Qian Mo Mo
14 Published Stories
Qian Mo Mo's Books and Stories
The CEO's Runaway Wife and Secret Heir
Modern I was Hart Whitney’s "contract wife" for three years before I vanished, taking nothing but a secret and a scar that would never heal. Now, the billionaire CEO had tracked me down to a rainy suburb in Seattle, ready to drag me back to New York just to get the signature he needed to unlock his family trust.
But when he stormed into my small house, he didn't just find a runaway employee; he found a three-year-old boy with his exact gray eyes and a nervous habit of spinning a pen that was a mirror image of his own.
"He’s not yours," I lied, clutching my son to my chest as Hart looked at him with cold, cynical disbelief. He forced us onto his private jet, treating me like a corporate thief and my son like a scandalous mistake. In New York, his socialite fiancée, Isadora, tried to poison my son with a "gift" of hazelnut chocolate and publicly humiliated me by exposing the jagged burn scar on my back—the very scar I earned saving Hart’s life in a fire three years ago, a heroic act Isadora had stolen credit for.
I couldn't understand how a man so brilliant could be so blind. He believed a faked DNA test over the evidence of his own eyes. He let his fiancée torment the woman who had bled for him and the child who shared his soul, all while I sat in the corner of his office, invisible and broken.
It wasn't until my son lay dying in a hospital bed, needing a blood transfusion so rare it only ran in the Whitney family, that the truth finally broke through Hart's icy exterior.
As Hart watched his own blood flow into our son's veins, he finally realized he hadn't been hunting a traitor—he had been destroying the only people who ever truly loved him. The Discarded Husband's Spectacular Comeback
Modern 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. Signed Away: His New Wife
Romance In my past life, I died alone in a sterile hospital bed while my fiancé, Dyllan, comforted his "foster sister" Heather through a fake panic attack.
He missed the birth and death of our child because Heather was "too delicate" to be left alone.
Even as I took my last breath, he was wiping away her crocodile tears, ignoring my desperate calls.
I sacrificed my dreams, my money, and my life for him, only to be a forgotten footnote.
But when I opened my eyes, I was back at the City Hall counter, the marriage license waiting.
Dyllan tapped his foot impatiently, checking his phone.
"Hurry up, Ivy. Heather called. She' s having an episode. She needs me."
The old Ivy would have trembled and obeyed, desperate for his approval.
But I just smiled, a cold, calculated expression he didn't recognize.
"Go to her," I said, pushing him toward the door. "I'll handle the paperwork. Family comes first, right?"
He rushed out without a backward glance, relieved to be the hero again.
Left alone with the official document, I didn't write my own name on the bride's line.
With a steady hand and a heart full of vengeance, I wrote Heather Rosales.
Congratulations, Dyllan. You're legally married to the burden you love so much.
And I am finally free. The Alpha's Unwanted Omega Medicine
Werewolf For three years, I was Alpha Kaelen's secret. My touch was the only cure for the silver-poison curse that wracked his body with agony, and he promised that if he hadn't found his fated mate by my twenty-fifth birthday, he would choose me.
On my twenty-fifth birthday, he brought home another woman. He demanded the key to his penthouse back and tossed a limitless credit card on the bed.
"This is for your service," he said coldly.
His new love, Lila, was a master manipulator. When she framed me for kidnapping her, Kaelen nearly drowned my sick mother in a swamp to force a confession out of me. When she framed me again for pushing her grandmother, he slapped me in front of the entire pack and demanded I kneel.
I couldn't understand how the man who once protected me could become my greatest tormentor, blinded by a conniving she-wolf.
The final straw came when his curse flared up. He tried to force himself on me, only to accuse me of trying to trap him when Lila walked in. That day, I severed our bond and left for a rival pack, where my childhood friend—my fated second-chance mate—had just woken from a six-year coma. One Hundred Pranks, One True End
Romance For two years, I lived a fairy tale with Liam Hayes, the tech mogul. He' d lost his memory in a terrible accident, but he remembered me, or so he said. I, a struggling artist, bought into his relentless passion. We were building a life, a family even. I held a positive pregnancy test, ready to share our news.
