Sunian Jinshi
7 Published Stories
Sunian Jinshi's Books and Stories
He Called Me Needy, Then Lost
Modern For seven years, I sacrificed my career to be the invisible woman behind my rising star boyfriend, August.
But on our anniversary, I watched him on a livestream, openly flirting with his co-star, Alana, while the internet hailed them as the perfect couple.
His fans sent me death threats, calling me "forgettable" and "unworthy." When I begged him for help, he called me "needy" and told me I was "overreacting."
Yet, when Alana faced the same online hate, he held a press conference, fiercely defending her as a "vulnerable artist."
The man who dismissed my suffering was now a champion against injustice for another woman. I realized he wasn't incapable of empathy; he just chose not to direct it at me.
I wasn't just forgettable. I was a fool. So I packed my bags, blocked his number, and booked a one-way ticket out of his life, ready to finally stop being invisible. Unmasking My Mafia Fiancé
Mafia My fiancé, a mafia Capo, promised the painkillers would help after the "car crash." It was a lie. The real accident was his temper, and I was his favorite punching bag.
In a medicated haze, I overheard the truth. He was on the phone with his consigliere, boasting about stealing my billion-dollar casino blueprint. He was going to use it to become Underboss.
He planned to propose, then use our world's code of silence to legally gag me from ever claiming my own work. His mistress, Olivia, would be the public face of the project.
The worst part was the truth about my miscarriage. It wasn't an accident. He and Olivia had orchestrated it, calling our baby a "complication" that would kill his ambition.
At a party, he proved it all. After shoving me to the ground in front of everyone, he walked away with her, leaving me in a heap of humiliation.
The love I had for him didn't just die; it turned into a cold, hard certainty. He had taken my work, my child, and my dignity.
So I sent him one last email: a file containing proof of every lie, every betrayal, and a video of his abuse. The subject line read: "My Wedding Gift." Then I boarded a one-way flight to New York to partner with the one man he truly feared. This wasn't a breakup. It was war. Strawberry Shame, Billionaire's Revenge
Billionaires The box arrived on Valentine's Day, filled not with chocolates, but with used, strawberry-flavored condoms – a twisted message from my fiancé, Ethan Vance.
For three years, I, Sarah, the rightful Miller heiress, endured his mockery and Chloe Peterson's manipulative presence, all while my tech billionaire grandfather insisted I choose an heir from four men who only ever loved Chloe.
This time, on our shared birthday, Chloe, feigning injury and tears, framed me for kidnapping within moments of arriving at our Aspen ski resort party, turning Ethan and the others against me, leaving me shivering and deserted in the freezing lodge.
Ethan, my supposed fiancé, ripped off my jacket to give to her, his eyes blazing with fury, as his friends-my so-called "chosen heirs"-circled like vultures, accusing me of cruelty and jealousy.
Left locked in the sub-zero night, my phone dead from the cold, I finally blew the emergency whistle Grandpa gave me, summoning my quiet bodyguard, Mark Davis, who arrived like a dark knight in shining armor.
"I said, take off your ski jacket."
I faced Ethan Vance, heart hardened. "I don't want you anymore."
Tonight, at the grand dinner, my new fiancé, Mark Davis, CEO of Skyward Holdings, will stand by my side as I reclaim my dignity.
He' ll watch as I expose Ethan and Chloe, turning their cruel games back on them, and watch as they lose everything.
This isn't just a birthday party anymore; it's a reckoning. Stolen Womb, Stolen Life
Romance Seven years. My marriage to Matthew Lester, the golden boy of Texas high society, was outwardly perfect.
I was even pregnant, finally giving his ecstatic parents the grandchild they longed for. I told myself I was happy.
Then, his phone lit up with a text from Nicole Lawrence, my high school rival. "Did you tell her yet?" the message read.
My blood ran cold as I scrolled up and saw Matthew's reply, "Not yet. Let her enjoy the pregnancy for a little while." Nicole' s next message ripped the air from my lungs: "It's my pregnancy too, Matt. My baby. I want to be the one to feel it kick."
