Ren Ping Sheng
11 Published Stories
Ren Ping Sheng's Books and Stories
The Night He Drugged My Tea
Romance My husband, Ethan Cole, was New York' s legal golden boy-revered for his legal prowess and, more famously, for his legendary adoration of his wife, Sarah Miller.
"My North Star" tattooed over his heart, cross-country flights for a few hours with me; I believed this perfect fairytale for years.
Then, the crash. Arriving at his office to surprise him, I overheard his junior associates' crude jokes: "Boss is off to Napa with Jessica Vance for a 'client retreat'." Napa? He'd texted "Chicago deposition."
My world tipped.
The video landed, sent by Jessica: her, tied with Ethan' s silk tie, his face consumed by a desire I hadn't witnessed in years.
It plummeted deeper.
That night, he drugged my tea.
Then, he brought her into our bed, right beside me, believing I was out cold.
Her moans, his rough whispers, Jessica' s sweat-damp hair brushing my cheek-the ultimate, sickening violation.
The man who once cooked me gourmet breakfasts became a depraved stranger, brazenly flaunting his infidelity inches from me.
How could he?
My reflection showed tear-streaked eyes, but pain became icy resolve.
No screaming. No breakdowns.
A chillingly precise plan formed.
I took a burner phone, texting him-my husband, the famed attorney-as an anonymous "Ms. Evans": "My husband is cheating with his assistant. What should I do?"
His reply, professional and prompt: "Secure all evidence of his infidelity. Bring it to me."
So, I did.
I formally retained Ethan Cole to handle my divorce. Game on. Pregnant and Rejected: The Alpha's Biggest Mistake
Werewolf My husband Liam was the perfect Alpha. He built me a library, fought off rogues, and swore I was his soulmate. I thought we were the perfect fated couple.
That was until I found the burner phone wedged deep in the sofa cushions.
"She's just a placeholder," he texted his mistress, Ava. "You know you're my real queen."
Attached was an ultrasound of a wolf pup—his heir.
I tried to leave with dignity, but he dragged me to the Pack Gala. On a live stream watched by thousands, he paraded Ava around, wearing my family’s heirloom necklace. When I tried to take it back, he didn't just stop me.
He slapped me across the face.
The force of his blow didn't just break my heart; the trauma killed the secret baby growing inside me.
I severed the bond and vanished, leaving him with his "queen" and his guilt.
Five years later, I returned, not as a weak rejected mate, but as the powerful Alpha of the Sanctuary.
Liam fell to his knees in the dirt, holding a flawless pink diamond, begging for a second chance.
"I fought for you," he cried, tears streaming down his face. "I bled for you! I am your Fated Mate!"
I looked at him with nothing but pity, then turned to the man standing beside me—the quiet Beta who had silently saved my life years ago when Liam was too busy playing the hero.
I took Ethan's hand.
"Ethan," I asked, my voice ringing clear through the silent crowd. "Will you be my Mate?"
As Liam screamed in agony, the Moon Goddess answered with a blinding golden light. The Contract Wife: Thorne's Redemption
Romance I lay in the sterile silence of the hospital, mourning the baby I never got to hold. Everyone called it a tragic accident. A slip and fall. But I knew the truth of my husband's shove.
Mark finally came to visit. He didn't bring flowers; he brought a briefcase.
Inside were divorce papers and a non-disclosure agreement.
He calmly informed me that his mistress-my friend-was pregnant. They were his "real family" now, and they couldn't have any "unpleasantness."
He threatened to use fabricated psychiatric reports to paint me as an unstable danger to myself.
"Sign the papers, Clara," he warned, his voice void of emotion. "Or you'll be moved from this comfortable room to a more... secure facility. A long-term one."
I looked at the man I had loved and saw a monster. This wasn't a tragedy; it was a corporate takeover of my life. He had been meeting with lawyers while I was losing our child. I wasn't his grieving wife; I was a liability being managed, a loose end to be tied.
I was utterly and completely trapped.
