Short Romance Stories & Novels

At a family dinner celebrating Allison Bullock, my stepdaughter's acceptance into one of the city's top high schools, I stood in the kitchen slicing sea bass while listening to the conversation outside. One relative laughed and asked, "She's such a smart girl. I wonder which side of the family she takes after?" My husband, Tobias Bullock, took a sip of his liquor and smiled. "I have to thank my ex-wife, Alyvia Livingston, for that. Her family is full of top scholars." My knife slipped, burying itself silently into the cutting board. Seven years. I was his current wife. I was the one who had spent every day supporting his gifted daughter. Yet in his story, I wasn't even worth mentioning. It was as though every sacrifice I'd made over the past seven years had been thrown away on people who never appreciated it. I rinsed the fishy smell from my hands and slowly dried them. From today on, I was done serving this family.

Six years after my divorce from my ex-wife, Enya Taylor, we meet again in a courtroom. She sits at the prosecution table, representing the prosecution in the case brought against me. I stand in the defendant's dock, accused of five counts of murder. The moment Enya sees my face, her eyes widen in shock. "Eric?" Her reaction doesn't surprise me. After all, no one would ever imagine that Eric Beckett, the man known for his gentle nature, and Ezra Beckett, the serial killer, were the same person. Tears well up in her eyes, and she clenches her jaw so fiercely that it trembles. "Six years. Five lives. Five families destroyed forever... Eric, how could you do something like this?" A low chuckle escapes me as I watch her. "Not just five, Ms. Taylor. Ryan White, your fiance and my former best friend, has been missing for a week, hasn't he? Care to guess where he is?"

A sudden burst of screams erupted in the living room at 3 AM. I pushed open the door to hear the commentator announcing that my fiancé Noah Lucas' favorite team had advanced to the quarter-finals. Our best friend, Jessie Newman, jumped up excitedly and kissed Noah on the cheek. I would be taking wedding photos with Noah in another five hours. The hangover soup on the table had long since gone cold, with a cigarette butt floating in it. I could not help coughing. The two of them froze mid-conversation. Jessie realized what it looked like and stepped over the wine bottles on the floor with her fair legs. She hugged me and kissed me on the cheek, too. Her voice was gentle and innocent. "Lola, why are you awake? Don't overthink. I've been best friends with Noah since kindergarten. We were just messing around! Noah was too noisy, wasn't he? I'll teach him a lesson for you." Noah casually tossed a cushion at her, hitting her squarely on her bottom, and teased with a laugh, "You're blaming me? You were the one shouting!" Then, he nonchalantly reassured me, "Lola, we're about to take our wedding photos soon. Go and get some more sleep. We'll turn the volume down." There was no apology or explanation. They were just trying to brush me off, as always. They assumed I was being paranoid and petty, tainting their 20-year friendship by overthinking. I loosened my grip on my nightgown. "It's okay. You guys continue." I had had enough of this three-person farce. I was done.

After being apart for three years, I met my ex-girlfriend, Serena Jensen, during a police operation. She was the ambitious detective in charge, while I was a murder suspect who had escaped across eight states. When our eyes met, Serena was momentarily stunned. "Channing Jones... How could it be you..." I seized the moment and turned to run, but one of her men struck my shin. In the interrogation room, she yelled at me with reddened eyes. "Four lives are lost! Channing, how could you do such a thing? Tell me I was mistaken! Speak! Say something!" When I looked at her heartbroken eyes, I suddenly smiled. "You are indeed mistaken. It is not four, but five. Do you not care most about your husband and my former best friend, Myles Sheldon? How come you do not even notice he is missing?"

My fiance, Wayne Garner, has a rare condition called hyper-empathy syndrome. Yet somehow, I'm the only person he cannot empathize with. When I develop acute gastroenteritis and the cramps become unbearable, I force myself to call Wayne and beg him to take me to the hospital. After listening to me, Wayne simply says, "Andrea has a slight cold. I have to take her to the hospital first. Hang in there." I remember during our first family dinner, Andrea Graham calls him and says she's feeling down, and he rushes off to be with her. I instantly tell him we should break up, but he grabs my hand and keeps promising it will never happen again. After that, he does keep his promise and stops responding to Andrea's requests for help. I secretly rejoice, believing that staying by his side long enough will eventually correct his misplaced empathy. But now, the same thing happens all over again. The pain in my abdomen keeps getting worse, leaving me with no choice but to dial the emergency number with trembling hands. While I'm in the ambulance, an Instagram notification pops up. Andrea has posted a photo of herself with Wayne at the hospital. The caption reads, "It's only a minor cold, yet someone still takes the time to bring me to the hospital. It feels so nice to be someone's top priority." Another wave of sharp cramps passes. I look at the job offer from Warler in my inbox and accept it. Wayne, I'm really leaving you this time.

