Mu Xiaoou
13 Published Stories
Mu Xiaoou's Books and Stories
The Captain's Runaway Genius In Disguise
Mafia I was just a cleaner making fifteen dollars an hour, scrubbing floors to hide from a past that haunted me.
But when I walked into a billionaire's pristine penthouse, the suffocating visions hit me again. I saw a woman brutally murdered in a room that had been bleached spotless.
I called 911, and that brought the one man I had spent three years running from right to my door: NYPD Captain Kelvin O'Brien.
The patrol cops wanted to lock me up because I found the hidden blood too fast. To avoid a psych ward, I had to pretend my horrific supernatural visions were just brilliant deductive logic.
I had to physically endure the phantom sensation of the victim's throat being crushed and poison burning her stomach. All while Kelvin cornered me, demanding to know why I abandoned him and my title as the department's greatest asset, "The Oracle."
I didn't want to look at dead bodies anymore. I didn't want to feel their agonizing deaths. Why couldn't they just let me disappear?
But when the victim's wealthy husband walked into the precinct with a smug smile, ready to get away with murder, I couldn't stand it.
I forced myself to relive the victim's dying moments, guiding Kelvin to cut open her decomposed stomach to find the diamond ring she had swallowed.
"We have your blood inside her stomach."
His perfect alibi was shattered. But when we found an underground syndicate token hidden in his wallet, I knew my quiet life was over. The Widow's Price: Owned By Adrien
Modern I was the "charity case" widow at my billionaire husband’s funeral, clutching a glass of champagne my sister Chloe promised would calm my nerves.
Ten minutes later, the room began to spin and a drugged heat surged through my veins, turning me into a wounded deer among a room full of wolves.
I stumbled into a dark suite to hide, only to find Adrien Larsen—the man even the devil feared—waiting in the shadows with a silver Zippo and a predatory gaze.
To survive the night, I had to let him drench me in a cold shower and then crawl through a muddy pond, cutting my own skin just to frame my disappearance as an accident instead of a sex scandal.
The next morning, Adrien revealed that my sister had forged my name on three million dollars of debt, leaving me with two choices: a prison cell or a contract that stated I now "belonged" to him.
I couldn't understand why my own sister was so desperate to bury me, or why Adrien was suddenly willing to pay millions just to keep me trapped in his penthouse.
"Don't thank me,"
He whispered against my ear as he shielded my red silk dress from a spiteful attack at the Met Gala.
"This isn't charity, Aurora. You owe me."
As I caught him tracing a secret photo of me from years ago, I realized he hadn't saved me from the trap—he was the one who had built it. Acceptable Service: Tipping The Ruthless Billionaire
Modern I woke up in a penthouse suite at the Pierre with a hangover from hell and a naked man who looked like he'd been carved from marble. Thinking he was a high-end escort I couldn't afford, I left my last hundred dollars and a petty note on the nightstand.
"Service was acceptable. Keep the change."
But when I rushed home to check on my dying father, I found the locks changed and my boyfriend, Chad, draped over my stepsister on the landing. My stepmother, Meredith, didn't even look up from her coffee as she handed me a legal folder.
She told me to sign away my inheritance or she'd stop paying for my father's life support. The hospital called seconds later, demanding fifty thousand dollars by the end of the day, or they'd pull the plug.
Meredith had already arranged my "payment": a dinner with Boris Gorsky, a predator who collected young women like trophies. I was being sold to a monster to keep my father alive, standing in a thrift-store dress while my family laughed at my ruin.
I didn't understand how my life had collapsed in twelve hours, or how my own blood could put a price tag on a man's life. I sat at that restaurant trembling, waiting for the man who would buy my soul.
Then the man from the hotel walked in. It wasn't Gorsky; it was August Sanders, the billionaire CEO of a media empire, and he was holding my hundred-dollar bill.
He didn't want an apology; he wanted a contract wife for a year. He slid a confirmation for a five-hundred-thousand-dollar hospital deposit across the table and handed me a fountain pen.
"Welcome to the firm, Mrs. Sanders."
I signed the paper with a shaking hand, knowing I was trading my freedom for my father's life. But as August handed me his black card, I realized I finally had the weapon I needed to destroy the people who thought I was nothing. He Chose Power, I Chose Love
Modern I sacrificed my career as a violinist to save my fiancé, Graham, in a car crash that shattered my hand. For five years, I endured the pain and supported his political ambitions, believing in the future we planned to build around an old, historic theater.
