Youran Qianwu
9 Published Stories
Youran Qianwu's Books and Stories
Claimed By The Coldhearted Sterling Heir
Modern I was kneeling on the warped linoleum of my trailer, packing my life into a trash bag, when the predatory purr of a luxury SUV echoed through the thin walls. I thought it was a raid, but it was something much worse.
Julian Sterling, a federal prosecutor in a charcoal suit, stepped into the mud and bought me from my alcoholic stepfather. He didn't use cash; he used a list of felonies and a legal settlement to trade my freedom for my stepfather's silence.
"Throw it away," Julian ordered, pointing at the bag containing everything I owned. I watched my sister's stuffed bear fall into an oil puddle as he forced me into a world of cold leather and silence. By the time we reached Boston, Faith Vance was dead. He forced me to sign papers changing my name to Elara, erasing my past to fit a narrative of Swiss boarding schools and high-society breeding.
The horror didn't stop there. The family patriarch, Arthur Sterling, looked at us with hawk-like eyes and issued a command that turned my blood to ice. To avoid scandal, Julian and I were to be introduced as "Brother" and "Sister." Julian's jaw tightened until a vein throbbed in his temple, and when he finally called me "Sister," the word sounded like a curse.
I was a prisoner in a mansion with bars on the windows, caught between a "brother" who loathed my existence and a cousin who tried to assault me in my own room. They dressed me in silk armor and expected me to be a doll, a manageable piece of a legacy I never asked for.
I sat at a dinner table worth more than my hometown, swallowing oysters that tasted like salt and iodine, while Julian created a physical barrier between me and the wolves. Under the tablecloth, I reached out and squeezed his clenched fist.
His fingers uncurled and captured mine in a grip so crushing it felt like a pact signed in the dark. I have a jagged shard of glass in my pocket and five thousand dollars a month to hoard. Julian says the law is a weapon that breaks weak people, but he's about to find out that I'm not a lamb. I'm a survivor, and I'm ready for the casualties. My Destiny Found in Betrayal's Wake
Modern On my 24th birthday, my boyfriend of five years, Jackson, threw me a surprise party.
The surprise was his wedding to another woman, Campbell. He claimed she was dying of cancer.
In front of everyone, he denied our entire relationship, calling me his "little sister."
When I confronted him, his violent shove caused me to lose our unborn child.
I lost my love, my baby, and my job, all for a lie. Because Campbell wasn't dying. Her cancer was fake.
But as they tried to destroy me, a powerful man named Cole Smith stepped in.
At a charity gala, with his help, I played the security footage for the entire room to see-the footage of him pushing me, of me bleeding on the office floor.
I held up the proof of her fake illness.
"There's your truth, Jackson," I said, as his world came crashing down. The Hidden Heiress's Campus Betrayal
Modern To escape the tragic legacy of my famous mother, I hid my identity, becoming a plain, forgettable film student. I fell hard for Hayes McCall, the campus playboy, believing our love was real.
But he was just using me. I was a human shield, a decoy to protect the real object of his affection: the fragile campus "it-girl," Karmen.
He let me get bullied and kidnapped. He stole my thesis film-a tribute to my mother's memory-and gave it to Karmen to claim as her own. When I tried to fight back, he destroyed my work, my past, everything.
At graduation, my ex-roommate projected a video to the entire auditorium, branding me a high-class escort who slept with powerful men.
"She's a disgrace!" she screamed, as the crowd turned on me.
I calmly walked to the podium, my voice cutting through the noise. "You're accusing a Zamora of being a gold-digger?"
I let the name hang in the air before delivering the final blow. "I don't climb the ladder. I am the ladder." His Other Woman, My New Life
Romance This Valentine's Day, I finally convinced my boyfriend of ten years, Ethan Hayes, to take me to that trendy new restaurant, the one with a six-month waitlist. It was our tenth anniversary, a big deal, and I thought maybe, just maybe, this time would be different.
We had just sat down when his phone rang. It was Ashley Cooper. I heard Ethan say, "Don't be silly, you're more understanding than her. I'll be right back." He walked out and never returned.
I sat there alone until the restaurant closed. He sent a text later: "Ashley isn't feeling well. I need to get her home safely. Take a cab home. Text me when you get there." I saw Ashley's social media post with pictures of them, new and old, captioned, "Never learned to grow up, but thankfully, there's always someone to tolerate my whims."
Later, back at our apartment, I saw two figures getting into the elevator with Ethan. It had to be Ashley. He texted, "I'm tired. I don't want to fight tonight."
I felt a crushing weight. After college, I had turned down a fantastic job offer to follow Ethan, giving up my dreams for his. I lost touch with most of my old friends. Now, I truly had nowhere to go.
I had spent ten years waiting for him, helping him build his life and his business. I had been "understanding" and "obedient," always putting his needs first, only to be compared to Ashley, the woman he truly desired. Why did I sacrifice everything for him?
That night, I picked up my phone and sent him two texts: "I don't want to be understanding anymore. Ethan, we're over." It was time to find out who Chloe Miller was without him. His Toxic Legacy, Her Triumph
Modern I poured my heart and soul into Momentum Marketing, the agency my fiancé Mark and I had built.
My loyalty to him ran deep, a bond forged over years.
