Yuda Xiaojie
14 Published Stories
Yuda Xiaojie's Books and Stories
The Blind Billionaire's Scandalous Fake Wife
Modern I woke up in a sterile hospital room with a throat like sandpaper and eyelids that felt sewn shut. I expected to see the water-stained ceiling of my tiny Queens apartment, but instead, I found myself tethered to expensive machines in a room smelling of funeral lilies.
The nurse didn't call me Ainsley Bentley; she called me Mrs. Eaton, and she told me the year was 2024.
Before I could process the four-year gap in my memory, the Eaton matriarch stormed in, calling me a "little actress" and throwing a newspaper at my legs. The headline screamed that I was a scandalous commoner wife who had just caused a DUI crash. Within hours, a ruthless lawyer named Preston was at my bedside, demanding I sign a separation agreement that stripped me of everything. He showed me grainy photos of me with another man, accusing me of infidelity and "endangering the family reputation." My so-called best friend, Kirstie, even tried to bribe me with fifty thousand dollars to flee to Paris, whispering that my husband was an unstable monster who would destroy me.
When I finally confronted my husband Carson, the billionaire "Blind Prophet of Wall Street," he looked at me with chilling indifference through his dark glasses. He was convinced I had sold his location to the paparazzi for a tabloid payout, betraying him at his most vulnerable moment.
I didn't understand any of it. I didn't remember the marriage, the scandals, or the luxury. But when I looked in the mirror, I found a jagged, violent scar running down my back—a "war wound" that didn't belong to a yoga instructor. I realized I knew how to cite matrimonial law by heart and how to neutralize a physical threat with a single move.
"I'm staying," I told the family of sharks as I stood my ground in their massive estate.
I refused to sign the papers. Instead, I found a micro SD card hidden in a hollowed-out lipstick and realized I wasn't just a victim of a crash. I was a variable they hadn't accounted for, and I was going to find out exactly who I was before they could finish what they started. The Wolfless Omega Is The Alpha King's Daughter
Werewolf I stood at the gala, clutching my belly, waiting to tell Alpha Gabe about our child. I was the pack's "Wolfless" orphan, but I was his fated mate. Surely, an heir would change everything.
But under the spotlight, Gabe didn't call my name. He wrapped his arm around Harper, a wealthy heiress, and announced she was carrying the future Alpha.
When I screamed the truth, he didn't just deny me—he looked at me with pure disgust.
"You are a genetic dead end," he spat. "Do not mistake my kindness for affection."
They didn't exile me. They dragged me to the basement. First, they planned to steal my baby for Harper. Then, when jealousy rotted her mind, they decided to kill it.
My own foster parents held me down, having sold me to clear their debts, while a doctor approached with a silver scalpel.
"It's a Rogue mistake," Gabe said, watching me struggle against the straps. "End it."
With seconds left, I begged for one final phone call. I dialed the number on an old, yellowed card I'd hidden for years.
Gabe laughed, thinking I was calling a friend. But when the voice on the other end spoke, the room shook with an aura that forced the Alpha to his knees.
"I am Antony Dean, the Lycan King," the voice roared through the speaker. "And I am ten minutes away."
Gabe had rejected a nobody. He didn't know he had just declared war on the Princess of the Royal Pack. His Poisoned Love, My Escape
Romance My husband, Austen, the man the world saw as my devoted admirer, was the artist of my pain. He had punished me ninety-five times, and this was the ninety-sixth.
Then, a message from my stepsister, Joyce, buzzed on my phone: a photo of her perfectly manicured hand holding champagne, captioned, "Celebrating another victory. He really does love me more."
A second message from Austen followed, "My love, are you resting? I' ve asked the doctor to come. I' m sorry it had to be this way, but you must learn. I' ll be home soon to take care of you."
I had always known Joyce was the trigger, but I never understood the mechanism. I thought it was just Austen' s own brand of cruelty, ignited by Joyce' s lies.
But then, I found a voice recording of Austen's. His calm voice filled the silent room, "...number ninety-six. A broken hand. It should be enough to appease Joyce this time. But my debt must be paid. Fifteen years ago, Joyce saved my life. She pulled me from that burning car after the kidnapping. I vowed that day I would protect her from everything and everyone. Even from my own wife."
My mind went blank. Kidnapping. Burning car. Fifteen years ago. I was the one there. I was the girl who pulled a terrified, crying boy from the back seat just before it exploded. His name was Austen. He had called me his "little star." But when I returned with the police, another girl was there, crying and holding Austen' s hand. It was Joyce.
