Sisi Qingwang
10 Published Stories
Sisi Qingwang's Books and Stories
Betrayed Wife: Hiding The Mafia Boss's Son
Mafia I woke up wrapped in the arms of a man I believed would burn the world for me. Michael Thorne was the underworld’s golden boy, and I was pregnant with his legacy.
But by sunset, the illusion shattered. During our family brunch, the doors burst open and a woman dragged a four-year-old boy into the room.
The child had Michael’s nose. His chin.
"Tell them who Leo is!" the woman screamed.
Michael froze. He didn't deny it. While I stood there in shock, his mistress lunged at me, clawing at my face. My husband hesitated.
In that split second, I realized I wasn't his wife; I was just an incubator for his empire. He had kept a secret family as an insurance policy.
My father destroyed Michael’s career in an hour, stripping him of his money and status. But I wanted to destroy his soul.
He begged for forgiveness, weeping, claiming he loved our unborn child more than anything.
So I placed a hand on my stomach and looked him dead in the eye.
"There is no baby, Michael," I lied. "Your legacy is dead."
As he fell to his knees, broken, I walked away to build my own empire—with the son he would never know existed. Auctioned Daughter, Shattered Wife
Billionaires My husband, the tech billionaire I adored, sent his men to take me to an undisclosed location.
When we arrived, I found our sixteen-year-old daughter, Julianne, on a stage, being auctioned off like a piece of art to a crowd of sick elites.
My husband, Everett, used this to blackmail me into resigning from my career. But after Julianne's subsequent suicide attempt, he let his mistress—an unqualified researcher—perform the surgery, leaving our daughter in a permanent vegetative state.
He publicly humiliated me, claiming our marriage was a lie and that I was a stalker.
He forced me to kneel and beg for my daughter's life, only to let his mistress shatter my surgeon's hand with a trophy.
After they pulled the plug on Julianne, they tricked my mother and me into drinking her ashes.
They left my mother for dead at the bottom of a flight of stairs. As I knelt over her broken body, my grief finally turned into a cold, hard resolve.
When Everett texted, demanding my presence at his celebration party, I replied with two words.
"I'll be there." A Lie Sung: His Deception, Her Amnesia
Romance The world believes Liam Carter wrote the greatest love song of the decade for the woman on stage. He didn't. He wrote it about me.
And now, Olivia, the woman singing it, my Olivia, is engaged to him, just three years after doctors gave me my diagnosis and she vanished.
I' m here, in a stadium seat, my final breath getting closer, watching her. She' s polished, famous, beautiful. But her voice, the one that once sang me to sleep, now sings a song about my death, written by another man.
Liam Carter, handsome and confident, proposes. Olivia cries happy tears, says yes. The stadium erupts, celebrating a love found, a perfect happy ending. Everyone is part of this moment. Everyone except me. I am the forgotten footnote in a story that used to be mine.
The pain in my chest is no longer an ache; it' s a sharp blade. It' s not just the cancer. It' s the sight of her, so happy, in a life I have no part in, a life built on the ashes of ours.
Then, blood. A hot, wet cough, and blood on my hand. I have to get out. My body is failing, but a new truth begins to emerge. It was all a lie. She didn' t just leave me. She was taken. Betrayed By Miss Wrong, Claimed By Mr Right
LGBT+ Captain Ethan Carter, a decorated officer, thought his life was set: a prestigious military career and an engagement to Isabella Hayes, a political scion, marked them as Washington's newest power couple.
But Izzy publicly detonated their future, calling off the wedding to embrace Julian Vance, a self-proclaimed visionary who dismissed Ethan's traditional values as "stifling" and "outdated" to a shocked populace.
Ethan endured a relentless media firestorm and public humiliation that felt like a knife twist, but the real blow came when his beloved mentor, Mac, was brutally murdered in what appeared to be a "mugging gone wrong," subtly orchestrated by Vance.
Beaten, framed, and ridiculed, Ethan watched as Izzy, astonishingly defensive, defended Vance, accusing Ethan of malicious plots, utterly blind to the monster she was protecting.
His grief for Mac ignited into a white-hot rage, fueled by the sheer injustice and the chilling realization of Vance's malevolence and Izzy's damning delusion.
With nothing left to lose, Ethan abandoned his life of public service, vowing a blood debt, accepting immediate deployment to a distant warzone - not just to fight for his country, but to reclaim his honor and avenge his fallen mentor. Their Shared Secret, Her Sweet Victory
Romance The heavy satin of my wedding dress felt like a shroud.