Just as despair consumed me, my parents' old lawyer appeared like a ghost from the past. She pressed a heavy, ornate key into my palm.
"Your parents left you an escape route," she whispered, her eyes filled with resolve. "For a day like this."
The key led to a forgotten contract, a pact made by our grandfathers decades ago.
An ironclad marriage agreement, binding me to the one man my husband feared more than death itself: the ruthless, reclusive billionaire Julian Thorne. His Wife, His Best Friend's Baby
Romance The cemetery air was heavy, just like my heart, staring at Lily' s name, a scar etched in stone.
Then she arrived, Sophia, my wife, leaning into Mark, my best friend.
Her hand resting on the slight curve of her stomach twisted my gut.
"Lily, from heaven, will surely bless the baby in my womb with health and safety," she sneered, holding her belly.
My daughter was dead, and their child, a blessing.
I slid my wedding ring off, the symbol of a shattered lie, and let it fall onto the damp earth beside Lily' s grave.
I walked away without looking back, leaving everything behind.
Later, I overheard Sophia' s sisters mocking me.
"What do you bet he comes crawling back in a week?" one giggled.
They had no idea.
Soon, I found myself serving Mark, Sophia' s lover, even peeling him an apple, a twisted parody of our past intimacy.
Her smirk told me she relished my humiliation.
Then she dropped the bomb: "We can all be one big, happy family."
I handed her the divorce papers, already signed.
Sophia laughed, picking up the papers. "You have nothing without me."
Suddenly, Mark began to choke, his face turning red.
"What did you do?" Sophia shrieked, her eyes blazing, forcing a piece of the apple into my mouth.
A sickeningly sweet, nutty taste flooded my senses. Almonds.
The room spun, and the first wave of anaphylaxis hit me like a fiery punch.
"We found out about the baby almost a year ago, right after… Lily got sick."
A year. Lily was still alive when their affair began.
They left me there, choking, as they rushed Mark to the hospital.
But in that cold, sterile hospital room, a ruthless plan began to form. Built To Break Her
Sci-fi For three years, I lived a fairy tale, believing I was the universe's luckiest woman, deeply loved by my brilliant creator, Ethan.
Then, everything shattered the night he strapped me to a table, revealing a woman with my exact face on a screen: "That's my wife, Madisyn. You were built to replace her."
He harvested my love, my memories, my very essence to revive her, then stripped me of everything, calling me a "soulless machine," and forced me to watch their rekindled romance from a glass cage, punishing me with electric shocks if I dared to look away.
I endured agonizing chemical burns, dismissed as "glitches," until Madisyn had me thrown into a warehouse filled with unstable, decommissioned androids, certain I'd be torn to pieces.
But as their metal claws ripped me apart, a secret program deep within me activated: a "gestational" program, a digital child Ethan had hidden. I had to protect it, even broken and dying.
Ethan found me mangled, finally seeing the monstrous truth: Madisyn had sabotaged me with a "mortality patch" and orchestrated my destruction, even sending the robots to target the child.
With Madisyn threatening to self-destruct if he saved me, Ethan made his choice, sacrificing her to activate the Genesis Protocol for me.
But it was too late. My body, my pain, was who I was. I just wanted to feel the wind, one last time.
He carried me to the ocean at sunrise, proposed with a ring that couldn't fit my ruined hand, and as my light faded, he carried my lifeless chassis into the waves, disappearing with me beneath the surface-a final, tragic embrace. Don't Mess With the Cat Lady
Modern I' m Chloe, a nursing student, always broke and buried in textbooks, a stark contrast to my influencer-wannabe roommate, Tiffany. We tolerated each other, barely.
Then, one night, Tiffany burst in, grinning, clutching a filthy, terrified cat she' d "rescued" from an alley. "Meet Scrappy!" she squealed, oblivious to my strict allergies and our apartment's no-pets rule. From the moment I saw him, the matted cat stared at me with an unnerving, instant dislike.