Then, I heard my college rival, Chloe Jenkins, speak from his office, her voice like sugar-coated poison. "Two whole years. Ninety-nine times. You promised." My blood ran cold as Liam's sharp, cynical laugh filled the room. This wasn't the gentle man I knew. He confirmed it. My entire relationship had been a cruel game, a "prank" designed to make me look like a fool.
They mocked my ruined artworks, my canceled shows, every humiliation I' d endured. Liam had been there each time, comforting me with fake sympathy, while secretly logging his "pranks." Chloe purred, "One hundred pranks, one hundred proofs of your love for me." Liam' s reply, dripping with adoration, shattered me: "She was just a means to an end. A pawn."
The pregnancy test in my pocket felt like a block of ice. My love, our life, our future baby-all a sick joke. My fairy tale was a cage, my prince a monster. He wanted one hundred pranks, a century of my pain.
When I found his hidden sketchbook, full of intimate drawings of me and a receipt for an engagement ring, a dangerous hope flickered. Had he felt something real? But that hope died when I called a women's clinic. This child was conceived in deceit, an extension of his game. I refused to bring a child into this twisted world.
At a yacht party, after my procedure, Liam's friends, at Chloe's urging, forced me to eat poisoned oysters, designed to induce a miscarriage. They knew. "He didn't want a child with her tying him down," Chloe hissed. "He was just waiting for the right moment for the problem to go away. I just provided the opportunity." I bled, the pain excruciating, as Liam, seeing me, yelled for a helicopter. Chloe, cold and final, drilled into my fading consciousness: "Don't you dare forget who you're doing all this for. You love me. Remember?" Liam' s strained reply: "I know, Chloe. I... I know."
How could he? How could the man who held me at night, whispering endearments, be the same man who orchestrated my destruction? Why him? Why me?
Ava Miller died that day. But Elise Vance was born, and she was coming for them. Her Cold Eyes, His Burning Revenge
Billionaires The cold rain mirrored the desolation inside me that day, three years ago, when the company I built from nothing was declared bankrupt.
The final, crushing blow wasn't a market crash, but sabotage orchestrated by the three people I trusted most: my sister, Sarah Miller; my fiancée, Emily Davis; and my "best friend," Kevin Chen.
I remembered standing in that same rain as a luxury car pulled up, their triumphant smiles confirming my ruin. "You're like a dog!" Kevin had sneered. Sarah's pitying gaze felt colder than the winter rain, and Emily merely looked away.
Their laughter echoed, drowning me in despair until everything went black. Why them? How could this happen?
Then, I opened my eyes again. The rain was gone. The cold was gone. I was sitting in an auditorium, back in time on the very day it all began, ready to pitch the revolutionary software they stole. This time, things would be different. A Husband's Fatal Choice
Modern Today was our fifth wedding anniversary.
My husband, Mark, walked in with a woman who was young, Chinese, and very pregnant.
He introduced her as his assistant, Mei, as she surveyed our home with an air of ownership, her eyes pointedly avoiding mine.
Mei' s gaze finally landed on me, laced with cold condescension.
"Sarah, right?" she purred. "Hand-wash my lingerie. And later, when Mark and I are together, you can kneel and serve us."
My heart turned to ice as Mark just smiled, seeing nothing wrong.
I saw the tech-neck, the calculated cruelty in her eyes - this wasn' t just an affair; it was a deliberate humiliation.
Then, Mark scoffed, "Oh, here we go again. This tired act. Honestly, Sarah, I' m more bored of this than I am of sleeping with you."
Their cruel laughter echoed, and I knew: something inside me had finally snapped.
I walked forward, took their hands, forced them together. "For people from such a 'cultured' background," I said, my voice low and clear, "you both sure act like animals."
"Since the 'Mrs. Miller' title is so great, you can have it. You two enjoy your happily ever after. Just leave the rest of us out of your mess."
