Bao Fu Ya Ya
9 Published Stories
Bao Fu Ya Ya's Books and Stories
Broken But His: The Don's Hidden Amputee
Mafia I made my living playing background piano in underground speakeasies to pay off my fugitive father’s blood debt. Tonight, I had exactly ten seconds to make sure my floor-length velvet gown completely concealed the fact that I no longer had legs.
The VIP doors swung open, and the most ruthless mafia Don in the city walked in—Killian Vitiello, the boy I loved a decade ago. He didn't know my legs were crushed by rival soldiers on the very night he took his blood oath. Instead of a reunion, he pulled a beautiful woman in a red silk dress to his side and coldly introduced her as his fiancée.
"The rumors of you being a desperate opportunist at least explain why you vanished without a word," he sneered, looking at my threadbare clothes.
He publicly disavowed my existence to the entire underworld, leaving me to be hunted by rival factions. While he built his empire, I was crawling in the freezing rain to reattach my heavy metal prosthetic, watching my mother descend into fatal madness from our crushing poverty.
I swallowed the bitter ash of my ruined life and let him believe I was a traitorous gold digger. I would rather he hate me forever than let my mutilated body become a fatal weakness to his throne.
So, after my mother died, I packed a single bag and fled the country to disappear for good.
But I didn't know that on the very day I left, Killian kicked down the door of an illicit underground clinic and finally opened my ten-year-old medical file. The Secret Heiress: Freezing My Ex's Fortune
Modern I spent three years playing the "low-maintenance" fiancée to Eliseo Fitzpatrick, a billionaire who believed he’d rescued me from a life of discount clothes and rural poverty. I kept his secrets and balanced his books, treating our engagement like a cold, professional audit. But on my twenty-sixth birthday, the balance sheet finally broke.
My best friend dragged me to a surprise party that turned out to be an ambush. I walked into a VIP suite to find Eliseo dazed and disheveled, with models draped over his lap and his shirt stained with wine that looked like a fresh wound.
When I tried to leave, Eliseo’s guilt turned into a weapon. He pinned me against the door and hissed that without him, I’d be nothing but a country girl in Walmart rags. The next day, his "close friend" Sloane was in our apartment wearing his shirt, laughing that it was only a matter of time before she took my place in his bed.
At his grandfather’s funeral, his family didn't even hide their contempt. His mother called me a gold-digging nobody, and his brother mocked me in front of the grieving crowd.
"So, you're the village girl who tricked my brother?"
They thought I was a penniless pawn, a girl they could discard now that the patriarch was dead and the Fitzpatrick fortune was up for grabs. I stood in their library, listening to them argue over the spoils of a man they never loved. I didn't cry, and I didn't scream. I just waited for the lawyer to open the final folder.
"Arthur Fitzpatrick appointed a new executor," the lawyer announced, and the room went silent. "It’s Flavia Lancaster."
I looked at my stunned fiancé and his greedy family, then pulled out my phone to freeze every single one of their bank accounts.
"The audit begins now." The Cursed King's Salvation: The Omega's Hidden Power
Werewolf I was the pack's lowest Omega, scrubbing floors by day, but secretly waiting for the night my Fated Mate, the Alpha Heir Desmond, would finally claim me.
Instead, he brought home a billionaire heiress and looked at me with cold, dead eyes.
"I choose power," he sneered, rejecting our soul-bond in front of everyone. "An Omega can never be my Luna."
To seal his business deal, he sold me off like cattle to Kennedy Simmons—the "Crippled Alpha" rumored to be a broken, rot-filled monster.
On my last night in the territory, his new fiancée pushed me off a yacht.
As I drowned in the freezing water, I watched Desmond dive in.
He swam right past me to save her.
That was the moment my heart finally stopped beating for him.
They thought sending me to Seattle was a punishment. They thought I would wither away and die in the hands of a beast.
But they didn't know two things.
First, Kennedy Simmons wasn't a monster; he was a King waiting to be healed.
Second, I wasn't a weak Omega. I was a White Wolf, a legend thought to be extinct, capable of miracles.
Three months later, Desmond stood outside my gates, bankrupt and desperate, begging for a second chance.
I looked down from my balcony, wrapped in the arms of my true Alpha, and smiled.