The baby growing inside me wasn't mine. It was Matthew' s and Nicole' s, conceived via IVF, and I was merely a surrogate.
The man who supposedly saved me after my father' s tragic death had turned me into a vessel for his and my greatest betrayer' s child. My perfect life was a cage, and the truth made it crumble.
How could he? How could they? The horror of being used, violated, and utterly betrayed by the two people who had already shaped my darkest moments was unbearable.
Every act of kindness, every loving word, every shared dream was a calculated lie. My father' s death, my shattered past-it was all a setup.
But a cold resolve settled in. I wouldn't be a victim again.
I wouldn't break. I would play their game, then I would disappear, erase Stella Lester, and reclaim my life, whatever the cost. The Voice They Stole: A Vargas Reckoning
Romance I was Amelia "Mia" Vargas, the orphan girl who'd clawed her way to country music stardom, living out my fairytale as I prepared to get engaged to Nashville's golden boy, Jax Thorne, live on the CMA red carpet.
The flashbulbs popped, the crowd cheered, and my heart pounded with a future I thought was finally mine, a dream come true for the girl from nowhere.
Then, the nightmare literally burst onto the scene: Jax's ex-fiancée, Brooke Harrington, materialized, distraught.
He brazenly dropped my hand, embraced her, and publicly branded me an "opportunistic social climber" right before security wrestled me away like a discarded prop.
My world imploded.
My career was systematically obliterated—songs pulled from radio, venues canceled, my name tarnished beyond recognition.
But the ultimate blow came when Jax invaded my sanctuary, savagely smashing the vintage guitar that was my very soul.
As I desperately lunged to save it, he shoved me, and I fell.
My choked scream turned into a gurgle as my vocal cords ruptured, stealing the unique voice that defined me.
Not content with my silence, Brooke, with a cruel smirk, offered me a final, crushing humiliation: an internship, serving coffee to the man who'd ruthlessly taken absolutely everything.
I was broken, voiceless, stripped bare, and they thought I was utterly alone, a defeated footnote in their grand political ascent.
They thought they knew the orphan girl.
But they had no idea who they had truly crossed, or that the name Vargas held a horrifying, unspoken power. Ashes of Lily: A Mother's Fury
Billionaires As a geologist, I suffocated in my husband Jack Thorne's gilded cage. Our six-year-old, Lily, was my only joy amidst the fake smiles of a gala night.
Then, a simple juice spill on Tiffany Bellweather's couture gown – Jack's mistress-EA. Lily's accident turned chilling when Jack, enraged by her defiance, declared her punishment: abandonment in the brutal Nevada desert.
He drove her off, casually promising a "desert experience," complete with a drone feed for me. I watched my terrified daughter face scorpions, rattlesnakes, and scorching heat. This wasn't punishment; it was calculated torture.
The drone showed Lily, small and alone, whimpering. Jack was unmoved. Then Tiffany's poisoned confession: she orchestrated the spill. Jack simply sought an excuse to hurt me through our child. This calculated betrayal broke me, leaving me utterly helpless.
On screen, a rattlesnake bite. Jack ignored my pleas. Lily died. My world shattered. I vanished with her ashes, fueled by icy fury. My geological expertise, once dismissed, would become my ultimate weapon. Jack destroyed my life. I would dismantle his empire. You might like
Abandoned Ex-Wife: Now Untouchable
Tao Yaoyao My five-year-old daughter was dying in the ICU, her heartbeat replaced by the continuous, electronic scream of a flatline. I gripped her cold hand, my throat sealed shut by a terror so absolute I couldn't even cry out.
I dialed my husband Grayson's private number, the one reserved only for me and his assistants. He declined the call instantly. A second later, a text buzzed against my palm:
"In a meeting. Do not disturb. Stop calling."