That future ended when I overheard him with his campaign manager, Kassidy. He was selling our theater to fund his campaign, dismissing my sacrifice as a mere "distraction."
He called me a "drowned rat" one day, then posted a picture with Kassidy the next, captioned "#PowerCouple." He denied me money for a new physical therapy treatment, claiming the budget was tight, only to buy her an "exquisite" gift.
He called her his "best asset." I was just a liability.
My sacrifice wasn't an act of love to him; it was a "choice" I made that he now held over my head.
So on the night of his career-defining gala, when he thought I was at home waiting for him, I prepared my own opening night.
At the very theater he tried to steal from me. The Alpha's Regret: He Lost His Fated White Wolf
Werewolf I was drowning in the pool, chlorine burning my lungs, but my fated mate, Jax, swam right past me.
He scooped up Catalina, the swim team captain who was faking a cramp, and carried her to safety like she was made of glass.
When I dragged myself out, shivering and humiliated, Jax didn't offer a hand. Instead, he glared at me with cold hazel eyes.
"Stop acting like a victim, Eliana," he spat in front of the whole pack. "You're just jealous."
He was the Alpha Heir, and I was the unshifted failure. He broke our bond piece by piece, culminating at the sacred Moon Tree where he slashed through our carved initials to replace them with hers.
But the final blow wasn't emotional; it was lethal.
Catalina threw my car keys into a pond laced with Wolfsbane. As the poison paralyzed my limbs and I sank into the dark water, unable to breathe, I saw Jax standing on the bank.
"Stop playing games!" he shouted at the ripples.
He turned his back and walked away, leaving me to die.
I survived, but the girl who loved him didn't. I finally accepted the rejection he never had the guts to speak.
Jax thought I would crawl back in a week. He thought I was nothing without the pack's protection.
He was wrong.
I moved to New York and walked into a dance studio, right into the arms of a True Alpha named Daryl.
And when I finally shifted, I wasn't a weak Omega.
I was a White Wolf.
By the time Jax realized what he had thrown away, I was already a Queen. Contract Wife, Real Love
Romance The video was only fifteen seconds long: a male burlesque dancer, all glitter and bravado, tearing off his pants.
My finger slipped, and the screen flashed: Video sent to Liam.
Panic seized me, cold and immediate. Liam, my workaholic, rarely-home, contract husband, recipient of my perfectly-crafted façade.
I fumbled for my phone, desperately typing a lie: "Oh my god, Liam, you will not believe where Ashley dragged me tonight. I am so disgusted."
His reply came instantly: "Okay." Just "Okay." No questions, no suspicion. He bought it. My easy escape was secure.
But then, across the pulsing, chaotic nightclub, I saw him. Liam. He lifted his glass, his eyes dark and unwavering, a silent warning cutting through the noise.
My perfect, distant husband, who was supposed to be a continent away, was here, watching me. He knew.
The easy dance I had perfected–the detached, separate lives–was crumbling. The comfortable silence of our contract was shattered.
"Having fun?" he drawled, a glint in his eyes I' d never seen before, cutting through my desperate lie. "I see your friend finally convinced you to enjoy the \'decadent\' lifestyle."
He knew. He had known all along, and for some reason, he had played along. Why?
I watched him approach, towering over everyone, and for the first time, I felt a knot of fear and something else entirely-a thrill-because this wasn't part of the contract. This was real.
As I clung to his arm, playing the doting wife for his colleagues, every interaction felt charged with a new, unsettling current. This wasn't the escape I' d planned; it was something far more complicated.
The man I married for freedom was suddenly making me feel trapped, yet strangely, incredibly seen. Who was Liam Patterson, really? And why did his silent scrutiny feel more intimate than any embrace? Spirit Beast's Vengeance
Fantasy The pain hit me so hard it felt like my soul was being ripped out.
I was Jocelyn Fuller, wife of Ethan Blakely, living a quiet life rooted in Southern tradition, bound by an ancient pact to guard his family' s fortune through my sacred albino alligator.
Then, terror struck. My spirit beast, my very essence, was brutally killed – skinned, burned, leaving me collapsed and vomiting blood, feeling every agonizing second of its death through our shared bond.
