Homer Simpson

After my birthday party, I got far too drunk and made a mistake I could never take back. I slept with my friend's daughter and got her pregnant. To make things right, I handed over more than half of my company shares as compensation. I promised him I would marry his daughter, Nancy Cooper, and give her the grandest wedding possible. After the wedding, I willingly stepped into the role of a househusband. I cooked, cleaned, and kept the home running. However, Nancy spent less and less time at home. Her business trips grew more frequent, and even our son began to look down on me, as if I were nothing more than a man circling the kitchen all day. At my mother's funeral, I noticed Nancy was nowhere to be seen, not even greeting the guests. I went looking for her around the venue. Just as I was about to return to the lounge to call her, a familiar voice drifted out from inside. "Easy… Don't let him find out. I won't be able to explain it when I get back." "Relax. He's an idiot, so easy to fool. Your dad set him up on purpose and drugged him because he wanted his family's assets. And you…" The man chuckled softly. "You made him play the role of our kid’s father. The whole trap was so obvious, yet he still didn't see it. What makes you think he'd notice us sneaking around at his own mother's funeral?" "He's just that stupid," Nancy said lightly. "He believes everything I tell him. Gilbert, just wait a little longer. Once I deal with those stubborn old shareholders, I'll rename Lawson Group to Shaw Group. Then, you can finally enjoy being the one in charge." I stood in place, frozen. It felt like the blood in my veins had turned to ice. This was the ugly truth. Every bit of it, every promise, every sacrifice, had been nothing but a carefully staged lie. Something inside me went cold and quiet. Whatever hope I had been holding onto was shattered completely. I decided then that I would disappear. Not just leave, but vanish. I would stage my death and make a clean break. I would erase myself from Nancy’s world forever. However, after I left for good, she lost her mind, telling the world she loved me and begging me to come back.

After five years of marrying into the Loween City in place of my sister, the Gambling King finally passed away. My son and my ex-husband—at long last—gave me permission to fake my death and return to them. But they laid down three conditions. First: kneel before Vivian Gray, apologize for framing her all those years ago, and surrender my place as Mrs. Hartwell. Second: work as a live-in maid for my own son for five years, and never show up at his school in my former identity as the reigning queen of the nightlife scene—lest I embarrass him. Third: drink an abortifacient to destroy my fertility forever, as recompense for the infertility I once caused Vivian. "My lady, you've endured five whole years just to earn your freedom—how dare they humiliate you like this?" My maid's eyes were red, burning with indignation on my behalf. But I just tipped my head back and swallowed the death-faking pill, letting the servants toss my "corpse" into the overgrown brambles beyond the city limits. Then, from the mud and weeds, I crawled back to the Hartwell mansion—one knee at a time. Day one, I knelt as ordered and signed over custody of my son without a fight. Day three, I locked myself in the storage closet and stopped showing up at school to pick my son up like I used to. I also stopped pestering him to call me "Mom." Even when Vivian—knowing full well I'm terrified of the dark—deliberately trapped me in the basement, I bore it in silence. By the time my ex-husband Nathan Hartwell saw me again, I was barely hanging on. For the first time, a flicker of panic crossed his face as he carried me out of that basement. But my son just sneered. "It's just another stunt to win our sympathy." When he caught the tears welling in Vivian's eyes, Nathan coldly dropped me to the ground. "Always scheming against Vivian with your dirty tricks—aren't you tired of it?" Right then, the system chimed in my ear: [Please proceed to the "disposable ex-wife death node" to complete the story line and return to your original world.] I let out a quiet laugh. "Not tired at all." And with that, I turned and dove straight into the swimming pool beside me.

After I become successful in life, I sue my wife, Hazel Cooper, also known as the woman who had supported me through thick and thin. She gets down on her knees and pleads with me tearfully not to divorce her, only for me to shove her away. My neighbors call me an ungrateful bastard. They keep spitting at me and throwing feces at my doorstep. Even the Internet users gang up on me and bully me on the Internet. But when the court trial is over, everyone kneels before me, looking extremely remorseful.

Everyone in the social circle of Kingsford said I was nothing more than a lapdog raised by Charles Mankin. I was always at his beck and call. I did every filthy, ludicrous thing for him under the sun. When he street raced, I rode shotgun. When he drank himself senseless, I made him hangover soup. When he chased girls, I prepared protection for them. Over time, everyone knew: Charles had a dog who never ran, never bit back, no matter how hard he kicked. They all said I must be madly in love with him. Even Charles started to believe it. So he pushed further, more freely, more cruelly, crossing lines as if they never existed. Then came my twenty-fifth birthday. He, in a rare stroke of mercy, said he'd celebrate it with me. But instead, what he got was the news that I was leaving the country. He went berserk, charging through the airport like a man possessed. I peeled his fingers off my wrist one by one, smiling like I'd never been happier. "Don't be stupid," I told him, still smiling. "That was never love." That night, Charles smashed apart his family home like a rabid dog.

Out of sheer boredom, I randomly clicked into a livestream titled "Taming an Innocent Housewife." In the stream, a woman in a silk chemise was lazily puttering around the kitchen. When the camera finally showed her face, I was completely stunned—it was me. Not only that, but on the public chat, the top donor was spamming gifts like crazy. [Make her drink that spiked milk.] Soon after, a man groveled in response: [Thanks for the gift, bro. She'll drink it right now. I promise you a hell of a show tonight.] I'd recognize that voice anywhere—it was my husband, Jake, who was supposedly on a business trip overseas. My own husband had turned our home into a hidden-camera setup, treating me like his personal reality show star. And now, he was trying to feed me illegal drugs just to rake in donations. Most people would've broken down or called the cops. But I'm what you'd call the ultimate pro at playing nice—everyone in our circle knows I'm the queen of manipulation. I picked up that glass of milk, looked straight into the camera, and gave a fragile, tantalizing smile. "Since my husband's not home, drinking this milk all alone feels so lonely... I wish some strong, capable guy would come take care of me." The chat exploded. Donations went through the roof. Later that night, Jake burst through the front door, ready to "discipline" me—but froze in his tracks. There I was, sitting in lingerie on the lap of the top donor, grinning at my husband. "Honey, you're back! I helped you hit your goals tonight!"

After my husband got his cheat ability, the very first thing he did was kick me out. His family threw me out by the scruff, and used my precious, life-saving money to hoard as much ice and cold drink as he could. He threw every single article of thick clothes and blankets, swearing to build the strongest ice oasis in the heatwave, but only I knew that there would be a brief period of extreme heat before the long ice age. All the ice they hoarded would only make them die faster. Later, I sat in my private villa, enjoying delicious food while I watched that scumbag's family beat each other bloody over dry bread.