"Get off my property," I commanded, my eyes glowing white. "Or I'll finish what the ocean started." The Billionaire Heiress's Radical Comeback
Modern My husband, Derek, once called me his princess. But when my parents died and I miscarried our child, he told me to be "radically independent" and handle my grief alone.
After I tried to end my own life, I woke up in the hospital to see him holding his crying assistant, Krystal.
He whispered to her, "You never have to be strong with me."
He told the doctors I was just seeking attention and hung up. Krystal later visited, blaming me for the miscarriage before destroying my mother's heirlooms. Derek believed her lies, throwing me out of our home and leaving me with nothing.
He thought I was a weak, dependent woman he could easily discard. He thought his tech empire was his own creation.
He never knew his "self-made" success was a gift, secretly funded by my billionaire family. Now, he's about to learn what happens when a princess decides to become a queen. My Betrayal, My Second Chance
Romance The last thing I remembered was the cold hospital room and the flatlining heart monitor. My wife, Ava, wasn't there; she was too busy arranging my adopted brother Ben's funeral.
My own birthday had been my death sentence. Mr. Chen, a rival, lunged at me with a knife. Ava, my bodyguard and fiancée, threw herself in front of Ben, not me.
The blade severed my spinal cord. I spent a decade paralyzed, yet I married her, giving her everything-my fortune, my name, my pathetic love. She never let me touch her.
Only after her death did I learn the truth: love letters addressed to Ben, bank statements showing her funneling my money to him. Her last diary entry: "Ben is everything. I will protect him with my life, just like I did on that day."
The monitor went silent. My world turned black. Then, a voice: "Ethan, it's time to decide."
My eyes snapped open. I was in the Miller estate, on my 25th birthday, the day I chose my wife. Ava stood there, cool and distant, an ice queen I had spent a lifetime trying to melt. A jolt of pure, undiluted hatred coursed through me.
"I've made my decision," I said, voice steady. I looked past Ava, past her confident smirk, and my eyes landed on Chloe Davis. In my past life, she was the only one who visited me.
"My choice," I announced, ringing with finality, "is not Ava Lewis." Playing the Long Game: A Twin's Revenge
Modern My twin brother, Ethan, was always the golden child, adored by our parents, effortlessly charming.
I was the "difficult" one, often overlooked, watching from the porch as two smiling women lured Ethan with a rare comic book.
Then, a sudden, blinding change. One moment I was an observer, the next I was in the back of their van, the world a dizzying blur, Ethan smirking from where I had stood.
They sold me. For ten years, I was a ghost in a life not my own, trapped with a clan of survivalists in the Appalachian mountains, enduring abuse and forced labor.
When I was finally found, broken and scarred, Ethan pulled his final trick. He swapped us back, instantly spinning a tale of how I, out of jealousy, had orchestrated his abduction.
My own parents, without a shred of hesitation, believed him, seeing only a damaged stranger. They decided to commit me to a psychiatric hospital.
How could my family, my own twin, betray me so utterly? Why was I always the one discarded, the one forgotten?
But then I woke up, the smell of bacon filling the air, back in my childhood bed. It was the same day. This time, I wouldn't just watch. They Asked for My Kidney, I Gave Them Hell
Modern Three years ago, I saved a stranger' s life by donating a kidney, an anonymous act of compassion.
Now, a year after losing my heroic fiancé, Andrew, I' m pregnant with his child, the only piece of him I have left. My life should be about new beginnings.
But then, a knock on my door shattered everything.
Standing there were Molly Chadwick, the woman I' d saved, and her parents, their faces grim.
Molly' s donated kidney was failing, and they weren't there to thank me.
They were there to demand my other kidney, for her, immediately.
I refused. How could I sacrifice my unborn baby? Their pleas turned to threats, then a public smear campaign that branded me a monster. One night, they ambushed me.
I woke up in a sterile clinic in Mexico, terrified, realizing they planned to forcibly take my kidney. I begged, pleaded for my baby, but they ignored me. The anesthetic surged, and I felt life drain away. I died on that table.
But then, I woke up. In my own bed. My baby still safe inside me. The date on my phone was three days before they ever came to my door.
The horrific memory was physically crushing, but beneath it, a burning fury ignited.