My husband, Ethan, returned, not with remorse, but with rage, fueled by his "devout Christian" mistress, Maria, and her televangelist, Brother Rufus. He accused me, the woman who gave him everything, of barrenness and jealousy, publicly shaming me, ordering me whipped for a truth only I knew.
How could the man I loved, the man I saved from death three years ago using my very life force, believe such monstrous lies? How could he betray me so utterly, sacrificing the very source of his family's power and my own soulmate for a manipulative woman and her supposed "miracle child"?
As the whip descended, each lash shattering my skin, the ancient seal holding back my true power fractured, transforming passive pain into an earth-shattering roar of awakening. From Disgrace to State Champion
Modern For years, my life revolved around the track, every stride a step closer to a college scholarship, my only ticket out.
My younger sister, Molly, barely trained but somehow always beat me by a hair, basking in our parents' proud glances.
I pushed harder than anyone, bleeding on the track, only for her to effortlessly pull ahead, usually with a smug, "Didn't want to hurt your feelings."
But at the Regional Qualifiers, with college scouts watching, she took it too far.
Mid-race, she faked a stumble and pointed straight at me, yelling I had shoved her.
My own coach, convinced by the rumors she' d spread, disqualified me on the spot, erasing my dreams in one swift, heartbreaking blow.
My parents, who worshipped Molly, accused me of jealousy, of being a "sore loser," even as I stood there, utterly numb, my future crumbling.
How could someone who barely tried consistently beat me, then maliciously destroy my reputation and chances?
Why did everyone believe her effortless lies over my years of sacrifice?
Sitting on the cold floor of my room, staring at the wreckage of my life, I finally saw it: her success wasn't hers at all.
It was a parasite, feeding on my effort, my dreams.
And I realized, with chilling clarity, the only way out was to make the parasite eat itself alive. The Billionaire Heiress They Forgot
Modern My first life revolved around Ethan. I was Jennifer Johns, a simple waitress, utterly devoted to my charismatic husband, believing our love was enough.
Then came the phone call: a horrific multi-car pile-up. Ethan and his parents were supposedly killed. On his "deathbed," Ethan begged me to raise his infant "sister," Molly.
For twenty-five agonizing years, I kept that promise, sacrificing everything. Every cent, every double shift, every dream. I poured my soul into Molly, sending her to Ivy League, ensuring her success.
But at Molly' s promotion dinner, Ethan and his parents walked in, alive and well. Molly wasn't his sister; she was his illegitimate daughter groomed for success by me, her unwitting, free nanny. It was all a meticulously crafted lie, a cruel, elaborate scam.
Rage blinded me. I lunged, but Ethan shoved me down a flight of stairs. As darkness consumed me, the girl I loved like my own turned her back, embracing her real father.
Then my phone shrieked, jolting me awake. The calendar read October 12th. The day of the "accident." This time, I wouldn't be the fool. This time, I would write the ending. One Last Bet
Mafia The roar of the South Philly sports bar was music to my ears, the cheers for my "Oracle" predictions ringing hollow as I saw the smiling faces of my childhood friends.
Just one week from now, in a life I' d already lived, these same friends would lose everything on my predictions and leave me for dead in a dirty alley.
They' d blame me, screaming King K, the flashy influencer, had called it an hour before I did, beating me until I stopped moving.
Now they pressed me for more "sure things," their greed a mask over the rage I knew was coming, their loyalty as thin as their winnings.
Then my Uncle Leo, the only family I had, intervened, pulling the "exhausted niece" card, a gesture that filled me with relief, even as I felt a pang of guilt for my coldness.
But relief turned to dread when he revealed his "heart condition" and a staggering medical bill, claiming he' d lost all our savings on a "bad tip"-a lie designed to force one last, massive prediction from me.
The betrayal of my previous life faded into the background, eclipsed by the desperate reality of his illness, trapping me into playing the Oracle again.
I poured my soul into the data, finding a perfect, obscure rookie bet, only to see King K post the exact same pick minutes later, confirming a sickening truth: Uncle Leo was leaking my intel.
My blood ran cold when I found the unique Eagles watch I' d given my uncle on King K' s wrist in an old photo, realizing my uncle was not only feeding my analysis to his secret boyfriend but was systematically destroying my reputation to build King K' s brand.
The pieces clicked: it was always planned.
But this time, I was ready.