Today was supposed to be the most joyous day, marrying Ethan Davenport, cementing a powerful alliance.
Instead, I was trapped in darkness, my screams muffled by the thick, soundproof walls of a panic room.
Jessica Miller, my childhood companion, had drugged me.
I clawed my way out, nails broken and bleeding, only to stumble into my own reception.
And there she was, radiant in my gown, standing beside my groom.
"Jessica? Ethan, what is happening?" I croaked, my voice raw.
Jessica's face was a mask of feigned concern, her lies echoing through the ballroom.
"Oh, Sarah, why are you doing this? You know Ethan and I are in love."
Whispers of "unstable" and "breakdown" filled the air as security, loyal to her family, dragged me away.
Ethan looked at me, his face unreadable, before turning back to Jessica.
My heart shattered into a million pieces.
They threw me into the cold New England night.
A blinding flash of headlights.
A screech of tires.
Then, nothing.
I gasped, shooting upright in my own bed, sunlight streaming through the window.
My heart hammered against my ribs, echoing the terror of what had just been.
The date on my phone brought a chilling realization: it was the day before the wedding.
I was alive.
A new message popped up from Jessica Miller in the family chat: "So excited to marry my love, Ethan, tomorrow!"
My blood ran cold.
Her audacity was shocking, but this time, I knew.
This time, she wouldn't win. The Wife He Blinded: Her Clear Path
Romance It was our second wedding anniversary, and I sat in a Boston women's clinic, a secret hope blossoming with every beat of my heart concerning my three-month late period.
When my name, Sarah Miller, was called, I knew.
I clutched the grayscale ultrasound photo – three months pregnant, our baby, Liam's and mine.
My joy lasted seconds.
There he was, my husband Liam Harrison, his arm around his college sweetheart, Olivia Hayes, in the waiting room.
He barely spared me a glance, his eyes cold, only urgent commands to fetch sweets for her.
The tiny hope for our marriage, nurtured for two years, turned to ash.
This pretense, this life as his second choice, had to end.
But Olivia wouldn't let me go quietly.
She masterfully framed me for a staged mugging, convincing Liam I'd hired someone to hurt her.
Then, in a final act of cruelty, she intentionally pushed me down a grand staircase in our home, leading to a devastating miscarriage.
Lying in that hospital bed, broken and empty, my baby lost, a chilling fury consumed me.
How could he be so incredibly blind, so utterly fooled by her lies, so dismissive of me, his wife?
His unwavering devotion to her, even as she destroyed us, was incomprehensible.
That fury ignited Liam' s doubt.
Security footage and confessions exposed Olivia's tangled web of deceit, even her secret marriage.
Now, he's full of remorse, begging for a second chance.
But my path is clear: I'm stepping out of his shadow and into the bright Boston sun, ready to build a life on my own terms, leaving him and the past firmly behind. The Girl Who Cheated Death & Injustice
Young Adult I was the golden child. Valedictorian, set for Stanford on a full ride. The American Youth Scholar Championship? Just a final victory lap, a taste of competition before my bright future.
Then came the roar of angry voices, the hands grabbing me. "You cheated!" they screamed. Event security, police. They found a micro-earpiece in my custom bracelet, a receiver. A college kid named "Ace" confessed, said I paid him via Venmo.
None of it was true, but no one listened. Stanford pulled my acceptance. Our small Oregon town, once proud, turned on my family. The online hate was relentless. My dad's heart couldn't take the stress; he died. Mom faded away, gone weeks later.
I was in a cell, awaiting a trial I knew I'd lose. The grief, the injustice – it was a crushing weight. I died not knowing how they pulled it off, how they shattered my life and destroyed my family with lies.
Until I woke up. The cheap floral carpet of a motel lobby. My best friend Jess, shaking my arm: "The Championship starts tomorrow!" This was it. The day before it all went wrong. My second chance. And this time, I wouldn't just survive; I'd expose them all. The Stolen Retirement: Eleanor's Reckoning
Modern I was looking forward to a quiet retirement after 35 years as a senior records supervisor, my future secured by a diligent pension.
My husband, Mark, had even encouraged early retirement, saying our son Kevin and his pregnant wife Chloe needed my help with the new baby.
Everything seemed perfectly arranged.
But at the county pension office, the clerk’s words shattered my world: “Your pension has been active and payments have been directed to a Ms. Sheila Dixon for the past three years.”