I' d been given a second chance. Not for peace, but for vengeance. This time, I would protect my child. And the Chadwicks would pay. From Fragile Heiress to Fierce Revenge
Romance For twenty years, Isabella Rothschild was New York’s "poor little rich girl," a fragile heiress with a child's mind. At my lavish 20th birthday ball, my doting father paraded me before eligible bachelors, expecting me to choose my esteemed fiancé, Ethan Carter.
But the champagne’s sweetness triggered a chilling memory: last Thanksgiving. Ethan drugged me, leaving me choking from a pecan allergy while laughing with his mistress, Emily, on a yacht. I was a forgotten doll, barely gasping for air.
They believed my mind too simple to grasp their open betrayal, society dismissing me as a "tragedy." My own fiancé casually orchestrated my near-death, boasting about knocking me "out cold," exploiting my innocence.
Now, amid opulent perfume, I tasted burning betrayal. The horrifying truth of past helplessness, mixed with their smug indifference, ignited a cold, clear fury. My mind was terrifyingly, utterly lucid.
I was alive; I was no longer a fool. With a cool, practiced smile, I raised my hand, pointing directly at Ethan. The room sighed, misinterpreting my gesture. My calculated, public revenge had just begun, for the "silly" Bella they knew was gone. You might like
From Jilted Bride To Mafia Empress
Xiao Wang For seven years, I was the architect of my fiancé's criminal empire and the strategist behind his every move. I was Dante Gallo’s unofficial Consigliere, his partner in everything but name. Tomorrow, I was finally supposed to marry him and take my place as the queen to his throne.
But on the eve of our wedding, a single text message sent by mistake detonated my life. It was a photo from Dante, showing a platinum wedding band on his hand. The message read: “Married this morning. She’s safe now.”
My gaze fell to the engagement ring on my own finger. It was the identical band, just smaller. The engraved initials ‘D.I.’ didn’t stand for Dante and I. They stood for Dante and Isabella—his childhood sweetheart. My entire relationship was a lie; I was just a shield to protect his one true love.
He dismissed my discovery as a "tantrum." Then, his new bride began taunting me, sending a picture of them tangled in bedsheets with the caption: "Loser." They expected me to break. They thought I would shatter.
They were about to find out just how wrong they were. I forwarded the picture to Isabella’s fiancé, a man far more dangerous than Dante. "Your fiancée is in Suite 8808 at the Grand Hyatt," I told him. "I'll meet you downstairs. We're going to crash their party." Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles
Dorine Koestler I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved.
He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again.
"Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion.
That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports.
For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian.
In return, he treated me like furniture.
He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste.
I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home.
So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco.
I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage.
But I underestimated Dante.
When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat.
He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away. Rejected by the Son, I Chose the Don
Rabbit On my wedding day, my father sold me to the Chicago Outfit to pay his debts. I was supposed to marry Alex Moreno, the heir to the city's most powerful crime family. But he couldn't even be bothered to show up.
As I stood alone at the altar, humiliated, my best friend delivered the final blow. Alex hadn't just stood me up; he had run off to California with his mistress.
The whispers in the cathedral turned me into a joke. I was damaged goods, the rejected bride. His family knew the whole time and let me take the public fall, offering me his cousins as pathetic replacements-a brute who hated me or a coward who couldn't protect me.
The humiliation burned away my fear, leaving only cold rage. My life was already over, so I decided to set the whole game on fire myself. The marriage pact only said a Carlson had to marry a Moreno; it never said which one.
With nothing left to lose, I looked past the pathetic boys they offered.
I chose the one man they never expected.
I chose his father, the Don himself.
Reborn To Love My Outlaw Husband
Little Red Riding Hood "Once she's finally dead, I want you to take me - right there, in that outlaw President's own bed... promise me, Blaze."
Lying in a freezing pool of my own blood, I watched the man I had loved for three years flirt shamelessly with my cousin. Meanwhile, my so-called "best friend" greedily stripped the wedding ring off my bleeding finger. "Take her. Have your fun with her, just don't let that pretty face go to waste," the scumbag sneered, kicking me aside. As a group of tattooed thugs approached with sickening, lustful grins, I was swallowed by absolute, shivering despair.
Just as I prepared to bite my own tongue to end it all-a deafening engine roar shattered the night. My husband, the ruthless MC President Axel, the "monster" I had spent my life trying to escape, charged into the hellfire covered in blood. He used his massive frame to shield me from every bullet. With his dying breath, his normally cold eyes held nothing but desperate, humble tenderness. "Don't be afraid... I love you..."