Five miles away, Grayson was at a luxury gala, adjusting his silk tie and laughing with Belle Escobar. He told her I was just being "dramatic" and using our daughter's "fever" as an excuse to avoid the event. He had no idea Effie's heart had already stopped.
When I finally reached our penthouse, soaked from the rain and carrying Effie's small socks in a plastic bag, Grayson didn't even look at me. He snapped at me for ruining the hardwood floors and asked if I'd left Effie with the nanny just to "feel sorry for myself."
Three days later, while I buried our daughter in a small, lonely ceremony, Grayson was at the Hamptons. Belle posted a photo of him golfing with the caption: "A mental health day with the boys." He didn't even attend the funeral, but he returned home demanding I clear out Effie's room to make a study for Belle's son.
The injustice burned through me until there was nothing left. I swallowed a handful of sleeping pills, desperate to join my daughter. But instead of the darkness, I woke up to blinding lights and the scent of Grayson's expensive cologne.
I was standing in a ballroom, wearing a blue silk dress I had already burned. Above me, a banner read: "Happy 5th Birthday Kaiden & Effie."
I was back, exactly one year before the tragedy. This time, I wasn't going to be the grieving wife. I was going to be their worst nightmare. No Longer Mrs. Cooley: The Architect's Return
Xiao Xiaosu I went to the City Clerk’s office for a routine copy of my marriage license to finalize a trust fund audit. I expected a simple piece of paper, but the clerk’s pitying look told me my entire life was a lie.
"The license was never finalized, Ms. Oliver. In the eyes of the state, you are single."
The three-hundred-guest wedding at the Plaza and the Vogue features meant nothing. My husband, Gray Cooley, had intentionally filed the documents with a "procedural defect" so he could discard me without a legal divorce. Moments later, an iCloud invite titled "Our Little Secret" popped up on my screen. It was a photo of my best friend, Brylee, holding a positive pregnancy test at our Hamptons estate.
Gray’s text to her was the final blow:
"Happy anniversary, babe. This baby is the best gift. Once the trust unlocks today, we’re done with the charade."
I soon discovered they were even stealing my career, reassigning my architectural masterpiece to Brylee while preparing my eviction notice. Gray's mother called me a "barren mule" in a leaked recording, mocking the infertility I suffered after saving Gray’s life in a construction accident. I wasn't a wife; I was a three-year placeholder used to secure his inheritance.
How could the man I bled for treat me like a disposable prop? How could my best friend carry his child while pretending to comfort me through my darkest moments? The betrayal burned until it turned into a cold, hard stone of fury.
I didn't cry. Instead, I walked into the penthouse of the Barretts, the Cooleys' most powerful rivals. I signed a marriage contract with Kane Barrett, the man the tabloids called the "Beast of Wall Street."
"I want a wedding," I told his father, my voice steady and lethal. "Bigger than the one I had with Gray."
If they wanted me gone, they would have to watch me become the woman who owns their world. The Placeholder Bride's Secret Billionaire Revenge
Luo Ye For two years, I was the invisible force behind tech billionaire Kieran Douglas, convinced that our "private" romance was his way of protecting us from the tabloid spotlight. I managed his mergers, warmed his bed, and waited for a future that didn't exist.
The illusion shattered at 6:00 AM when a Page Six alert debuted Kieran's "real" romance with socialite Aspen Schneider. Before I could even process the betrayal, Kieran sent me a cold, professional text: "Order flowers for Aspen. Pink peonies. Her favorite."
When I tried to walk away, my own mother called me a disgrace and threatened to lock my inheritance forever unless I married a sixty-year-old businessman to save her failing estate. At a high-society gala that same night, Aspen intentionally crushed my burned hand in front of the cameras, while Kieran stood by and dismissed me as a "mediocre assistant" who had overstayed her welcome.
I stood in the cold New York rain, drenched in champagne and humiliation, realizing that every sacrifice I made for Kieran was a joke. I was a ghost in a penthouse that was never mine, discarded the moment his "soulmate" returned. To the world, I was just a placeholder whose time had run out.
