Little Miss Devil: The President’s Mischievous Wife - Chapter 725 - Mistaken Identity (1)

The 18-year-old Tong Yan has gotten married. The marriage partner looks mature and handsome, but also serious and stubborn. After living together, he felt that the other man was just seriously raising a child. At least before they got together, Tong Yan never thought he was capable of speaking such words as “I can’t sleep because I miss you so much”.

A fuming Tong Yan after pregnancy: Don’t tease me (╥╯ ^ ╰╥)

A Zhuo Xiang Ming asking for a good morning kiss while fixing his tie: People who constantly feel they’re being teased say they’re afraid to speak

- Description from Novelupdates

“I hesitated before, I turned back to face my shred of hope, yet still no one cared.”“Later the thick fog arose, you said you loved me so much, but why is your love even fainter than the fog, so faint that I can’t even see it clearly.”

She was a famous assassin who had killed important figures, but ironically, she was killed by her own lover.And when she thought she was dead, it turned out she was occupying the soul of a young girl who was tricked by her own family.'Because I have been reborn, I will take revenge on the people who planned my murder and also teach a lesson to the people who underestimated the girl whose soul I reside in!'However, things become complicated when she has to marry a cold man, whom she spent the night with.

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.”