I turned my back, walking out, remembering my father' s forgotten warning: Men change, Sarah. Be careful who you give your heart to.
I barely stepped onto the cold pavement when Mark' s voice cut through the air. "Come back here and sign the divorce papers."
He thrust them at me, demanding I sign for Mei' s peace of mind, promising to remarry me later.
His words were hollow, a broken record of lies.
Then, his eyes landed on my jade pendant, a gift from our first anniversary. "Mei has been having nightmares," he said, demanding it. "She needs it."
I hesitated, clutching the last symbol of the man I thought I married.
"What, you can' t even pretend to be composed now? It' s just a necklace."
With a sharp movement, I tore it off. Mei snatched it, her triumphant glint turning to feigned clumsiness as she let it shatter at her feet.
"Oh, dear," she cooed, then gasped, pressing her leg. "Ouch! A shard… it cut me."
Mark panicked, fumbling for his phone.
Mei looked up at me, her voice just loud enough, "Sarah… I know you' re upset. But you didn' t have to do that. I know you weren' t trying to curse my baby on purpose… right?"
Mark' s head snapped up, his fury now blazing at me.
"What did you say?" he snarled.
"It' s nothing, Mark," Mei sobbed, clinging to him. "Sarah didn' t mean it."
His hand swung through the air. SLAP.
I stumbled, falling onto the shattered jade. A sharp pain shot through my hand as green shards embedded themselves in my palm.
Blood welled. Mark stood over me, chest heaving. "Apologize! What the hell is wrong with you, Sarah? You were never like this!"
He roared for an apology, for a crime I didn' t commit.
The man who once defended me was now a stranger, consumed by hate.
I laughed, a bitter, broken sound. Slowly, I pushed myself up, ignoring the intense pain.
"I can' t do it," I said, my voice steady. "I can' t apologize."
His face turned a dangerous red. He grabbed my other arm, fingers digging in. "Fine! If you won' t apologize, then you' ll compensate her. Give me that bracelet."
It was my mother' s, my last connection to her.
"No! You can' t have this!" I clutched my wrist, pulling back.
Just as he lunged, a terrifying grinding sound came from above. The huge chandelier swayed, then plummeted towards me.
There was no time to think. So this is how it ends.
Mark yanked Mei away, shielding her, not even glancing at me.
"Sarah!" he screamed, but it was too late.
The world exploded in a crash of shattering glass.
I was alive, somehow. Mark, seeing Mei was safe, scrambled over, his panic replaced by cold suspicion.
I woke in a sterile hospital room, Mark by my bed, his face stone. "You' re awake? Stop pretending. It didn' t even hit you."
"The chandelier…" My voice was hoarse.
"Don' t bother," he cut me off. "The servants confessed. You paid them to loosen the screws. You wanted to hurt Mei."
It was a complete, fabricated lie.
Mei was wheeled in, dabbing her eyes. "Oh, Mark," she trembled. "Don' t be so hard on her. I' m sure she didn' t mean for it to be so… dramatic. I forgive her."
Her flawless performance painted me as the crazy, jealous wife.
I wanted to scream, but what was the point? The truth didn' t matter. It was whatever Mei said it was.
I just laughed, a dry, bitter sound. Exhaustion washed over me. It was hopeless.
Mark took my silence as admission. "Since you refuse to apologize," he said, chillingly matter-of-fact, "we' ll have to find another way for you to compensate Mei."
He gestured to Mei. "Her leg was scratched. The doctor said it might leave a scar. We' ve arranged a small skin graft surgery. We' ll use some of your skin to repair the damage."
Skin graft? From me?
"You… what?" I stammered.
"It' s just a small patch," he soothed, "from your inner arm. A doctor will be here soon."
He was serious. My body, to punish me.
A primal scream tore from my throat. "NO!"
I thrashed wildly. The IV needle ripped out, blood trickling.
"You can' t do this! What did I do wrong? Why are you bullying me?!"