He didn't know. He had built his entire twisted system of justice on a lie. Joyce had stolen my life-saving act, and I was paying the price. Every cell in my body screamed one word: Escape. From Disappointment to Destiny
Romance The promotion letter for the head of the German division lay heavy in my hand.
It was the job I' d always wanted, the future I' d painstakingly built, but I' d turned it down a year ago.
"Don' t go, Ethan," Olivia had pleaded, her eyes filled with tears. "I need you here."
So, I stayed, sacrificing my career, taking a lesser role to support her dreams, to be her stable foundation.
Tonight was my 25th birthday, a simple steak dinner I' d cooked.
The second plate sat empty.
Olivia had texted hours ago: "Something came up with my study group. Will be a little late."
I scrolled through social media, a habit born of waiting.
Then I saw it: Alex Stone, Olivia' s younger colleague, his arm wrapped tightly around her at a loud, crowded bar.
They were beaming, heads together, Olivia holding a colorful cocktail, not a textbook.
The caption read: "Celebrating with the best."
The air left my lungs.
It wasn't just the picture; it was the casual intimacy, the audacious lie.
A celebration. On my birthday.
A sharp, cold feeling spread through my chest, a feeling I had ignored for too long.
I remembered every sacrifice: selling my classic car for her tuition, sleepless nights proofreading her papers while she was out with "friends from class," driving hours in a snowstorm to fix her flat tire, only to be chastised for being late.
I had given and given, believing that was love, building my world around her.
But she was building a separate one without me.
The pain was immense, but beneath it, something hard and resolute stirred.
I had been patient. I had been loyal. I had been a fool.
The unlit candle on the cake, a symbol of a celebration that never happened, haunted me.
I didn't light it. I simply leaned forward and blew, extinguishing a flame that was never truly there.
The silent puff of air in my mind was a roar.
The decision was made, not in anger, but in the desolate quiet of profound disappointment.
I was done. I picked up the promotion letter again.
This time, it wasn't a sacrifice; it was an escape.
I opened my laptop, pulled up my email, and wrote a short, direct message.
A new chapter was about to begin, alone. Love’s End, Her New Beginning
Romance For five years, my life was Liam Vance, the visionary I helped build an empire with, sketching user interfaces on napkins and designing the very buildings that housed his dreams.
Then he brought Chloe Davis home, an aspiring influencer all wide eyes and soft smiles, and my world started to crack.
He began showering her with affection, calling her "pure," while subtly eroding my confidence, telling me I was "too ambitious," "like a shark."
The criticism was a constant hum, culminating in his promise to marry me "just as soon as you learn to be as sweet and compliant as Chloe."
The humiliations started small, then grew brutal.
I was forced to kneel and spoon-feed Chloe while our friends watched, locked in a freezing server room until I missed a career-defining project, and made a human target for a combat drone, all while his staff called her "Mrs. Vance."
Each atrocity chipped away at me, symbolized by the architectural models he' d had custom-made for our future, each one now sinking into the river, a painful reminder of a lie.
I had no choice but to endure, trapped by the scholarship he funded for my younger brother, Ethan, my only family, my only weakness.
But when, at a public gala, he let his men strip me naked and throw me onto a stage while he proposed to Chloe, something inside me snapped.
Then, there was Ethan. In a cold, glass-walled conference room, Liam, fueled by a possessive rage, pulled a gun and shot my innocent brother, killing the only family I had left.
The world went silent, everything turning to dust, but in that void, a cold, sharp resolve began to crystalize.
I burned the last model, a miniature wedding chapel, watched our future turn to ash, and finally, unequivocally, walked away, leaving him and five years of memories behind. She Chose Power Over Our Love
Modern The rain beat a mournful rhythm against the chapel windows, a fitting backdrop for my son Leo' s funeral. It was too small, too quiet for a boy who deserved the world.
Then, through the numbing haze of grief, I heard it-my wife Sarah' s voice, cool and utterly devoid of sorrow, conversing with her ex-fiancé, Mark.
"He was an obstacle, Mark," she' d said, her words slicing through me. I listened as she confessed she' d withheld Leo' s life-saving medicine, calling him "an accident" and "a sacrifice" for her career ambitions.
My own wife had murdered our son. The revelation twisted my world, leaving me gasping for air in our silent, empty house.
She returned home, a mask of the grieving widow, and proceeded to erase every trace of Leo from our lives, throwing away his toys, his clothes-his very existence.
"He was going to get better, Sarah," I pleaded, the memory of his hopeful eyes burning. "He said you were taking him for special medicine."
