Xi Yue
9 Published Stories
Xi Yue's Books and Stories
Rising From Shadows: The Billionaire's Cold Revenge
Modern I stood in the shadows of the hospital, watching my wife kiss another man while my grandmother lay dying upstairs.
Just minutes ago, Erlene had snapped at me over the phone, calling me a "needy child" and claiming she was stuck at a business meeting across town. Now, she was stepping out of a red Porsche in a designer dress, wrapped in the arms of Andrew Hanson, the man who was supposed to be her "sick friend."
"I'm not going up," Erlene said coldly when I confronted her in the rain. "I don't like watching people die. It's depressing. Tell her I came by." She looked at my soaked, cheap hoodie and my scuffed sneakers with pure disgust before turning her back on me to return to her lover’s side.
I had to go back to the ICU alone and lie to my grandmother with her final breath, telling her Erlene was waiting just outside the door. As the heart monitor flatlined at 2:14 AM, my phone buzzed with a call from my mother-in-law, who screamed that I was a "worthless loser" and demanded I sign divorce papers immediately so her daughter could finally be with a "real man."
For three years, I lived as a ghost, a poor driver who endured their insults and hid my true identity just to have a simple life with the woman I loved. I sacrificed my future for a family that treated me like a stray dog, only for them to spit on me while I held my grandmother’s cold hand.
Why did I stay in the shadows for so long? Why did I let these people believe they could crush me under their expensive heels?
I walked out of that hospital and threw my thick, black glasses onto the wet asphalt, watching a delivery truck grind them into dust. I didn't need the disguise anymore. I drove my rusted Honda to the towering iron gates of the George Estate, where the security team dropped their batons and snapped into a terrified salute. My father was waiting on the marble steps, but I wasn't there for a peaceful reunion. I was there to reclaim my inheritance and make sure Erlene realized exactly what she had thrown away. Her Choice, My Freedom
Mafia The last thing I remembered from that life was the metallic taste of blood.
Mark' s fists felt like concrete blocks, crushing my ribs with every blow.
Through the haze of pain, I saw Sarah by the warehouse door, holding her son.
She watched me die, her beautiful face blank, her eyes cold and empty.
She had chosen him, the gangster, the man now beating me to death, over me.
After twenty years of trying to save her, sacrificing everything, her betrayal was the final, most painful blow.
Then, nothing, until a phone started ringing.
I snapped awake in my childhood bedroom not aching, not broken.
My old flip phone flashed a familiar name: Sarah' s Mom.
I knew this call. This was the night Sarah got into trouble with Mark.
The night her parents begged me to use my college savings to bail her out.
Last time, I' d said yes, draining my account and giving up my dream school.
This time, I took a steadying breath.
"No."
The line went silent.
"What? Alex, what do you mean, no? This is Sarah we' re talking about."
"She made her choices. She needs to face the consequences. I' m not getting involved."
A weight I didn' t know I was carrying for two decades lifted.
"I have my own life to think about. I' m sorry."
I hung up, staring at my unbroken hands, the hands of an eighteen-year-old with a future I was taking back. Free From His Shadow
Romance The crystal chandeliers of the Grand Ballroom reflected in the champagne, but the light felt cold.
My husband, Mark, was across the room, his eyes fixed on Lily, the young intern who had become his entire world.
I walked towards them, the whispers of the crowd following me.
He handed me a pre-prepared divorce settlement.
"I\'m going to marry Lily," he said, loud enough for those nearby to hear.
Then, with a cruel twist of his lips, he added, "Consider our partnership terminated. Effective immediately."
In the weeks that followed, Mark systematically dismantled my family' s business.
He orchestrated a public scandal, leaking fabricated documents that implicated my father in fraud.
My father had a heart attack.
My mother aged a decade overnight.
I sat by my father' s hospital bed, watching the news report on Mark and Lily' s engagement.
That' s when I truly broke.
Then, a blinding flash of light.
A gut-wrenching pull.
I gasped, my eyes flying open.
The date on my phone was October 12th.
