MTL - Rebirth of the Rich and Wealthy - ~ 342, to sleep in a room, seven dishes and two soups

The whole world knows that she loves me, but only I know that I am a substitute!

When Jiang Liuyi was twenty-six years old, she caught up with the fashion and got married randomly.
The flash marriage partner was a woman of her age, with a good personality and a good temper.
What my friends envy the most is being obedient to her,
Even knowing that she was a random substitute because he broke up with his ex-girlfriend,
There is no complaint or regret to stay by her side, and it is as sweet as it is.

Jiang Liuyi was very useful.

Later, her ex-girlfriend returned to China, and the two needed to meet for business reasons.
A friend teased her about kneeling on the washboard when she got home. She was stunned for a while before she realized,

Her wife never asked about her ex-girlfriend.

In a word: You have the white moonlight, but I have the cinnabar mole.

Content tags: Marriage and love Slapping face Sweet text Cool text
Search keywords: Protagonist: Jiang Liuyi, Song Xian ┃ Supporting role: ┃ Others:
One sentence introduction: You have white moonlight, I have cinnabar mole
Conception: Deep love is not as good as long-term companionship.

- Description from novelbuddy

war, blood, and betrayal carved him into something else. A legend. A killer. A mercenary whose name struck fear into both criminals and so-called heroes alike.But now, the world had changed. Lines blurred between right and wrong, between justice and vengeance. Should he step into the light, wear the mask of a hero, and fight for a cause greater than himself? Or should he embrace the darkness that had always been his home, a place where morality was just another illusion?“Don’t box me in with your shallow ideas of good and evil,” he muttered, his voice calm but edged with danger. “I do what I want, when I want.”The air was thick with tension as he moved like a shadow through the dimly lit room. The writer had no time to react—one moment, he was scribbling nonsense about legends and myths; the next, a cold barrel pressed against the back of his head.The figure smirked beneath his mask, eyes gleaming with something between amusement and menace.“You wanna write fiction?” he whispered. “Then let me show you how real legends are made.”A single gunshot shattered the silence.As the writer’s body slumped over the desk, the man holstered his weapon, stepping into the faint glow of a flickering neon light.“It’s that simple,” he said, his voice unwavering. “I’m Deathstroke.”

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