Her callous dismissal, a wave of her hand, shattered any semblance of the woman I thought I knew. Who was this monster wearing my wife' s face?
"You' re a freeloader, David," Mark sneered, as they openly plotted their corporate takeover, built on my stolen AI, "Project Chimera"-a project I' d named for Leo.
"It' s going to get ugly, Sarah," I promised. "You have no idea." My revenge wouldn' t be for me; it would be for my son. My Fiancee's Vengeance
Modern The roar of the Cheyenne crowd was familiar thunder, but on my 100th matchup against Wesley Johns, it felt heavy.
I' d beaten him ninety-nine times straight.
Just before I entered the chute, my fiancée Bree held my arm, pleading, "Caleb, please... let him have it."
I refused, swinging onto the bull, ready for another easy win.
My rope snapped.
I hit the dirt, my ankle exploding with pain, hearing a crack louder than the crowd.
Wesley won.
From the ground, I watched Bree run not to me, but straight to him, embracing him victoriously.
Their friends cheered, "That new rope worked like a charm!"
My blood went cold as Bree presented my dream prize, a custom saddle, to Wesley.
"You don't mind, do you, Caleb?" she asked, her voice bright.
In a haze of pain and disbelief, I branded the pristine saddle with a searing iron, a scar for her betrayal.
Bree screamed, accusing me of cruelty, diverting medics to a scatheless Wesley.
Later, packing my bags to leave her ranch and our engagement, I overheard her call, "Marry him? Oh, honey, please. The plan is to invite him to the wedding. He can watch me marry Wesley."
She laughed.
My hand froze on the doorknob as the pieces clicked: her protection, Wesley's reputation, my humiliation.
The old 'W' brand on my chest, burnt by Wesley himself, throbbed.
I left without a word, my professional career shattered, my leg broken.
Scrolling through a rodeo forum weeks later, a vintage silver belt buckle, identical to my lost father's, caught my eye.
It was the prize at a dusty, unsanctioned rodeo.
A new purpose ignited within me.
I had to ride, even with a cast. My ride was the performance of a lifetime.
But before I could claim what was mine, Bree appeared, ready to challenge me again. When The Victim Rewrites Her Story
Modern The air in the Wharton lecture hall was thick with ambition, the final presentation stretching before me, my future almost within reach.
Then, Liam, my childhood friend and the boy everyone expected me to marry, slid a folded note across the table that read: "Ava, will you bear all my failures for me?"
The moment my eyes registered the words, glowing, semi-transparent text, like a Twitch chat, materialized in my vision.
[LOL, the author is starting the 'Fate Swap' plotline.]
[She'll take the fall for Chloe's academic fraud, get expelled from Wharton, and her family will disown her. Total social death.]
[And the best part? Liam, the 'author' , will dump Chloe afterward, claiming he' s heartbroken over Ava' s downfall. He' ll spend the rest of his life 'missing' her, playing the tragic, devoted man. What a psychopath.]
My blood ran cold. Liam? The author? A fate-swapping system?
He watched me, his eyes full of a pleading hope that now seemed monstrous. He thought he was the writer of this story, and I was just a character to be sacrificed.
How could he, the boy I' d known my whole life, see me as nothing more than a pawn in his sick fantasy?
Furious, I picked up my pen, ready to rewrite my own ending. The Heiress Who Broke The Cage
Billionaires My father called the LeBlanc artistic gift a blessing, a legacy.
But for me, with its storm-like intensity that consumed my mother, it felt like a curse.
To stabilize my talent, he arranged my marriage to one of three powerful men.
I thought I was choosing a partner, until I overheard my presumed fiancé, Cade, with Daisy Miller.
He declared I was just "a means to an end," a "broken songbird" whose artistic "secrets" he'd plunder.
Daisy, his true partner, would be the real star.
The betrayal stung, but far worse was the shock when I found my mother' s unique Amati violin was gone.
Cade had given it to Daisy, who gleefully admitted she' d taken it apart for her "art," selling pieces for decorative boxes.
Then, at our Legacy Gala, Daisy staged a public accusation, framing me for vandalism, with Cade, Finn, and Silas readily condemning me.
My mother' s soul, shattered for parts.
My world, reduced to a transaction.
The art, the legacy, the very essence of me-all desecrated and dismissed.
The grief boiled into a furious, incandescent rage.
They thought me unmanageable, but I realized I was merely trapped.
With nothing left to lose, I raised my violin and unleashed the storm.
Not the expected music, but a powerful, defiant wave of sound that exposed their falsity.