The first time I found a necklace in my fiancé’s car, his mother called me to explain. “Wylie, you’ve got the wrong idea. Rowan didn’t do anything. I accidentally left my necklace there.” The second time, I found two movie ticket stubs. My best friend, Sandy, tagged me in our shared group chat. [Wylie, don’t overthink it. I asked Rowan to help me buy those tickets.] Then came the third time, then the fourth time. Every time, someone always stepped forward to explain things on his behalf. That was, until the ninth time. I pulled a lipstick tube from the crack between the car seats and held it up in front of him. “Whose lipstick is this?” Rowan’s hand trembled almost imperceptibly on the steering wheel before he calmly dialed a number. “There’s a lipstick in my car. Which one of you left it behind?” My younger brother and Sandy answered the call. “Rowan? So that’s where I left it! No wonder Sandy’s been looking everywhere for it. But seriously, Wylie, why are you getting suspicious again? Didn’t everyone tell you at the last gathering? If you keep making a fuss like this, maybe the two of you shouldn’t get married at all.” Sandy chimed in, “Exactly! Wylie, Rowan treats you so well. Don’t you know that? You’ve really been taking things too far lately.” After hanging up, Rowan looked at me with an innocent expression. ‘Well? Can you stop doubting me now? “This is already the ninth time, Wylie. If you pull something like this again, then maybe we should reconsider the wedding—” I smiled and cut him off. “In that case, let’s not get married. We’ll just call it off.” What Rowan did not know was that the lipstick did not belong to his mistress, or my best friend. I had bought it myself and deliberately left it in his car. It was to expose the lies everyone had been telling to cover up his affair.

It was the seventh year that I spent with Tristan Zabel. His junior from school, Cassandra White, cried over a breakup for the twelfth time in the middle of the night. He got anxious and put on his jacket to leave. “Jimelle, Cass’ supervisor is giving her a hard time, and she just got played by some douchebag. If I don’t go, she’s going to spiral, and something bad could happen to her.” In the past, I would turn hysterical, call her a fake, and block the door to keep him from leaving. But this time, I endured the cramps from my acute gastritis and calmly nodded. “Poor Cass. You should go be with her. Stay a few days if you need to.” Just then, Cassandra’s tearful voice came through his phone. “Tristan, I’m so scared! When are you coming?” He was stunned when he noticed the cold sweat on my forehead. “You look pale. I can stay tonight if you’re not feeling well—” “It’s fine. I’ll take some medicine and sleep it off.” I cut him off, pressed the car keys into his hand and said, “Go. Don’t keep her waiting.” He had no idea I was keeping score. It was strike twelve, and he had just run out of chances. Tomorrow, I would get on a plane and fly to the overseas headquarters with a visa in hand. By the time he realized I was gone, it would be too late for him to find me again.

I donate my kidney to save my husband, Charlie Ashford. However, when I'm discharged from the hospital, he kicks me out of the master bedroom and tells me to stay in the guest room without any hesitation. "I feel sick just looking at your scar. It looks like a centipede," he says. "Savannah will be moving into the master bedroom since she's pregnant." My wound splits open that night. I call Charlie 100 times to ask for help as I lie in a pool of my own blood. My calls go unanswered, but I can hear Savannah Quinton's high-pitched moans of ecstasy coming from the master bedroom. The strength leaves my body in an instant. When I'm hospitalized, I brush my fingers over the military merit medal that Mom left for me before she passed away. I finally recall the man whom even the mayor has to pay his respects to—Joshua Jetson. I immediately dialed the number that has been gathering dust for a long time. "You told me that you owed Mom a favor, Mr. Jetson," I say. "I want you to marry me now."

The nurse's hands are trembling as she hands me the "Body and Cornea Donation Consent Form". She asks, "Mr. Stone, is Stellan's mother coming?" I gently wipe the blood from my son's lips and slowly shake my head. "No. She's saving someone else's child." My son, Stellan Stone, is born with a complex congenital heart defect. My wife, Sharon Claude, is the youngest cardiothoracic surgeon in the country. Five years ago, she tells me she's going overseas to study the most advanced surgical techniques so she can come back and perform Stellan's operation herself. For the past five years, she has sent home research papers, case studies, and handwritten surgery plans. She always says, "Just wait a little longer. Wait until I'm absolutely certain I can do it." So, I wait. I wait as Stellan grows from a little boy who can run and laugh to a boy who can only lie in the ICU, breathing with the help of machines. Today, I see the latest issue of a medical journal in the hospital lobby. On the cover, Sharon is smiling gently as she holds a little boy in her arms. The child is Aiden Ford, the son of her first love, Chris Ford. In the interview, she says, "He's just a child. I can't bear to let the one I love most face even the slightest risk." But our child is just a child too. I sign my name on the consent form and gently tuck Stellan's cold little hand back beneath the white sheet. I whisper, "Sharon, you safeguarded someone else's heartbeat, but you denied our child a chance to live."