He grabbed my shoulders. "Sarah, stop it! Mei is all alone here. She' s been crying nonstop!"
His pathetic excuses blurred. He knew I had no one, having rebelled against my family for him. He was using it to destroy me.
"Sarah, just calm down," he pleaded. "After the baby is born, I' ll divorce Mei. I' ll remarry you, I swear it!"
The same old promise. The same meaningless lie.
This lie, finally, gave me clarity.
My screaming stopped. My thrashing ceased.
"Get out," I said, my voice eerily calm.
I reached for my phone, hands shaking, and scrolled to a single entry untouched for seven years: "A."
I pressed call. He answered on the first ring.
"Come and get me," I whispered, then hung up.
My life was about to change forever, but first, I had to survive. Love, Loss, and Vengeful Hearts
Modern The phone rang, an unrecognized number, pulling me away from a routine check-up on a golden retriever. My life, for a moment, felt normal, calm.
"Sarah… it' s me." Mary Johnson, my former mother-in-law. We hadn't spoken in three years, not since the funeral.
My heart pounded as her strained voice stumbled: "Tomorrow… it' s Ethan' s..." I cut her off, the name a raw wound.
Then she dropped the bomb: Mark, my ex-husband, wanted to visit the grave of the son he had killed. The calm shattered. I hung up. I blocked her number.
The past, which I had so carefully buried, clawed its way back, a monstrous memory that began with a white leather handbag. Mark' s assistant, Chloe, obsessed with her new Celine, watched as my five-year-old son, Ethan, tripped and spilled juice all over it.
Instead of comforting his sobbing child, Mark glared at Ethan, his voice cold: "You need to be punished. You need to learn a lesson about respecting other people's things."
That was the excuse. The next day, he took Ethan to his office for a "father-son day." I kissed my boy goodbye, told him to be good for his daddy. It was the last time I saw him alive.
The call came when I was thousands of miles away: "Ma'am, there's been an incident involving your son, Ethan. You need to come home immediately."
At the hospital, Mark was nowhere to be found. Only his parents, Mary and David, stood by the operating room, their faces pale. The doctor emerged, his face grim. "We did everything we could… We couldn't save him."
My world imploded. Then came the police officer, his voice low, detailing the horror: Ethan was found locked in a soundproofed server room at Mark' s office, dead from severe heat stroke. And Mark? He and Chloe left the office for an impromptu trip to Napa.
My brain refused to process it. Mark locked our son in a hot room and just left him to die? With her? I fumbled for my phone, needing to hear him deny this monstrous story.
His voice, annoyed, answered: "What? I'm busy, Sarah."
I choked back tears: "Ethan… Mark, Ethan is dead." Just "Oh." Then Chloe's syrupy voice in the background: "Mark, honey, who is it? Come back to bed." My blood ran cold.
"Are you with her?" I asked, my voice a dangerous whisper. He hung up. He blocked me. Our son was dead, and he had blocked my number to avoid ruining his trip with his mistress.
The phone clattered to the floor. The world went black. Beyond the Fairytale Facade
Billionaires My fiancé, tech mogul Ethan Reed, and I were the epitome of New York City's fairytale romance.
For ten years, our "perfect love story" graced billboards and magazine covers, culminating in the highly anticipated "wedding of the decade."
But my world shattered when I saw him.
Through a discreet one-way observation window, I watched Ethan-my Ethan-in his penthouse office, engaged in graphic acts with his executive assistant, Chloe Vance.
Her triumphant smirk, directed straight at me, made it clear: this wasn't an accident.
The humiliation escalated into a relentless campaign of psychological torture.
Chloe sent vile texts, explicit photos of them, even a horrific "penthouse tally" of used condoms she boasted they'd amassed while I lay sick.
Meanwhile, Ethan played the doting fiancé, planning our wedding with sickening enthusiasm.
I watched my Parisian bridal gown, custom-made for me, defiled as Chloe wore it, preening before Ethan, who then engaged in sordid acts with her in the fitting room.
