of my father's freight ships. He had the man's arms and legs broken with a crowbar, then stuffed a handful of gold rings down his throat — told him to count his money while he crawled. When I was fifteen, some scheming woman tried to get her claws into my father. My mother hired the filthiest pimps off the docks, shipped her down to a back-alley bar in Marseille, and told her to make her own way. And me — I grew up running the streets of Naples like I owned them. The sons of every other family knew to call me Miss Ferrante and keep their hands to themselves. Then I met him. A rough, quiet man fresh out of the army. For him I put down the knives, traded the silk for plain cotton, and followed him back to that little nothing of a coastal town, Porto Scuro. Today my mother-in-law and my husband went down to the dock warehouses to settle a dispute. They held her face down in a barrel of rotting fish guts. They kicked in three of his ribs. I stared at the salt fish I'd been slicing on the kitchen board, let out a cold laugh, and brought the knife down so hard the oak split in half. Then I dialed my father's private line.