Liang Bu Fan
2 Published Stories
Liang Bu Fan's Books and Stories
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The Discarded Husband's Spectacular Comeback
Qian Mo Mo I spent three hours searing the perfect wagyu steak and chilling a bottle of 1996 Dom Pérignon for our anniversary. My wife, Evelin, texted me saying she was stuck in a late board meeting.
"Don't wait up."
But a bank alert on my phone told a different story: a $5,600 charge at a VIP lounge in the Meatpacking District. When I tracked her down, I didn't find her in a boardroom; I found her sitting on my business partner's lap, laughing as he fed her chocolate-covered strawberries.
When I confronted them, Evelin didn't even look guilty. She called me hysterical and a "prude" for interrupting their night. Hank mocked me to my face, calling me a pathetic "trophy husband" who was probably home ironing napkins while they were out having real fun. When I finally snapped and defended my dignity, my own wife slapped me across the face and had her security throw me out like trash.
"You are nothing without the Carney name. You're a stray I picked up."
By the time I hit the sidewalk, she had frozen all our joint accounts and blacklisted my name from every major firm in the city. I had spent ten years managing her family's billions and fixing the books her lover messed up, only to be left with ten dollars in my pocket and a suitcase full of dusty law books. She thinks I'm a broken man who will come crawling back to beg for mercy just to afford a meal.
I realized then that our marriage was just a corpse I'd been dragging around, and she was the monster who had killed it years ago. I felt the sting of her slap and the weight of her betrayal, wondering how I could have been so blind to the person I shared a bed with.
Standing in a cramped apartment in Queens, I blocked her number and called a "shark" lawyer I hadn't spoken to since law school.
"I'm the biggest shark in the tank, Dom. Let her try to ruin you."
Evelin thinks she took everything, but she forgot one thing: I'm the one who knows exactly where the bodies are buried in her family's ledgers. The war has just begun. The Ex-Fiancé You Can't Afford To Lose
Madel Cerda I stood in the ballroom with a diamond ring in my pocket, waiting to be crowned King of the empire I had built from the ground up.
Instead, the woman I loved walked to the microphone and signed my death warrant with a smile.
Serena didn't announce our engagement.
She announced that Luca Moretti—an incompetent associate I'd almost fired three times—was the new Underboss and her partner in life.
Then, she kissed him. Deep and possessive, right in front of the entire Commission.
My heart didn't break; it simply stopped.
Luca smirked at me, wearing a suit that was too tight, while Serena looked at me with cold, dead eyes.
"Dante is the old guard," she told the crowd, dismissing me like a waiter. "We are moving in a new direction."
They stripped me of my title. They humiliated me on live television. They thought they had taken my crown.
But they forgot one crucial detail.
I was the Architect.
I had built the encrypted logistics system that kept the FBI in the dark. A system that required my specific biometric code every morning to function.
I didn't make a scene. I didn't scream. I simply placed the ring on a waiter's tray and walked out into the night.
Forty-eight hours later, the Vitiello empire was in a freefall. The accounts were frozen. The shipments were flagged.
My phone buzzed. It was Serena.
"Dante," she panicked, her voice trembling. "Fix it. Now."
I took a sip of my espresso and smiled at the chaos on the news.
"I'm afraid I can't do that, Serena. You fired the only pilot who knows how to fly the plane." Too Late, Madam: Your Husband Quit
Luo Lijiang For two years, I was the perfect trophy husband for Hillary Mitchell, the ice queen of Manhattan. I held her crystal-encrusted clutches at galas, took public insults with a submissive smile, and played the role of a spineless parasite who married for a trust fund. It was all a calculation-a strictly professional contract designed to make her look like a goddess while I remained her velvet cushion.
The second the clock struck midnight on the day my contract expired, I dropped my platinum wedding ring into a glass of dregs and walked out of the Metropolitan Museum of Art without looking back. I thought I was finally free to reclaim my real identity.
But freedom was a trap. Hillary froze my five-million-dollar payout, leaving me with exactly $412 and a second secret job protecting a spoiled heiress named Brielle Harris. To survive, I had to endure Hillary dragging me back to her mansion while playing a bullied "simp" for Brielle on campus. I was a man living in two different cages, praying neither woman would discover the other.
The situation turned lethal when Hillary spotted me with Brielle and assumed I was cheating. She didn't just want me back; she wanted to own me. She dug into my sealed juvenile records, uncovering the foster home violence and the suicide attempt I had tried to forget. She used my trauma as a leash, thinking my broken past made me easy to control.
"You're safe now, Christopher," she whispered, her eyes wet with a hungry kind of possession. "No more running. You belong to this family forever."
I looked at the two women screaming over me like I was a piece of property, and something inside me finally snapped. I realized I was just a role to them, a toy to be bought and sold. I ripped both contracts to shreds, threw the pieces in their faces, and decided that if I was going to be a monster, I'd be the one they never saw coming.