The ultimate affront came at my beloved mentor's funeral, where I caught them engaging in despicable acts, steps away from her casket.
The city adored our love story, oblivious to the monstrous lies.
My life, my integrity, everything felt like a grand, public fraud.
How could anyone live such a public lie for so long?
Why did everyone believe him, even as my world crumbled around me?
But their cruelty didn't break me; it forged an icy resolve.
I accepted a Federal Identity Relocation Service offer to disappear, to become Alex Parker.
But before vanishing, I intended to ensure Ethan Reed's perfect world, and his public image, collapsed just as spectacularly as mine had.
I meticulously collected every piece of evidence, every message, every video.
The wedding of the decade would still happen.
It just wouldn't be the one anyone expected. My Ninth Life: Breaking Free
Modern I' d died eight times already, each a brutal end, all thanks to Caroline Hawthorne. Now, I was on my ninth life, cold in a dusty attic room, a flat digital voice repeating its impossible command inside my head: "Secure Caroline Hawthorne's genuine, exclusive romantic devotion."
But this wasn' t just about winning her love; it was about survival itself. This time, the System' s chilling ultimatum echoed with no emotion: "Failure in this iteration will result in permanent dissolution." No more chances.
My tormentor, Caroline, then entered, pregnant with her fiancé Derek' s child, and immediately imposed her latest cruelty: I was demoted to the gardener' s shed, while Derek' s prize-winning show dog got my warm room. She kicked me.
Memories of my past deaths, stark and agonizing, flooded me: freezing in a wine cellar, drowning after being pushed overboard, a shank in prison, botched medical procedures where she watched me bleed out. I' d endured skin grafts from my own thigh because Derek faked an injury, been forced into life-threatening blood transfusions for his "recovery," and suffered public humiliation at her hands. Her blind devotion to Derek was absolute, her cruelty towards me boundless.
I was broken, tired of the endless loop of torture and failure. Why did I have to suffer endless agony for a devotion she clearly didn't deserve, a woman who treated me as less than human? I just wanted it all to end, for oblivion to claim me. My silence became defiance against her rage.
That yearning for freedom, once a desperate wish for death, hardened into something cold and resolute: revenge. If the System demanded her "devotion," or her "permanent removal from the equation," then I would choose freedom. After her last threat-to harm the only person who cared for me-I knew what I had to do. This time, I wouldn't just survive; I would ensure her downfall, and finally, truly break free. Reborn To Ruin Them
Romance I died at eighty-nine. Not in peace, but after decades trapped in my own paralyzed body. A car accident had turned me into a "vegetable," or so my husband, Mark, conveniently told everyone.
He then reaped a massive disability settlement from my "condition"-enough to fund his entire lifetime.
My lifetime, however, was spent trapped, agonizingly aware of every whispered conversation, every stolen dollar, every moment they thought I was gone.
Mark, his kids Jessica and Kevin, even his ex-wife Brenda-they all saw me as nothing more than a lucrative shell.
They feasted on my money. He'd fabricated a marriage certificate and coerced his doctor cousin to lie about my infertility and exaggerate my paralysis for a bigger payout.
I watched, helpless, as Jessica manipulated my "care" to ensure the cash flow, and Kevin blamed me for all his failures.
For decades, I endured this living hell, a silent scream trapped within. The sheer injustice of their monstrous betrayal festered, turning my soul into a crucible of rage. Why was I forced to endure such vile exploitation, unable to fight back?
Then, darkness. And then, light. I was back. Younger, whole, sitting in a vibrant garden, enveloped by party noise. Every agonizing memory of their avarice and the hell they put me through was crystal clear.
This time, their greed wouldn't just be their undoing-I would ensure it. When the Mistress Disappeared, My Fairy Tale Became a Nightmare
Billionaires My husband, Ethan, a New York tech mogul, was having a blatant affair with Tiffany, his "assistant."
Tired of the humiliation, I cancelled her company credit cards and booked her a one-way ticket to a remote Bali wellness retreat.