When I opened my eyes, I was reborn a year before our fatal fallout. To completely sever ties with the cheating scumbag, I secretly liquidated all my designer assets, transferring the funds into an untraceable offshore account. But the financial report was handed straight to Axel.
He forcefully cornered me against the wall, his eyes swirling with a devastating mix of soul-crushing heartbreak and violent obsession as he ruthlessly bit my lip. "Chloe, even if you run to the ends of the earth, I will drag you back in chains!" he growled, his voice hoarse and his eyes red. "But from tonight on... until I see your lover's corpse with my own eyes, don't you ever try to touch me again."
I wrapped my arms tightly around his solid waist from behind, my small hands slipping under his half-open leather jacket to trace the hard lines of his tense abs. Feeling his massive body instantly freeze into stone, I stood on my toes and whispered breathily against his ear: "Okay. But before you kill him... hubby, don't you want to come back to bed and fulfill your duties as my husband first?" The Underboss's Obsession: Stealing The Bride
Diversion Three days before the wedding.
I was hiding in the dressing room, watching my fiancé caress the swollen belly of another woman.
Luca, the man who had saved my life five years ago, was smiling at his mistress, Sofia. But the real knife to the heart wasn't the affair—it was the dress.
The custom wedding gown he had "lovingly" ordered for me featured intricate silver embroidery along the hem.
It didn't spell Elena.
It read Sofia.
He was planning to make me walk down the aisle wearing his mistress's name.
Later that night, I found a video of him mocking me to his crew, calling me a "dead fish" and admitting he only wanted my family's Capo status. He planned to keep his "true love" on the side while I played the role of the oblivious, ornamental wife.
He thought I was just a sheltered princess. He forgot that my bloodline was built on vengeance.
I didn't cry. I didn't confront him. Instead, I scrubbed his scent off my skin and dialed a number everyone in Chicago feared.
"The pact with the Cavallaro family," I asked my father, my voice cold as stone. "Is it still valid?"
"Dante is the Underboss now," my father warned. "He is a butcher. He breaks men for sport."
"Good," I replied. "I am done playing with boys."
I secretly booked the Gold Ballroom across the hall from my original venue. Luca thought he was walking into a marriage on Saturday.
He didn't know I was bringing a monster to the altar instead. His Vow Broke, Her Empire Woke
Hei Baidong I was the perfect Mafia wife, my dowry the foundation of my husband's ambition. I paid for his Yale degree, his tailored suits, and the very mansion he called his own. My reward? He paraded his mistress into my bedroom and declared her his second wife, expecting me to silently finance their affair.
They thought they had broken a merchant's daughter. They forgot I was raised by wolves.
Armed with a blood chit—a life debt owed to my family by the most feared man in Chicago—I walked into the lion's den. I went to Damien 'The Wraith' Falcone, the Dark Don who rules the Outfit with an iron fist, to demand a simple annulment.
But the King of Chicago isn't interested in simple transactions. He saw the steel beneath my silk, the vendetta burning in my eyes. He granted me my freedom, but at a price: my allegiance. Now, I'm a pawn in his lethal game of thrones, caught between a treacherous husband I swore to destroy and a ruthless Don who looks at me with a terrifying, possessive hunger.
In a city built on loyalty and betrayal, I'm about to teach them all that a queen's wrath is the deadliest weapon of all. Too Late: The Spare Daughter Escapes Him
SHANA GRAY I died on a Tuesday.
It wasn't a quick death. It was slow, cold, and meticulously planned by the man who called himself my father.
I was twenty years old.
He needed my kidney to save my sister. The spare part for the golden child. I remember the blinding lights of the operating theater, the sterile smell of betrayal, and the phantom pain of a surgeon's scalpel carving into my flesh while my screams echoed unheard. I remember looking through the observation glass and seeing him-my father, Giovanni Vitiello, the Don of the Chicago Outfit-watching me die with the same detached expression he used when signing a death warrant.
He chose her. He always chose her.
And then, I woke up.
Not in heaven. Not in hell. But in my own bed, a year before my scheduled execution. My body was whole, unscarred. The timeline had reset, a glitch in the cruel matrix of my existence, giving me a second chance I never asked for.