The day I found Lily' s photo on his computer.
The day the nightmare began.
I was back.
The memory of my parents' ruined faces, of my father in that hospital bed, was burned into my mind.
It was not a dream.
It was a warning.
I had a second chance.
Not for revenge.
Not to win him back.
For survival. The Billionaire's Retribution
Modern The searing pain was the last thing I knew.
A sharp, cold metal plunging into my belly, again and again.
My best friend, Tara, was screaming, a twisted rage on her face I' d never seen before, "Why couldn't it have been you?
You have everything!"
Her husband, Brian, held the knife, his eyes empty.
I watched my own blood pool on my marble floor as they staged a home invasion, taking over my life, my home, my wealth.
I watched my husband, shattered by grief, take his own life.
My baby, my husband, me – all of it, gone.
I died, clutching to the injustice of it all, wondering how the people I loved most could betray me so absolutely.
Why did they hate me so much just for having what they wanted?
Then I woke up, alive, in my Silicon Valley home, my hand resting on my still-pregnant belly.
And the front door opened, revealing Tara and Brian, suitcases in hand, their smiles dripping with false sweetness. My Family, My Fortune, Their Lie
Billionaires I had just closed a nine-figure deal, the kind that sets your family up for generations.
But when I got home, exhausted and suffering a heart attack, my wife and daughter were too busy recording TikToks and live streams to even notice.
As I collapsed, gasping for breath, my wife told me my "negative energy was messing with her aura."
I had to dial 911 myself, my family completely oblivious, leaving me to die on the floor.
Waking up alone in the hospital, I found not concerned calls, but credit card alerts for lavish shopping sprees.
They weren't worried; they were celebrating.
Then, at Malibu, I saw my wife with her "life coach" lover as she handed me divorce papers, and my daughter told me he was more of a father than I ever was.
My world shattered, I saw the truth: every sacrifice for them had been a lie.
I had given my life, my fortune, all of it, to people who only saw me as an ATM.
But the real shock came with a sealed envelope: 0.00% paternity.
The daughter I had raised for seventeen years wasn't mine.
The pain burned away the old me, leaving behind a cold, calculating resolve.
I froze their accounts, repossessed their luxuries, and hired a PI to expose the "life coach" as a low-level con artist with massive gambling debts.
When they came begging, I showed them the paternity test and his criminal record, then I called 911 on him for kidnapping them-his desperate attempt for ransom money.
I set up a small trust for Molly, enough only for community college, sealing off my past.
Then, I sold my company, bought a muscle car, and drove cross-country, ready to finally live for myself.
I didn't seek revenge; I orchestrated justice. The Unwanted Heiress: A Billion-Dollar Reckoning
Billionaires The day of my SATs, my first step toward freedom, began with a slap.
Our Texas ranch was a river of mud, and the testing center was twenty miles away.
My father, a self-made oil tycoon, didn' t even look up as I begged for fifty dollars.
"Fifty dollars? Do you think money grows on trees, Gabrielle?" he sneered.
Then came the slap, hard and fast, echoing through our cavernous living room.
"Lazy and entitled," he spat, stealing the seventeen dollars I' d painstakingly saved.
He kicked me out into the storm, telling me not to return until I'd learned the value of a dollar.
My brother, Andrew, stood by, his face a mask of indifference.
My mother was upstairs, oblivious, probably admiring a new diamond.
As I trudged through the mud, a news report on our giant billboard flashed.
It showed my family smiling on a stage, celebrating a one-million-dollar donation to an arts program in honor of my adopted sister, Molly.
Her achievement? A C+ in art.
They had just slapped me and thrown me out for a fifty-dollar ride to the most important exam of my life.
The image of their smiling faces burned into my mind, washing away the tears I didn' t even realize I was crying.
Defeated, I reached the testing center, only to find the doors locked.
I tore my soggy admission ticket into tiny pieces, letting the rain carry them away.
Something inside me broke. Or maybe, it finally healed. They Never Saw Me
Modern Ethan Miller always felt like a ghost, invisible in his own home. He yearned for his biological parents' love, but their affection, their very sight, was reserved for his adopted brother, Kyle – the golden boy who perfectly filled the void Ethan had left.