His retaliation was swift and brutal. He had my parents, John and Mary, kidnapped from their Montana home.
He sent me a video: them tied up in a dilapidated barn, a digital timer ominously counting down. "Tell me where Tiffany is, Sarah, or your parents' retirement ends now."
Terrified, I confessed. He then coldly directed me to an abandoned lodge upstate where he claimed they were.
Rushing there, the structure collapsed as I reached them – a trap. My father was severely injured shielding us.
At the hospital, Dad reminded me of our ironclad prenup: Ethan's infidelity meant immediate divorce and a massive settlement, including properties. My parents had insisted on it.
I’d been naive, thinking I could reclaim my dignity with a small act of defiance. Instead, I’d endangered my family.
But Ethan had underestimated me, and the foresight of my small-town parents.
The game was about to change. My escape, and his downfall, began now. You might like
Rising From Wreckage: Starfall's Epic Comeback
Huo Wuer Rain hammered against the asphalt as my sedan spun violently into the guardrail on the I-95. Blood trickled down my temple, stinging my eyes, while the rhythmic slap of the windshield wipers mocked my panic.
Trembling, I dialed my husband, Clive. His executive assistant answered instead, his voice professional and utterly cold.
"Mr. Wilson says to stop the theatrics. He said, and I quote, 'Hang up. Tell her I don’t have time for her emotional blackmail tonight.'"
The line went dead while I was still trapped in the wreckage. At the hospital, I watched the news footage of Clive wrapping his jacket around his "fragile" ex-girlfriend, Angelena, shielding her from the storm I was currently bleeding in. When I returned to our penthouse, I found a prenatal ultrasound in his suit pocket, dated the day he claimed to be on a business trip.
Instead of an apology, Clive met me with a sneer. He told me I was nothing but an "expensive decoration" his father bought to make him look stable. He froze my bank accounts and cut off my cards, waiting for the hunger to drive me back to his feet.
I stared at the man I had loved for four years, realizing he didn't just want a wife; he wanted a prop he could switch off. He thought he could starve me into submission while he played father to another woman's child.
But Clive forgot one thing. Before I was his trophy wife, I was Starfall—the legendary voice actress who vanished at the height of her fame.
"I'm not jealous, Clive. I'm done."
I grabbed my old microphone and walked out. I’m not just leaving him; I’m taking the lead role in the biggest saga in Hollywood—the one Angelena is desperate for. This time, the "decoration" is going to burn his world down. Secret Triplets: The Billionaire's Second Chance
Roderic Penn I stood at my mother’s open grave in the freezing rain, my heels sinking into the mud. The space beside me was empty. My husband, Hilliard Holloway, had promised to cherish me in bad times, but apparently, burying my mother didn't fit into his busy schedule.
While the priest’s voice droned on, a news alert lit up my phone. It was a livestream of the Metropolitan Charity Gala. There was Hilliard, looking impeccable in a custom tuxedo, with his ex-girlfriend Charla English draped over his arm. The headline read: "Holloway & English: A Power Couple Reunited?"
When he finally returned to our penthouse at 2 AM, he didn't come alone—he brought Charla with him. He claimed she’d had a "medical emergency" at the gala and couldn't be left alone. I found a Tiffany diamond necklace on our coffee table meant for her birthday, and a smudge of her signature red lipstick on his collar. When I confronted him, he simply told me to stop being "hysterical" and "acting like a child."
He had no idea I was seven months pregnant with his child. He thought so little of my grief that he didn't even bother to craft a convincing lie, laughing with his mistress in our home while I sat in the dark with a shattered heart and a secret life growing inside me.
"He doesn't deserve us," I whispered to the darkness. I didn't scream or beg. I simply left a folder on his desk containing signed divorce papers and a forged medical report for a terminated pregnancy. I disappeared into the night, letting him believe he had successfully killed his own legacy through his neglect.