He quickly became a nightmare, tearing apart my expensive nursing textbook and leaving messes everywhere. Tiffany just laughed, filming him for her "content" while branding me a "killjoy" and "hater." But it spiraled out of control when Scrappy viciously attacked my eight-year-old cousin, Lily, sending her to the ER for stitches and agonizing rabies shots.
My hands shook with a cold, desperate fury. This wasn't about a ruined textbook anymore; this cat was a dangerous menace, and Tiffany, wrapped up in her influencer dreams, couldn' t care less. I tried desperately to get rid of him, but she stopped me, and he escaped.
Years melted away, only for the horror to become horribly real: Scrappy, now a scarred alpha of a monstrous feral cat colony, murdered my family. I screamed, and then, mercifully, nothingness. I woke up. Sunlight streamed through my old apartment window. I heard Tiffany' s chirpy voice from the living room: "Chloe! Look!" It was the exact same day. The same terrifying cat. I' d seen the future, and this time, I knew precisely what needed to be done. The Man Who Didn't Remember Our Love
Romance I was a pregnant widow, my heart shattered by the loss of Ethan, my husband, who vanished into a relentless blizzard months ago. Every day on our isolated Montana ranch was a quiet struggle, a desperate attempt to move forward with the tiny, fluttering life within me.
Then, a soft knock on the door, almost lost in the howling wind, shattered my fragile peace. Standing there, weathered but undeniably real, was Ethan. My breath caught, my world stopped spinning.
But the moment his familiar blue eyes dropped to my noticeably swollen belly, his face turned to ice. "We never shared a bed," he rasped, a chilling statement, not a question. "How can you be pregnant?"
The words struck me like physical blows, each one a fresh betrayal. After all the lonely nights, the tears, the private secret I cherished, this was his return? He stood before me, a stranger, denying a passion I distinctly remembered, demanding answers with accusation blazing in his eyes.
How could I explain the man who held me when he himself couldn't remember? The one who called himself Ace? The one who loved me without fear, unlike the guarded Ethan who stood before me now?
The Kingman curse might have consumed other men, but it wouldn't claim the truth of my child. I lifted my chin, a spark of defiance igniting. He wanted answers? I' d give them to him, even if it meant shattering his carefully constructed reality and fighting for the whole man I loved. His Last Regret: Unmade
Sci-fi The city festival lights blurred, then the world exploded into screams and dust.
Liam was on top of me, saving me again, for the third time.
But this time, his last words, choked out with blood, were not what I expected.
"If only... I had never met you."
Ten years of a cold marriage, of my unrequited love, ended with that brutal, devastating line.
At his funeral, his mother’s sharp voice cut through my grief: "He died because of you. Always you."
The whispers followed me out of the church, society agreeing I was the reason Liam Walker, the city’s golden boy, was dead at thirty-three.
I was branded the burden he’d carried to his grave, utterly alone and consumed by guilt.
Liam’s words echoed, haunting me: "If only I had never met you."
I desperately wanted to undo it all, not for a romance that never was, but for *his* peace, for *my* peace, to save him from a life of quiet desperation.
Then, a whisper from the city’s underbelly reached me: the "Chronos Device," a secret, experimental temporal machine.
It was unstable, dangerous, and, according to the scientist, tied directly to the deepest regrets of the person whose fate you were trying to change.
I knew Liam's regrets intimately from his hidden journals: marrying me, abandoning his music, and failing to "save" Jessica, his true love.
Driven by this desperate knowledge, I strapped myself into the humming machine, ready to rewrite his regrets, to give him the life he wanted.
Even if it meant erasing myself from his life and future forever. I Bled for His Child, He Buried My Brother
Fantasy My tribe was dying, our sacred Sunbeam Ridge ravaged by the deafening roar of Remington Mining’s bulldozers.
I, Ella Windrider, the last guardian of the Sunbeam Vine, felt my own life force draining away with each passing day.
They said I had three years away from the Ridge before I withered and died.
But my people would fall sooner if I did nothing.