Sheila Dixon. Mark’s high school sweetheart.
The authorization? Signed by Mark Vance himself, citing “spousal consent and redirection for family support.”
Back home, I overheard Mark telling Kevin, “Your mother can be a bit selfish about money sometimes. She doesn’t understand hardship like Sheila does.”
My blood ran cold. My money, funding his old flame.
When confronted, Mark snarled, “If you make a fuss, you’ll regret it. You’ll find yourself with nothing.”
And Kevin, my own son, defended him, blindly siding with "Auntie Sheila."
My entire family life, a complete lie.
The man I married, the son I raised, betraying me so casually.
How could they do this?
Was I just disposable to them?
But I wasn't nothing.
This pension, my future, was all I had left, and I earned it.
I would get it back.
The very next morning, I walked straight to HR and filed a formal fraud complaint.
My fight had just begun. The Heiress They Underestimated
Romance I am Avelia Sterling, the sole heir to Sterling Media. Yet, whispers followed me everywhere: a woman couldn't lead, I needed one of the three "candidates" my father picked. For years, I foolishly held a secret hope for Ethan Clark, trying to earn his attention.
Then, I overheard him on his knees, his voice thick with emotion—not for me, but for Bella White, our housekeeper’s daughter. He vowed to marry her once he gained control of Sterling Media, calling his arrangement with me a mere "charade" to repay my father.
My entire world crumbled, replaced by a bitter reality. Bella, the innocent victim, exploited every opportunity to frame me, from a broken keychain to a shattered family heirloom. Ethan, Noah, and Lucas, my intended protectors, always circled her, ready to condemn me, even when I found my own birthday gift, the state-of-the-art Starbright Arts Center, had been used by them to promote *her* "art."
Why did they always believe her crocodile tears? How could they be so blind, so eager to paint me as the villain while she systematically undermined me? The injustice was a suffocating weight.
At my birthday gala, it all culminated: Bella, feigning injury, screamed I’d sent thugs after her. Noah, in a fit of rage, struck me across the face. Then, Ethan, with infuriating martyrdom, offered to marry me—not out of love, but "to control" me and "protect Bella." My heart, already a stone, hardened further.
Through the stinging pain, I met his gaze. "That won't be necessary, Ethan," I said, my voice cutting through the silent ballroom. "I'm already engaged." Just then, the grand doors swung open, and the man they called "the cripple" wheeled in. You might like
My Husband's Brother Owns My Secret
Rabbit My marriage to Joshua Caldwell was a prison sentence. I was a Hartman trophy, sold to the powerful family who had destroyed mine.
Then I discovered he was cheating. His mistress was pregnant with the child he denied me, and he was stealing my secret song lyrics to build her career. When I confronted him, he called me a spineless liability and threatened to destroy what was left of my family.
To make matters worse, a one-night stand with a stranger turned out to be with my husband's brother, Anthony Caldwell-the Don of the city. He knew all of Joshua's secrets and used them to trap me in a twisted game, seeing me as nothing more than an asset.
They both thought I was a broken doll they could control.
I wrote a song for his mistress, a beautiful execution with a single, impossible note I knew would destroy her voice.
She sang it, and now her career is over.
Now the Don has summoned me to Chicago, not knowing the woman he thinks is his asset is the one who just burned his brother's world to the ground. 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. The Capo's Scarred Wife: A Vicious Comeback
Sofia Wade I was the Chicago Outfit's princess, and Luca and Matteo were my sworn protectors. We had mixed our blood at ten years old, promising that nothing would ever touch me.
But that oath turned to ash the night Sofia Ricci aimed a Roman candle at my chest.
The firework slammed into my shoulder, igniting my silk dress instantly. As I rolled on the concrete, screaming while the flames ate into my skin, I waited for my boys to save me.
They didn't.
Instead, I watched through the smoke as they rushed to Sofia. They wrapped their jackets—the ones meant to shield me—around the girl who had just set me on fire, comforting her because the "kickback" had scared her.
They let me burn to keep her warm.
When I woke up in the hospital with permanent scars, they brought me a letter of apology from her and defended her "accident." They even cut their palms to pay her debt, ignoring the fact that I was the one in bandages.
That was the moment Elena Vitiello died.
I didn't scream. I didn't beg. I simply packed my bags and defected to the one place they couldn't follow: the arms of Dante Moretti, the lethal Capo of New York.
By the time they realized their mistake and came crawling back to beg in the rain, I was already wearing another man's ring.