But Kieran forgot one thing: my father's multi-million dollar trust fund unlocks the moment I legally marry. I didn't need love; I needed a signature and a shield. I walked into a discreet law firm and signed a marriage contract with a man I believed was the city's most notorious, scandal-ridden playboy.
I thought I was marrying a degenerate "beard" to buy my freedom and secure my revenge. I didn't realize the man who signed that paper wasn't a playboy at all, but Gaston Collins-the most powerful and dangerous man on Wall Street-and he had no intention of letting our fake marriage stay fake. 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. His Trophy Wife, The Apex Predator
Eydie Pfefferle My husband of three years, Arthur Vanderbilt, came home smelling of his mistress's perfume and threw divorce papers on our marble kitchen island.
He demanded I sign away all rights to our assets for a five-million-dollar "severance," calling me a leech his family picked up from the suburbs to solve a temporary PR crisis.
When I refused and demanded my four percent equity in the Vanderbilt Group, he and his mistress, Serena, launched a vicious smear campaign. They planted false stories on Wall Street forums, accusing me of laundering money for an Eastern European crime syndicate.
They tried to force my hand with a check for five hundred million, which I tore up and threw in his face. To them, I was just a trophy wife they could easily discard.
They had no idea that the "leech" they so despised was the anonymous investor who had secretly bailed out their entire company three years ago, saving them from bankruptcy.
Their final move was to hire an actress to publicly accuse me of fraud in the lobby of the most powerful law firm in Manhattan. They didn't realize I was there to retain the firm's most ruthless lawyer. After security threw them out, I looked my replacement in the eye and made her a promise.
"Prepare for an FBI probe into perjury and corporate defamation." Seven Years A Fool, One Day A Queen
Stella Montgomery Everyone knew Kristine loved Colton. Still, his heart clung to a woman overseas-someone he spent most days with, now pregnant with his baby-and Kristine still asked him to marry her.
On their registration day, however, he never came; his "true love" had flown back.
Seven years of loyalty later, Kristine walked away, blocked him, and left his city.
Colton didn't blink-until he saw her at the courthouse, arm-in-arm with another man, and the proud CEO went pale. He went after her, desperation overtaking him.
"I'm sorry. Please give me another chance."
She snapped, "Could you stop? I'm already married." Cheated On Me? I Married a Tycoon
Rum Runner I spent three years building my husband, Axel Farrell, into Silicon Valley's ultimate "family man." As his lead PR strategist, I carefully managed his public image, making sure the world saw him as a perfect, devoted husband while I worked in the shadows of our estate.
The illusion shattered when he came home one night smelling of sandalwood and roses, with three deep fingernail scratches carved into his back. When I tried to check his phone, the passcode we had used for years-our wedding anniversary-had been changed.
The betrayal got worse the next morning when his mother called me a "defective product" and tried to force me into a fertility clinic. Axel didn't defend me; instead, he shoved me against a marble bar at a public gala to protect his mistress in front of the world's elite. By the time I tried to leave, Axel had frozen my bank accounts and filed a forged legal petition to have me declared mentally incompetent.
He planned to have me legally kidnapped and locked in a private psychiatric ward just to stop me from filing for divorce. He even blocked every major law firm in the city from taking my case, leaving me with no money, no identity, and no one to turn to.
I couldn't understand how the man who "saved" me from the mud years ago could be the same monster now trying to legally erase my existence. Was our entire marriage just a grooming process to exploit my genius for his billion-dollar empire?
As the deadline for my forced commitment approached, I stopped crying and opened my laptop. I leaked the video of his affair to every tech journalist in the country, watching his stock price crash in real-time.
"Axel thinks starving me out will make me crawl back to him," I whispered as I walked into the headquarters of his biggest rival.
"But he forgot that the most valuable part of his company is in my head."