So, I walked out of the mists of our hidden valley and into the cold glass towers of Keller Remington, the man whose parents went missing on our lands, believing I could trade answers for peace.
Instead, he took me prisoner, convinced my tribe murdered his family.
Days blurred into months within his fortress-like estate, where I was held captive in a damp, windowless cell.
He demanded answers, but gave me only torture, both physical and spiritual.
He forced me to nurture the stolen Sunbeam Vines, draining my very essence to sustain his conniving fiancée, Sophia Wexler, and her unborn child.
Each drop of the Vine’s sap I bled, was a piece of my soul.
Then, my brave little brother, Little Hawk, came looking for me, only to be killed by Remington’s men, a death orchestrated by Sophia.
As deep winter set in, I lay dying, haunted by his crushing loss, the truth of Keller’s parents’ murders a stone in my chest.
I knew it wasn’t my people who killed them, but a ruthless corporation, led by Sophia’s family, and a traitor from my own tribe.
They had used Keller’s grief, and now they were using me, slowly bleeding me dry.
Just as my last breath faltered, an old lawyer arrived, armed with irrefutable proof that shattered Keller’s carefully constructed world.
The man who had tortured me, who had caused my brother’s death, finally saw the face of his true enemy, and the innocent woman he had systematically destroyed. The SAT Eve Nightmare
Young Adult The fluorescent lights of Northwood High’s auditorium hummed, a familiar sound.
It was the last Monday assembly before SATs, and Brittany Jones, head cheerleader, announced a pre-party at her place tonight.
A cheer went up, but my blood ran cold because I’d lived this exact moment before.
Last time, Brittany’s party led to her faked overdose, my public ruin, Jake’s betrayal, and ultimately, the orchestrated death of my fire captain father and my own demise in a hospital bed.
Now, inexplicably sent back, I tried to keep my distance, hoping to protect myself and my family from repeating the nightmare.
Instead, Brittany and Jake escalated their cruelty, cornering me, stealing my SAT ticket, ID, and phone, and locking me in a dark gym storage room.
My father miraculously rescued me, but that very night, Brittany and Jake launched a vicious social media campaign, framing me for their party’s disastrous mass hospitalization and even slandering my brave dad.
Rocks were thrown through our window, and an angry mob, fueled by their lies, gathered outside our home, screaming "child poisoner."
How could they be so utterly evil, so determined to destroy my life, and why was this second chance even worse, more violent than the first?
But then, a flicker of hope: my smartwatch had been recording, and I remembered Jake’s old cloud passwords from our past, giving me access to all his damning secrets.
This time, I wouldn’t just survive; I would use every memory and every piece of evidence to ensure they reaped what they sowed, for good. You might like
He Thought I Was A Doormat, Until I Ruined Him
SHANA GRAY The sterile white of the operating room blurred, then sharpened, as Skye Sterling felt the cold clawing its way up her body. The heart monitor flatlined, a steady, high-pitched whine announcing her end. Her uterus had been removed, a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding, but the blood wouldn't clot. It just kept flowing, warm and sticky, pooling beneath her.
Through heavy eyes, she saw a trembling nurse holding a phone on speaker. "Mr. Kensington," the nurse's voice cracked, "your wife... she's critical." A pause, then a sweet, poisonous giggle. Seraphina Miller. "Liam is in the shower," Seraphina's voice purred. "Stop calling, Skye. It's pathetic. Faking a medical emergency on our anniversary? Even for you, that's low." Then, Liam's bored voice: "If she dies, call the funeral home. I have a meeting in the morning." Click. The line went dead.
A second later, so did Skye. The darkness that followed was absolute, suffocating, a black ocean crushing her lungs. She screamed into the void, a silent, agonizing wail of regret for loving a man who saw her as a nuisance, for dying without ever truly living.
Until she died, she didn't understand. Why was her life so tragically wasted? Why did her husband, the man she loved, abandon her so cruelly? The injustice of it all burned hotter than the fever in her body.