"You want forgiveness?" I asked, looking down at them.
"Burn for it." Married to the ruthless Billionaire Mafia
Starrlight I was meant to study law. Instead, the law sold me.
My father's debts sold me into a contract marriage with Dante Moretti, the heir to a mafia empire who hides behind a billion-dollar legal empire.
To the world, he's the polished, untouchable CEO. Behind closed doors, he's ruthless, demanding, and dangerously irresistible.
I swore I'd outsmart him that I'd serve my time and win my freedom. But every kiss feels like a trap, every touch like a dare, and every secret I uncover pulls me deeper into his world.
And the longer I stay, the harder it is to remember:
Am I his prisoner... or his bride?
The Billionaire's Bride Has A Secret
Mi Lu I took a blade for my husband, Marco, five years ago. It saved his life, but the wound to my stomach cost me the ability to give him an heir. He swore it didn't matter. "I only need you," he had whispered.
Today, he brought home my replacement. He called her a "surrogate," a university student named Bianca who was meant to secure his family's bloodline. But that night, I found them tangled in our guest bed.
I stood in the doorway, a ghost in my own home, and listened to him praise her.
"You're so pure," he whispered. "Lia... she's so frigid."
The betrayal was a second blade twisting in my old scar. His affair became blatant. He showered her with gifts and forgot my birthday. When she coveted the heirloom pendant my dying mother gave me, he ripped it from my neck and gave it to her.
"It's a worthless trinket," he scoffed.
That night, she tried to run me over with his Aston Martin. He arrived to find me bleeding in the driveway, and he didn't even ask if I was okay. He just looked at me with disgust, believing her lies instantly.
"What the hell have you done now?" he bellowed. "You're not dead, are you?"
I laughed then, a hollow, chilling sound. I picked up my suitcase, turned my back on the ruins of my marriage, and made a single phone call.
"Dante," I said to my brother, the Don of the Romano family. "It's done. Cut them off." Too Late, Mr. Don: The Wife You Buried
Cinderella's Sister I went to the family lawyer for a routine travel clearance. Instead, I was handed a divorce decree. The ink was three years old.
While I had been playing the role of the dutiful Capo's wife, Dante had secretly divorced me the day after our fifth anniversary.
Twenty-four hours later, he legally married the nanny, Gia, and named her cruel-eyed son as his heir.
I returned home to confront him, only for the boy to throw boiling tomato soup on me.
Dante didn't check my burns. He cradled the boy and looked at me with pure, drug-fueled hatred, calling me a monster for upsetting his "son."
The final blow came in a parking garage. A car sped toward us.
Dante didn't pull me to safety. He shoved me into the vehicle's path, using my body as a human shield to protect his mistress.
Lying broken on the asphalt, I realized Aria Vitiello was already dead to him. So, I decided to make it official.
I arranged a private flight over the Atlantic and ensured there were no survivors.
By the time Dante was weeping over the wreckage, realizing too late that he had been poisoned against me, I was already in France.
The Canary was dead. The Reaper had risen. Too Late To Beg: My Cold Ex-Husband
Bei Ke On our ninth anniversary, my husband Dominick didn't toast to us. Instead, he rested his hand on his mistress's pregnant belly in front of the entire crime family.
I was just a debt payment to him, a ghost in a forty-thousand-dollar gown.
But the humiliation didn't end in the ballroom. When his mistress, Chastity, started hemorrhaging later that night, he didn't call an ambulance. He dragged me to the family clinic.
He knew I had a serious heart condition. He knew a transfusion of that magnitude could trigger a fatal cardiac event.
"She is carrying my son," he said, his eyes devoid of any humanity.
"You will give her whatever she needs."
I begged him. I bargained for my freedom. He lied and agreed, just to get the needle in my arm.
As my dark red blood flowed through the tube to save the woman destroying my life, my chest tightened. The monitors began to scream. My heart was failing.
"Mr. Reyes! She's crashing!" the doctor shouted.
Dominick didn't even turn around.
He walked out of the room to hold Chastity's hand, leaving me to die on the table.
I survived, but Annis Myers died in that clinic.
He thought I would return to the penthouse and continue being his obedient, silent wife. He thought he owned the blood in my veins.
He was wrong.
I went back to the penthouse one last time. I struck a match.
I let the room burn.
By the time Dominick realized I wasn't in the ashes, I was already on a plane to London.
I had left my wedding ring in an envelope, along with the medical records that proved his cruelty.
He wanted a war? I would give him one. 
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