I wouldn't be a songbird in their gilded cage.
There was only one who might understand, not control: the "unstable" recluse, Ethan Vance.
I wrote him, proposing not subservience, but an alliance. The Day Before the SATs: A Reckoning
Modern I had it all – a secured Yale scholarship, a bright future, and a best friend, Scarlett, who seemed genuinely happy for my success.
She even convinced me to take the SATs with her, 'just for fun,' like we always did everything together.
But that 'fun' was a sinister plot.
Scarlett, consumed by a poisonous envy I never recognized, used a dark web app called 'Score Swapper' to steal my nearly perfect SAT result, making it hers.
My future, meticulously built, crumbled instantly.
Yale revoked my scholarship, my name smeared by Scarlett' s aunt, our school guidance counselor, with fabricated misconduct papers.
Former friends abandoned me, and even my boyfriend, Blake, stared at me with pure disgust, completely believing Scarlett's cunning lies.
Publicly shamed, isolated, and utterly heartbroken, I couldn't fathom such a cruel, calculated betrayal.
My world went dark when Scarlett, her face twisted in a chilling smirk, lured me to an abandoned construction site, whispering, 'You should have just stayed dumb, Ava,' before pushing me to my death.
But then I woke up, screaming, tangled in my bedsheets-the day before the SATs.
My previous life wasn't a nightmare; it was a devastating memory.
I was back. This time, I wouldn't just survive.
This time, Scarlett, you' re going to pay for every single thing you did. The Intern's Secret
Romance My husband Mark insisted all our earnings fund our "shared future," but his idea of a partnership involved a $150 weekly allowance for me, while he managed everything else.
When I spent my hard-earned bonus treating colleagues to lunch, Mark exploded, publicly shaming me, canceling the payment, and emptying my card on the spot.
His hypocrisy shattered when I discovered him lavishing expensive gifts on his intern, Jessica, who then announced her pregnancy with his child. My "future" was a lie, and his control spiraled into terrifying physical and emotional abuse, trapping me in our home.
How could the man who promised a life together become a manipulative captor, building a secret family while choking the life out of me?
As I secretly packed to escape, Mark found me. In a drunken fury, he turned violent, then lunged at Jessica, who arrived just then, paperweight in hand. In a blur of instinct, I shoved a bookshelf. He fell. Dead. Ruled accidental, his demise freed me, yet the true cost of my liberty, and the woman I’ve become, remains to be seen. The Fiancée Who Vanished
Romance My wedding day was supposed to be perfect, a cascade of ivory lace and a secret smile for the life growing inside me.
I was marrying Ethan, the brilliant tech entrepreneur, the man who had swept me off my feet, the father of our child.
Then, a knock on the door, and my maid of honor’s whispered words shattered everything: "His plane went down. No survivors."
Grief crushed me, a physical weight, obscuring the world in a blur of hushed voices and endless pain.
My rock, my older brother David, shielded me as I navigated the nightmare of loss, our future obliterated.
Weeks later, a ghost of Ethan arrived – his identical twin, Marcus – with his "spiritual guide," Isabella, a woman with unnervingly serene eyes.
But one sleepless night, voices from the library pierced the silence: Eleanor, Ethan’s mother, was confronting "Marcus," calling him Ethan.
My blood ran cold as I heard him confess he faked his death for Isabella, claiming she had aggressive leukemia, promising to return when she was gone.
The man I loved, the father of my child, had orchestrated this monstrous betrayal, making me mourn him while he was alive and with her.
Then came the anonymous video: Ethan and Isabella, their raw, animalistic passion a calculated act of cruelty designed to inflict maximum pain, and it worked.
My despair turned to a cold, hard rage, culminating in a decision only he forced me to make.
I called David, my voice trembling with fury: "He faked his death. I want him to believe I’m gone because of him. I want to disappear."
This time, my disappearance wouldn't be a tragedy; it would be the first act of my retribution, a masterpiece of his own making. Love Desire: No Quits, No Regrets
Romance A misunderstanding started the beginning of their story.
On her way to find her sister, Joyce bumped into Arvin and spent a wild night together.
Obsessed with her sweetness, he wanted to keep her to be his side, always.
After drafting a contract, she agreed to be his lover for one month. By the time the contract expired, she had stolen her heart.
His limitless adoration, however, brought her nothing jealousy which led to danger.
Overwhelmed with endless conspiracies, betrayal, and desperation, she left with strong resentment.
Years later, she came back to avenge herself. Little did she know that she had already stepped into his trap. You might like
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." 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. 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 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." 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. 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." 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. 
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