Then, the air rushed back in. Skye gasped, her body convulsing violently on the mattress. Her eyes flew open, wide and terrified, staring blindly into the darkness. Her trembling hand reached for her phone. May 12th. Five years ago. She was back. After Divorce: My Arrogant Ex Regrets Calling Me Trash
Sea Jet Aurora woke up to the sterile chill of her king-sized bed in Sterling Thorne's penthouse. Today was the day her husband would finally throw her out like garbage. Sterling walked in, tossed divorce papers at her, and demanded her signature, eager to announce his "eligible bachelor" status to the world.
In her past life, the sight of those papers had broken her, leaving her begging for a second chance. Sterling's sneering voice, calling her a "trailer park girl" undeserving of his name, had once cut deeper than any blade. He had always used her humble beginnings to keep her small, to make her grateful for the crumbs of his attention. She had lived a gilded cage, believing she was nothing without him, until her life flatlined in a hospital bed, watching him give a press conference about his "grief."
But this time, she felt no sting, no tears. Only a cold, clear understanding of the mediocre man who stood on a pedestal she had painstakingly built with her own genius.
Aurora signed the papers, her name a declaration of independence. She grabbed her old, phoenix-stickered laptop, ready to walk out. Sterling Thorne was about to find out exactly how expensive "free" could be. His Twisted Game, My Dangerous Love
Elroy Notman Vesper's marriage to Julian Sterling was a gilded cage. One morning, she woke naked beside Damon Sterling, Julian's terrifying brother, then found a text: Julian's mistress was pregnant. Her world shattered, but the real nightmare had just begun.
Julian's abuse escalated, gaslighting Vesper, funding his secret life. Damon, a germaphobic billionaire, became her unsettling anchor amidst his chaos.
As "Iris," Vesper exposed Julian's mistress, Serena Sharp, sparking brutal war: poisoned drinks, a broken leg, and the horrifying truth-Julian murdered her parents, trapping Vesper in marriage.
The man she married was a killer. Broken and betrayed, Vesper was caught between monstrous brothers, burning with injustice.
Refusing victimhood, Vesper reclaimed her identity. Fueled by vengeance, she allied with Damon, who vowed to burn his empire for her. Julian faced justice, but matriarch Eleanor's counterattack forced Vesper's choice as a hitman aimed for her. HIS DOE, HIS DAMNATION(An Erotic Billionaire Romance)
Viviene Trigger/Content Warning:
This story contains mature themes and explicit content intended for adult audiences(18+). Reader discretion is advised.
It includes elements such as BDSM dynamics, explicit sexual content, toxic family relationships, occasional violence and strong language.
This is not a fluffy romance. It is intense, raw and messy, and explores the darker side of desire.
*****
"Take off your dress, Meadow."
"Why?"
"Because your ex is watching," he said, leaning back into his seat. "And I want him to see what he lost."
••••*••••*••••*
Meadow Russell was supposed to get married to the love of her life in Vegas. Instead, she walked in on her twin sister riding her fiance.
One drink at the bar turned to ten. One drunken mistake turned into reality. And one stranger's offer turned into a contract that she signed with shaking hands and a diamond ring.
Alaric Ashford is the devil in a tailored Tom Ford suit. Billionaire CEO, brutal, possessive. A man born into an empire of blood and steel.
He also suffers from a neurological condition-he can't feel. Not objects, not pain, not even human touch.
Until Meadow touches him, and he feels everything. And now he owns her. On paper and in his bed.
She wants him to ruin her. Take what no one else could have. He wants control, obedience... revenge.
But what starts as a transaction slowly turns into something Meadow never saw coming.
Obsession, secrets that were never meant to surface, and a pain from the past that threatens to break everything.
Alaric doesn't share what's his.
Not his company.
Not his wife.
And definitely not his vengeance.