Five years later, Hilliard walked into "The Vault," the city's most exclusive underground auction, looking for a broker to manage his estate. He didn't recognize me behind my Venetian mask, but he couldn't ignore the neon pink graffiti on his armored Maybach that read "DEADBEAT." He had no clue that the three brilliant triplets currently hacking his security system were the very children he thought had been erased years ago. This time, I wasn't just a wife in the way; I was the one holding all the cards. The Ghost Wife's Billion Dollar Tech Comeback
Huo Wuer Today is October 14th, my birthday. I returned to New York after months away, dragging my suitcase through the biting wind, but the VIP pickup zone where my husband’s Maybach usually idled was empty.
When I finally let myself into our Upper East Side penthouse, I didn’t find a cake or a "welcome home" banner. Instead, I found my husband, Caden, kneeling on the floor, helping our five-year-old daughter wrap a massive gift for my half-sister, Adalynn.
Caden didn’t even look up when I walked in; he was too busy laughing with the girl who had already stolen my father’s legacy and was now moving in on my family. "Auntie Addie is a million times better than Mommy," my daughter Elara chirped, clutching a plush toy Caden had once forbidden me from buying for her. "Mommy is mean," she whispered loudly, while Caden just smirked, calling me a "drill sergeant" before whisking her off to Adalynn’s party without a second glance.
Later that night, I saw a video Adalynn posted online where my husband and child laughed while mocking my "sensitive" nature, treating me like an inconvenient ghost in my own home. I had spent five years researching nutrition for Elara’s health and managing every detail of Caden’s empire, only to be discarded the moment I wasn't in the room.
How could the man who set his safe combination to my birthday completely forget I even existed? The realization didn't break me; it turned me into ice.
I didn't scream or beg for an explanation. I simply walked into the study, pulled out the divorce papers I’d drafted months ago, and took a black marker to the terms. I crossed out the alimony, the mansion, and even the custody clause—if they wanted a life without me, I would give them exactly what they asked for.
I left my four-carat diamond ring on the console table and walked out into the rain with nothing but a heavily encrypted hard drive. The submissive Mrs. Holloway was gone, and "Ghost," the most lethal architect in the tech world, was finally back online to take back everything they thought I’d forgotten. The Humble Ex-wife Is Now A Brilliant Tycoon
Flory Corkery For three quiet, patient years, Christina kept house, only to be coldly discarded by the man she once trusted.
Instead, he paraded a new lover, making her the punchline of every town joke.
Liberated, she honed her long-ignored gifts, astonishing the town with triumph after gleaming triumph.
Upon discovering she'd been a treasure all along, her ex-husband's regret drove him to pursue her. "Honey, let's get back together!"
With a cold smirk, Christina spat, "Fuck off."
A silken-suited mogul slipped an arm around her waist. "She's married to me now. Guards, get him the hell out of here!" Marrying Her Was Easy, Losing Her Was Hell
Michael Tretter "Stella once savored Marc's devotion, yet his covert cruelty cut deep. She torched their wedding portrait at his feet while he sent flirty messages to his mistress.
With her chest tight and eyes blazing, Stella delivered a sharp slap.
Then she deleted her identity, signed onto a classified research mission, vanished without a trace, and left him a hidden bombshell.
On launch day she vanished; that same dawn Marc's empire crumbled. All he unearthed was her death certificate, and he shattered.
When they met again, a gala spotlighted Stella beside a tycoon. Marc begged. With a smirk, she said, ""Out of your league, darling." Beneath His Ugly Wife's Mask: Her Revenge Was Her Brilliance
Lukas Difabio Elliana, the unfavored "ugly duckling" of her family, was humiliated by her stepsister, Paige, who everyone admired. Paige, engaged to the CEO Cole, was the perfect woman-until Cole married Elliana on the day of the wedding. Shocked, everyone wondered why he chose the "ugly" woman.
As they waited for her to be cast aside, Elliana stunned everyone by revealing her true identity: a miracle healer, financial mogul, appraisal prodigy, and AI genius.