I cashed out my winning soccer bets (which King K had predictably tried to steal credit for, missing my trap bet entirely), and used every dime on one final, impossible gamble: the "unbeatable" NFL team would lose after their star quarterback suffered a season-ending injury in the first quarter-an event I remembered with horrifying clarity from my past life.
I packed a bag, ready to watch King K, Uncle Leo, and every single soul who had called me a fraud, who had plotted my demise, lose everything and face the loan sharks I knew would be coming. You might like
Rejected by the Son, I Chose the Don
Rabbit On my wedding day, my father sold me to the Chicago Outfit to pay his debts. I was supposed to marry Alex Moreno, the heir to the city's most powerful crime family. But he couldn't even be bothered to show up.
As I stood alone at the altar, humiliated, my best friend delivered the final blow. Alex hadn't just stood me up; he had run off to California with his mistress.
The whispers in the cathedral turned me into a joke. I was damaged goods, the rejected bride. His family knew the whole time and let me take the public fall, offering me his cousins as pathetic replacements-a brute who hated me or a coward who couldn't protect me.
The humiliation burned away my fear, leaving only cold rage. My life was already over, so I decided to set the whole game on fire myself. The marriage pact only said a Carlson had to marry a Moreno; it never said which one.
With nothing left to lose, I looked past the pathetic boys they offered.
I chose the one man they never expected.
I chose his father, the Don himself.
From Jilted Bride To Mafia Empress
Xiao Wang For seven years, I was the architect of my fiancé's criminal empire and the strategist behind his every move. I was Dante Gallo’s unofficial Consigliere, his partner in everything but name. Tomorrow, I was finally supposed to marry him and take my place as the queen to his throne.
But on the eve of our wedding, a single text message sent by mistake detonated my life. It was a photo from Dante, showing a platinum wedding band on his hand. The message read: “Married this morning. She’s safe now.”
My gaze fell to the engagement ring on my own finger. It was the identical band, just smaller. The engraved initials ‘D.I.’ didn’t stand for Dante and I. They stood for Dante and Isabella—his childhood sweetheart. My entire relationship was a lie; I was just a shield to protect his one true love.
He dismissed my discovery as a "tantrum." Then, his new bride began taunting me, sending a picture of them tangled in bedsheets with the caption: "Loser." They expected me to break. They thought I would shatter.
They were about to find out just how wrong they were. I forwarded the picture to Isabella’s fiancé, a man far more dangerous than Dante. "Your fiancée is in Suite 8808 at the Grand Hyatt," I told him. "I'll meet you downstairs. We're going to crash their party." The Underboss's Wife, Now His Queen
Hydro Therapy I stood outside my husband's study, the perfect mafia wife, only to hear him mocking me as an "ice sculpture" while he entertained his mistress, Aria.
But the betrayal went deeper than infidelity.
A week later, my saddle snapped mid-jump, leaving me with a shattered leg. Lying in the hospital bed, I overheard the conversation that killed the last of my love.
My husband, Alessandro, knew Aria had sabotaged my gear. He knew she could have killed me.
Yet, he told his men to let it go. He called my near-death experience a "lesson" because I had bruised his mistress's ego.
He humiliated me publicly, freezing my accounts to buy family heirlooms for her. He stood by while she threatened to leak our private tapes to the press.
He destroyed my dignity to play the hero for a woman he thought was a helpless orphan.
He had no idea she was a fraud.
He didn't know I had installed micro-cameras throughout the estate while he was busy pampering her.
He didn't know I had hours of footage showing his "innocent" Aria sleeping with his guards, his rivals, and even his staff, laughing about how easy he was to manipulate.
At the annual charity gala, in front of the entire crime family, Alessandro demanded I apologize to her.
I didn't beg. I didn't cry.
I simply connected my drive to the main projector and pressed play. The Comatose Wife's Billionaire Family Comeback
William Jafferson I was trapped in a locked-in state for six months, fully conscious but unable to move a single muscle.
My step-family, Delma and Jazmyne, marched into my hospital room, forged a Do Not Resuscitate order, and yanked out my oxygen tube just to stop paying my medical bills.
When my three-year-old daughter, Amari, leaped out from under the bed to protect me, they beat her mercilessly.
They kicked my tiny girl in the stomach, smashed a heavy metal IV pole into her fragile shoulder, and dragged her out by her ankles.