Then, terror struck. He was kidnapped, brutally tormented. A desperate call reached his FBI profiler father, who, in Ethan' s darkest hour, dismissed him as a mere nuisance: "Your brother's debate is what matters today!"
Days later, Ethan's body was found, brutally murdered. His own parents-an FBI agent and a medical examiner-worked the scene, professionally examining the unrecognizable remains. They handled his personal effects, his ruined clothing, utterly blind to the son they held in their hands, prioritizing another' s success over his very life.
How could they not see him? How could he be so utterly erased, dismissed even in death, by the people who gave him life? The gut-wrenching irony was an agony even for a ghost.
But the truth couldn't stay buried forever. A small receipt and security footage would shatter their denial, forcing them to confront the unrecognizable horror. And when the kidnapper' s chilling confession revealed Kyle' s calculated betrayal as the mastermind, their perfect family would finally, explosively, unravel before the world. The Final Goodbye to the Past
Sci-fi It was Valentine's Day, also my daughter Lily's fifth birthday, and our San Francisco house buzzed with her party.
Her innocent wish, spoken in perfect French, shattered my world: "I wish Mommy and Daddy would divorce, and Uncle Julian could be my new daddy."
My wife Izzy confirmed her chilling desire, and the subsequent divorce papers, the mere fifty-million-dollar check, and pervasive public humiliation felt like the final blows.
Every person I cared for-my wife, my daughter, my very own parents-echoed the same brutal sentiment: I was nothing but a convenience, easily discarded.
Years of devotion, of caring for Izzy during her coma and raising Lily, yielded only cold dismissals and public scorn.
My heart, already weakened by a secret chronic illness, shattered repeatedly, leaving me hollowed out and completely unvalued.
Was my loyalty a curse?
Had I truly been nothing but a 'placeholder'?
With nothing left but bitter pain, a mysterious entity offered an 'exit'-a chance to leave this life behind.
But death, it seemed, was merely a new beginning.
I awoke to a reality where I was reborn, the highly respected screenwriter Ethan Cole, cured of my past ailments.
Until a ghost from my previous life, my ex-wife and daughter, appeared, ready to 'reconquer' me.
This time, the game was on my terms. You might like
Ex-Wife, Please Have Some Self-Respect
Fritz Heaney I was driving through a rainstorm in upstate New York, pushing my old Volvo to the limit just to pick up a Dior gown for my wife, Catarina. She needed it for a gala tonight, where she planned to spend the evening standing next to the man she actually loved, Atticus Deleon.
The truck hit me head-on, crossing the center line and sending my car rolling down an embankment in a shriek of twisted metal and shattered glass. As the steering column crushed my chest, my brain didn't see a white light; it was pried open by a digital tsunami, flooding my mind with the "Quantum Archive"-billions of data points on surgery, high-frequency trading, and combat.
I woke up in the ICU with three broken ribs and a concussion, but the only thing waiting for me was a screaming voicemail from my wife's assistant.
"Jorden, where the hell are you? Catarina has been waiting for thirty minutes! You are so incompetent it's actually impressive."
There was no "Are you okay?" or "Are you alive?"-only fury over a ruined dress and a missing tie. While I was being resuscitated, my wife was on Instagram, singing "Endless Love" with Atticus and laughing at my "tantrum." She even called the family lawyer to freeze my credit cards, wanting to make sure I couldn't even buy a coffee without her permission.
For three years, I had been the "useful husband," the doormat who apologized whenever she stepped on my toes. But the accident had overwritten my desperation with cold, hard logic, and I realized I had almost died for a woman who viewed me as a liability with a negative return on investment.
When Catarina finally stormed into my hospital room to demand an apology for ruining her night, I didn't look at her with the usual puppy-dog eyes. I looked at her with ice in my veins and handed her a manila envelope I had drafted myself.
"Sign the divorce papers, Ms. Evans. I'm done being your canary." 
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