When her mistreatment became known, Cole revealed Elliana's stunning, makeup-free photo, sending shockwaves through the media. "My wife doesn't need anyone's approval." The Convict Heiress: Marrying The Billionaire
Rollins Laman The heavy thud of the release stamp was the only goodbye I got from the warden after five years in federal prison. I stepped out into the blinding sun, expecting the same flash of paparazzi bulbs that had seen me dragged away in handcuffs, but there was only a single black limousine idling on the shoulder of the road.
Inside sat my mother and sister, clutching champagne and looking at my frayed coat with pure disgust. They didn't offer a welcome home; instead, they tossed a thick legal document onto the table and told me I was dead to the city.
"Gavin and I are getting engaged," my sister Mia sneered, flicking a credit card at me like I was a stray dog. "He doesn't need a convict ex-fiancée hanging around."
Even after I saved their lives from an armed kidnapping attempt by ramming the attackers off the road, they rewarded me by leaving me stranded in the dirt. When I finally ran into Gavin, the man who had framed me, he pinned me against a wall and threatened to send me back to a cell if I ever dared to show my face at their wedding.
They had stolen my biotech research, ruined my name, and let me rot for half a decade while they lived off my brilliance. They thought they had broken me, leaving me with nothing but an expired chapstick and a few old photos in a plastic bag.
What they didn't know was that I had spent those five years becoming "Dr. X," a shadow consultant with five hundred million dollars in crypto and a secret that would bring the city to its knees. I wasn't just a victim anymore; I was a weapon, and I was pregnant with the heir they thought they had erased.
I walked into the Melton estate and made an offer to the most powerful man in New York.
"I'll save your grandfather's life," I told Horatio Melton, staring him down.
"But the price is your last name. I'm taking back what's mine, and I'm starting with the man who thinks he's marrying my sister." The Scars She Hid From The World
REGINA MCBRIDE The heavy iron gates of the Wilderness Correction Camp groaned as they released me after three years of state-sponsored hell. I stood on the dirt road, clutching a plastic bag that held my entire life, waiting for the family that claimed they sent me there for "rehab."
My brother, Brady, picked me up in a luxury SUV only to throw me out onto a deserted highway in the middle of a brewing storm. He told me I was a "public relations nightmare" and that the rain might finally wash the "stink" of the camp off me. He drove away, leaving me to limp miles through the mud on a snapped ankle.
When I finally dragged myself to our family estate, my mother didn't offer a hug; she gasped in horror because my muddy clothes were ruining her Italian marble. They didn't give me my old room back. Instead, they banished me to a moldy gardener’s shack and hired a "babysitter" to make sure I didn't embarrass them further. My sister, Kaleigh, stood there in white cashmere, pretending to cry while clinging to her fiancé, Ambrose—the man who had once been mine.
They all treated me like a volatile junkie, refusing to acknowledge that Kaleigh was the one who planted the drugs in my bag three years ago. They wanted to believe I was broken so they wouldn't have to feel guilty about the "wellness retreat" that was actually a torture chamber.
I sat in the dark of that shed, feeling the cooling gel on the cigarette burns that covered my arms, and realized they had made a fatal mistake. They thought they had erased me, but I had returned with a roadmap of scars and a hidden satellite phone.
At dinner, I didn't beg for their love. I simply rolled up my sleeves and showed them the price of their silence. As the wine spilled and the lies crumbled, I sent a single text to the only person I trusted: "I'm in. Let them simmer." The hunt was finally on. The Queen Returns: Pampered By Her Three Powerhouse Brothers
Kleon Samorodnitsky After five years of playing the perfect daughter, Rylie was exposed as a stand-in. Her fiancé bolted, friends scattered, and her adoptive brothers shoved her out, telling her to grovel back to her real family. Done with humiliation, she swore to claw back what was hers. Shock followed: her birth family ruled the town's wealth. Overnight, she became their precious girl. The boardroom brother canceled meetings, the genius brother ditched his lab, the musician brother postponed a tour. As those who spurned her begged forgiveness, Admiral Brad Morgan calmly declared, "She's already taken." 
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