Then, Mark dropped a bomb: he slashed my salary by more than half, citing financial crisis.
Days later, his chirpy executive assistant, Chloe, plastered Instagram with her brand-new Tesla, a "surprise bonus!" from the "best boss ever."
My accidental "like" on her post triggered his rage.
He publicly humiliated me, then docked my entire reduced monthly salary, gifting it to Chloe for "emotional distress."
Utterly betrayed, I resigned, only for him to cold-bloodedly refuse severance.
But his cruelty wasn't finished.
After I left our condo, he lured me back under false pretenses, filming me to construct a malicious lawsuit, accusing me of corporate espionage.
My name, my career, everything was smeared, a calculated ruin.
They thought they' d finally destroy me in court.
Instead, with undeniable evidence, my lawyer exposed their vile conspiracy, including Chloe's fake pregnancy.
The truth exploded, leading to Mark's public breakdown and ultimate suicide.
His will left me everything, a final, twisted apology.
Now, I'm forging a new empire from the ashes, turning his toxic legacy into my own triumph. The Unwanted Supply
Horror Returning to my Chicago office after maternity leave, I craved the familiar rhythm of marketing and the comfort of normalcy.
But on my very first day back, a strange woman from accounting, Brenda, confronted me with a bizarre, unsettling demand.
Convinced my breast milk was the miraculous cure for her 19-year-old developmentally disabled son, Kevin, she insisted I provide it, "directly and on demand."
My polite refusal ignited a terrifying, obsessive campaign of harassment.
Brenda's actions escalated from chilling threats to physical confrontations, culminating in a horrifying ambush in the company lactation room.
She deliberately tore my clothes, began filming, and shamelessly urged her large son to assault me for my milk.
Even after this grotesque attack, HR downplayed it as a mere "workplace dispute," paralyzed by Brenda's expert manipulation of Kevin's disability and her theatrical victimhood.
Police, overwhelmed by her counter-accusations and her son' s condition, offered no arrests, only warnings.
I was left reeling, violated, and utterly betrayed by a system designed to protect employees.
Brenda's smug victory, coupled with subtle, continued threats, pushed me to the brink.
How could I be safe when my workplace allowed such depravity, bending to one woman' s deranged obsession?
With official help impossible and my personal safety compromised, I realized I had to fight back on my own terms.
My retired Marine Sergeant father and powerful football-player nephew became my unexpected allies.
Brenda had declared war; I decided it was time to find my own weapons. From Humble Wife to Hamilton Queen
Billionaires For seven years, I was Sarah Miller, the humble wife, playing along with my billionaire father's "test" to ensure my husband, David, valued me for himself, not my immense inheritance.
Our Napa getaway was canceled for David's "urgent business trip," but a casual Instagram scroll shattered my world: a lavish party at my house, featuring my husband intimately with our housekeeper's daughter, Brittany, who flaunted my deceased grandmother's priceless Hamilton family heirloom bracelet.
I returned home to find my house overrun, confronting David by the pool, his lips still on Brittany's.
My slap silenced the crowd, but they quickly turned on me, throwing drinks and ripping my clothes, while David stood by, impassive, telling me, "Sarah, you're embarrassing yourself. Get out."
The ultimate betrayal wasn't just his infidelity but his cold complicity; my husband, in my house, letting his mistress and her friends assault and humiliate me, all while my family's legacy mocked me from Brittany's wrist.
Every insult fueled a cold, quiet fury.
They had no idea who they were dealing with. I pulled out my phone and dialed 911, reporting trespass, assault, and the theft of a priceless heirloom.
As David, still arrogant, handed me divorce papers, I made one last call: "Mike, it's Sarah. I need you. Code Hamilton." The Unseen Hand: Matriarch of the Montgomery Legacy
Billionaires I'm Evelyn Montgomery, the quiet apprentice in my family's art restoration studio.
But I also secretly wield unchecked power as the sole trustee of the Montgomery Heritage Fund.
My grandmother taught me to let them underestimate me; it's their first mistake.
When Ashley Jenkins, a social climber obsessed with my grandnephew Connor, conspicuously excluded me from the gala committee, I simply smiled.
Her sweet message about "curating" truly dedicated members was a clear jab.
Then her casual cruelty turned vicious.
She kicked my beloved Norwegian Forest cat, Duke, then brutally killed him.
Her next move?
Pepper-spraying me and literally shoving me into a filthy dog cage, firmly convinced I was a nobody.
The physical pain burned, but the humiliation was a colder fire.
I was left there, heartbroken and raw, my voice hoarse from crying and the acrid fumes.
She had no idea the 'charity case' she'd tormented secretly controlled her entire future.
My quiet fury solidified into an unshakeable resolve.
As Ashley, cornered, invented a fake pregnancy and tried to snatch my family’s symbolic ring, thinking she’d won, a new voice cut through the chaos.
"I believe that leadership is already well established."
Ethan Sterling, head of the powerful Sterling family and my secret fiancé, stepped into view.
He didn't just reveal our engagement; he unmasked me as the silent architect behind our family's greatest successes and his immense influence.
Ashley's world, and everyone who stood by her in their casual dismissal, was about to crumble. You might like
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. 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. 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 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." 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. 
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