This time, when my father handed me a one-way ticket to London-an exile disguised as a severance package-I didn't cry. I didn't beg. My heart, once a bleeding wound, was now a block of ice.
He didn't know he was talking to a ghost.
He didn't know I had already lived through his ultimate betrayal.
He also didn't know that six months ago, during the city's brutal territory wars, I was the one who saved his most valuable asset. In a secret safe house, I stitched up the wounds of a blinded soldier, a man whose life hung by a thread. He never saw my face. He only knew my voice, the scent of vanilla, and the steady touch of my hands. He called me Sette. Seven. For the seven stitches I put in his shoulder.
That man was Dante Moretti. The Ruthless Capo. The man my sister, Isabella, is now set to marry.
She stole my story. She claimed my actions, my voice, my scent. And Dante, the man who could spot a lie from a mile away, believed the beautiful deception because he wanted it to be true. He wanted the golden girl to be his savior, not the invisible sister who was only ever good for her spare parts.
So I took the ticket. In my past life, I fought them, and they silenced me on an operating table. This time, I will let them have their perfect, gilded lie.
I will go to London. I will disappear. I will let Seraphina Vitiello die on that plane.
But I will not be a victim.
This time, I will not be the lamb led to slaughter.
This time, from the shadows of my exile, I will be the one holding the match. And I will wait, with the patience of the dead, to watch their entire world burn. Because a ghost has nothing to lose, and a queen of ashes has an empire to gain. Abandoned Heiress, Now His Mafia Bride
Priority I was tracing the gold paint on my own tombstone when a hand tapped me on the shoulder.
It was Clayton.
The same man who, five years ago, had left me bleeding out in a ditch because he didn't want to be late for my sister's engagement party.
"Die quietly, Ivy," he had said over the phone before hanging up.
Now, standing over my grave, he dropped his cheap plastic flowers in shock.
"Ivy? You're... we buried you."
They hadn't buried me.
They had buried an empty box to save face, mourning a "troubled" daughter they had actually discarded like broken trash the moment I became a liability.
Clayton's shock quickly turned to that familiar, arrogant anger.
He accused me of faking my death for attention.
He told me I was sick for putting the family through such pain.
He even reached out to grab my arm, intending to drag me back to my father to apologize.
"You're coming with me," he spat. "You owe us an explanation."
But he made a fatal mistake.
He thought he was talking to Ivy Dillard, the soft girl who cried when she skinned her knees.
He didn't notice the town car waiting at the curb, or the man stepping out of it.
Before Clayton's fingers could graze my coat, a hand made of steel caught his wrist.
Collin Richardson, the most feared Capo in Chicago, stepped between us.
"Touch my wife again," Collin whispered, his voice promising violence. "And you lose the hand."
I smiled at the terror draining the color from Clayton's face.
I didn't come back from the dead to explain myself.
I came back to bury them. Reborn From Fire: The Ex-wife's Revenge
Lunacy Heidi gripped the sterile hospital bedsheets as violent contractions ripped her body apart.
The heavy door opened, but it wasn't the doctor. It was Brigette, wearing the exact custom wedding dress Heidi had spent six months designing for herself.
Brigette held up her phone on speaker. When the doctor warned that a natural delivery would kill the mother, Christian Page's voice echoed through the room, ice-cold and devoid of any warmth.
"Prioritize the Page heirs. Let her die."
The man she loved had just signed her death warrant over the phone.
Brigette stole her newborn twins, dragged her to an abandoned warehouse, and poured gasoline over her bare legs.
Flicking a lit cigar into the puddle, Brigette left Heidi tied to an iron pillar to burn alive.
But as the flames formed a deadly circle around her, Heidi's body convulsed with a terrifying truth.
In the heart of the blazing inferno, she miraculously gave birth to two more babies she didn't know she was carrying.
Using her own back as a human shield against the falling embers, she survived the fire, but the ultimate betrayal burned deeper than her ruined skin.
Four years later, Heidi returned to New York with a reconstructed face, two brilliant children, and a terrifying new identity as the world's top underground surgeon.
When Christian, entirely unaware of who she was, signed a waiver begging her to save his dying grandfather's life, Heidi looked into his desperate eyes with absolute, clinical boredom.
"The game starts now," she said coldly. 
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