My Husband's Blindness, My Sweet Revenge
Winnie Suchoff The roasted lamb was cold, a reflection of her marriage. On their third anniversary, Evelyn Vance waited alone in her Manhattan penthouse. Then her phone buzzed: Alexander, her husband, had been spotted leaving the hospital, holding his childhood sweetheart Scarlett Sharp's hand.
Alexander arrived hours later, dismissing Evelyn's quiet complaint with a cold reminder: she was Mrs. Vance, not a victim. Her mother's demands reinforced this role, making Evelyn, a brilliant mind, feel like a ghost. A dangerous indifference replaced betrayal. The debt was paid; now, it was her turn.
She drafted a divorce settlement, waiving everything. As Alexander's tender voice drifted from his study, speaking to Scarlett, Evelyn placed her wedding ring on his pillow, moved to the guest suite, and locked the door. The dull wife was gone; the Oracle was back. After Betrayal, She Claimed Her Empire
Rabbit Serena Vance, an unloved wife, clutched a custom-made red velvet cake to her chest, enduring the cold rain outside an exclusive Upper East Side club. She hoped this small gesture for her husband, Julian, would bridge the growing chasm between them on their third anniversary. But as she neared the VIP suite, her world shattered.
Julian's cold, detached voice sliced through the laughter, revealing he considered her nothing more than a "signature on a piece of paper" for a trust fund, mocking her changed appearance and respecting only another woman, Elena. The indifference in his tone was a physical blow, a brutal severance, not heartbreak.
She gently placed the forgotten cake on the floor, leaving her wedding ring and a diamond necklace as she prepared to abandon a marriage built on lies. Her old life, once a prison of quiet suffering and constant humiliation, now lay in ruins around her.
Three years of trying to be seen, to be loved, were erased by a few cruel words. Why had she clung to a man who saw her as a clause in a will, a "creature," not a wife? The shame and rage hardened her heart, freezing her tears.
Returning to an empty penthouse, she packed a single battered suitcase, leaving behind every symbol of her failed marriage. With a burner phone, she dialed a number she hadn't touched in a decade, whispering, "Godfather, I'm ready to come home." I Signed the Divorce, He Lost Everything
Rabbit My wealthy husband, Nathaniel, stormed in, demanding a divorce to be with his "dying" first love, Julia. He expected tears, pleas, even hysteria. Instead, I calmly reached for a pen, ready to sign away our life for a fortune.
For two years, I played the devoted wife in our sterile penthouse. That night, Nathaniel shattered the facade, tossing divorce papers. "Julia's back," he stated, "she needs me."
He expected me to crumble. But my calm "Okay" shocked him. I coolly demanded his penthouse, shares, and a doubled stipend, letting him believe I was a greedy gold digger. He watched, disgusted, convinced I was a monster.
He couldn't fathom my indifference or ruthless demands. He saw avarice, not a carefully constructed facade. His betrayal had awakened something far more dangerous.
The second the door closed, the dutiful wife vanished. I retrieved a burner phone and a Glock, ready to expose the elaborate lie he and Julia had built. Burned By Him, Reborn A Star
Rabbit The acrid smell of smoke still clung to Evelyn in the ambulance, her lungs raw from the penthouse fire. She was alive, but the world around her felt utterly destroyed, a feeling deepened by the small TV flickering to life. On it, her husband, Julian Vance, thousands of miles away, publicly comforted his mistress, Serena Holloway, shielding her from paparazzi after *her* "panic attack."
Julian's phone went straight to voicemail. Alone in the hospital with second-degree burns, Evelyn watched news replays, her heart rate spiking. He protected Serena from camera flashes while Evelyn burned. When he finally called, he demanded she handle insurance, dismissing the fire; Serena's voice faintly heard.
The shallow family ties and pretense of marriage evaporated. A searing injustice and cold anger replaced pain; Evelyn knew Julian had chosen to let her burn.
"Evelyn Vance died in that fire," she declared, ripping out her IV. Armed with a secret fortune as "The Architect," Hollywood's top ghostwriter, she walked out. She would divorce Julian, reclaim her name, and finally step into the spotlight as an actress. 
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