I was no longer the abandoned wife; I was the one who was going to take his throne and burn it to the ground. Untouchable After Goodbye: She Had A Secret Empire
Mira Westfield "Let's get a divorce. She's pregnant and deserves a place in my life."
He once promised to protect Claire forever, yet when his first love returned, he cast her aside. For three years, Claire dimmed her brilliance, living quietly as the obedient wife behind him.
When he handed her divorce papers to give his pregnant mistress a place, Claire no longer hid her talents.
The woman he had overlooked was a legendary healer, racing prodigy, and a genius designer. After the divorce, she reclaimed her glory.
When he pleaded, "Honey, let's remarry," another man pulled her close. "She's my wife now. As for you... Someone, take him out and give him what he deserves!" 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." First Lady Out, Your Majesty In
Asher Wolfe For three years, Allison played the perfect First Lady in a marriage that never gave her love back.
Nolan handed her divorce papers, sneering at her background while his mother mocked her as barren and his pregnant mistress claimed her place. So Allison walked away.
On the very day she left him, the royal family reclaimed her as their lost princess.
Crown, fortune, power, three terrifying brothers, and a handpicked royal consort now stood at her side.
Her eldest brother-the world's most feared arms dealer-pushed a black card across the table. "Go on. Spend whatever you like."
Her second brother-the genius doctor-twirled a scalpel between his fingers. "Tell me, sis. How many cuts do the ones who hurt you deserve?"
Her third brother-a global martial arts superstar-stormed into her ex-husband's lair. "Who made my sister cry? Time to face the music."
When her regretful ex begged for another chance, Allison only smiled.
It was too late. She was no longer his wife. She was his worst mistake. 
/1/103124/coverorgin.jpg?v=7c7fc2b0bfd345f28f126f29f6c7ec5b&imageMogr2/format/webp)
/0/97872/coverorgin.jpg?v=5dddeb9cf2505f5fc7743505b2424764&imageMogr2/format/webp)
/0/85766/coverorgin.jpg?v=ddc5622ed496779e6d483f062899de45&imageMogr2/format/webp)
/0/84408/coverorgin.jpg?v=0715e30f01ec1382171a5f1888de2eb5&imageMogr2/format/webp)
/0/83421/coverorgin.jpg?v=fbdcbd6f2a36e55093fc993623df7f65&imageMogr2/format/webp)
/0/80847/coverorgin.jpg?v=d729d52416ba2d1a1d1f5512b7dd495d&imageMogr2/format/webp)
/0/18654/coverorgin.jpg?v=e8c619245bd0e999218801f92d691a6f&imageMogr2/format/webp)
/1/107720/coverorgin.jpg?v=6d6583f21b392ea7c76b778b0308381b&imageMogr2/format/webp)
/1/107820/coverorgin.jpg?v=6e86399a40b4939055e49bc447825466&imageMogr2/format/webp)
/1/106609/coverorgin.jpg?v=5e9e182824bef37bb03be668963bc105&imageMogr2/format/webp)
/1/106649/coverorgin.jpg?v=b55ff3a1bf4d7bb198689613bf191b01&imageMogr2/format/webp)
/1/110647/coverorgin.jpg?v=29beacffc0e96b8cfd2210bc9ec24044&imageMogr2/format/webp)
/1/106447/coverorgin.jpg?v=3f3287a2d4b0f0bdd81f9c491b55fa4b&imageMogr2/format/webp)
/1/110343/coverorgin.jpg?v=cd4e8269a7b208ebe8c7a769a0d2faaa&imageMogr2/format/webp)
/1/109886/coverorgin.jpg?v=11866cd7ae1a2e1b2a373b6ca96c7dc5&imageMogr2/format/webp)
/0/81650/coverorgin.jpg?v=6e4487b5edd0ed017fe09f8ca0166339&imageMogr2/format/webp)
/1/110015/coverorgin.jpg?v=864b36cbe26f3b21ce755a59ed6d4fb7&imageMogr2/format/webp)