They even tied her to a tree in their backyard and let a massive Rottweiler tear into her flesh, laughing as they recorded her agonizing screams.
I lay in that hospital bed, hearing every blow and every desperate cry.
I didn't understand why they had to torture an innocent toddler just because they thought I was a worthless piece of trash with amnesia.
A tidal wave of absolute fury crashed against the invisible walls of my paralyzed body, burning away the despair.
Gritting my teeth until my jaw popped, I forced my dead weight off the mattress and dragged my atrophied legs across the freezing floor to a landline.
With trembling, bloody fingers, I punched in a twelve-digit military-grade encrypted code.
It was time for my real family—the most powerful men in the country—to make these monsters pay. His Healing Grace
Keena BLURB:
River never intended to be pulled into the dangerous world of the Mafia, but a single moment of bravery changes everything. In an attempt to save the man who fuels her wildest fantasies, she unwittingly steps into the path of Rico Swavey, the ruthless Mafia Lord with a dark, hidden past.
Rico has built his empire on control and secrecy, keeping his heart locked away. But when River, the doe-eyed woman who sparks something dangerous within him, stumbles into his life, his defenses begin to crumble. Haunted by a crime from his childhood, Rico struggles to accept love, especially from someone like River.
What happens when she becomes a stripper in his club?
Can River break through the walls around Rico's heart? And can Rico forgive himself for the sins of his past to embrace a future with her?
Dive into their world of passion, danger, and redemption in HIS HEALING GRACE.
He Erased Me, I Erased Him First
Lan Zhen On the night of my career-defining art exhibition, I stood completely alone. My husband, Dante Sovrano, the most feared man in Chicago, had promised he wouldn’t miss it for the world. Instead, he was on the evening news.
He was shielding another woman—his ruthless business partner—from a downpour, letting his own thousand-dollar suit get soaked just to protect her. The headline flashed below them, calling their new alliance a "power move" that would reshape the city.
The guests at my gallery immediately began to whisper. Their pitying looks turned my greatest triumph into a public spectacle of humiliation. Then his text arrived, a cold, final confirmation of my place in his life: “Something came up. Isabella needed me. You understand. Business.”
For four years, I had been his possession. A quiet, artistic wife kept in a gilded cage on the top floor of his skyscraper. I poured all my loneliness and heartbreak onto my canvases, but he never truly saw my art. He never truly saw me. He just saw another one of his assets.
My heart didn't break that night. It turned to ice. He hadn't just neglected me; he had erased me.
So the next morning, I walked into his office and handed him a stack of gallery contracts.
He barely glanced up, annoyed at the interruption to his empire-building. He snatched the pen and signed on the line I’d marked.
He didn’t know the page tucked directly underneath was our divorce decree.
He had just signed away his wife like she was nothing more than an invoice for art supplies. He Signed Away His Own Wife
Cornelia #Chapter1 Chapter
I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved.
He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again.
"Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion.
That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports.
For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian.
In return, he treated me like furniture.
He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste.
I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home.
So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco.
I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage.
But I underestimated Dante.
When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat.
He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away. The Capo's Scarred Wife: A Vicious Comeback
Sofia Wade I was the Chicago Outfit's princess, and Luca and Matteo were my sworn protectors. We had mixed our blood at ten years old, promising that nothing would ever touch me.
But that oath turned to ash the night Sofia Ricci aimed a Roman candle at my chest.
The firework slammed into my shoulder, igniting my silk dress instantly. As I rolled on the concrete, screaming while the flames ate into my skin, I waited for my boys to save me.
They didn't.
Instead, I watched through the smoke as they rushed to Sofia. They wrapped their jackets—the ones meant to shield me—around the girl who had just set me on fire, comforting her because the "kickback" had scared her.
They let me burn to keep her warm.
When I woke up in the hospital with permanent scars, they brought me a letter of apology from her and defended her "accident." They even cut their palms to pay her debt, ignoring the fact that I was the one in bandages.
That was the moment Elena Vitiello died.
I didn't scream. I didn't beg. I simply packed my bags and defected to the one place they couldn't follow: the arms of Dante Moretti, the lethal Capo of New York.
By the time they realized their mistake and came crawling back to beg in the rain, I was already wearing another man's ring.
"You want forgiveness?" I asked, looking down at them.
"Burn for it." 
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