At 8:00 am, I sit in the hotel suite dressed in a custom haute couture wedding gown. At the moment, I'm waiting for Everett Green, the man I've dated for five years, to arrive with the bridal car fleet. A photograph suddenly pops up on my phone screen. Everett's childhood sweetheart, Della Coyle, is dressed in a pristine white tulle dress. She sits in the passenger seat of the Rolls-Royce that serves as the lead bridal car. The thing is, that seat is supposed to be mine. Her caption reads, "He says that I have to be the first person he sees on the most important day of his life." Suppressing the violent trembling in my hands, I dial Everett's number. His background noise is full of Della's giggles. In a matter-of-fact tone, Everett says, "Della has dreamed of riding in a Rolls-Royce ever since she was a kid. She felt upset today, so I made a quick detour to Soumoton to pick her up first." "Soumoton and my place are in opposite directions. You gave her the seat in the lead bridal car, so what am I supposed to mean to you?" I demand. "Could you stop being so petty? She's just my little sister, so what's the big deal if she sits in the passenger seat?" Everett impatiently clicks his tongue. "Tell the guests that the fleet will be an hour late. It's our big day, so don't ruin the mood over nothing. " The call abruptly ends. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, at the woman who has spent three hours getting her makeup done. Every ounce of devotion I've poured into this five-year relationship feels like nothing but a pathetic joke. After taking off my wedding gown, I call the hotel manager, Clifton Payne, and give him a final order. "Cancel the two-million-dollar wedding scheduled for today."

After my half sister, Serena Hawke, transferred to Ashmere University, she bet me she could steal Damian Cross from me within a month. I dismissed her. From that day on, Damian became a permanent second-place finisher. The first time Serena beat him, he frowned and said, "One point. I only lost by one point." After that, he calculated their scores every day. Over meals, he muttered, "How did she solve it?" Before bed, he stared at the rankings and said, "I'll beat her next time." He praised her clear reasoning, quick reactions, and even her handwriting. In the laboratory, he chose the seat beside her and responded only to her during group discussions. When I asked him to see a movie with me, he waved me off. "Serena sent me a new problem. I need to work it out." His phone was full of screenshots of her notes. Her class schedule hung beside his bed. Even in his sleep, he murmured about surpassing her. I watched the attention that had once belonged entirely to me shift toward my sister, inch by inch. Then my birthday came. Damian never showed up. I called thirty-seven times. He rejected every call. When he finally answered, he lowered his voice. "Rena asked me to watch the game with her. Wait a little longer." He hung up, and Serena immediately sent me her location: the third-floor lounge at the arena. When I opened the door, her arms were wrapped around his neck. The thread I had held taut inside my chest for half a year finally snapped. All that remained was a deep, aching exhaustion that seeped into my bones. Damian reached toward me in panic. "Rowan..." I stepped back. Anyone who could be taken from me was no longer someone I wanted.

At forty-eight, lifelong spinster Eleanor Pembroke finally married. On their wedding night, her husband, the country's most celebrated seer, lifted her veil and spoke without warning. "Eleanor, the three fortunes I gave you thirty years ago were deliberately false." Her body went rigid. "First, I said you were born under a ruinous star and would destroy your family. In truth, your chart was exceptionally fortunate and perfectly matched mine. "Second, I said only years of hardship and self-denial could save your dying mother. I gave the medicine to your stepmother instead, and Harriet died within the first year. "Third, I said we would reunite after thirty years. You remained unmarried, while I had already married your older half-sister." Seeing her disbelief, Silas Wycliffe tried to comfort her. "Your sister once saved my life and asked three favors. A couple should repay debts together. "I have always valued honesty, so I didn't want to hide it from you. "Eleanor, don't feel wronged. I calculated that we have another life. I will make everything up to you then."

On the way to the Spring Garden Ball, I was seized by men with murder on their minds, and the undercover guard meant to protect me vanished without a trace. I clawed my way through three days that should have killed me and finally dragged myself back to the estate, only to find a whole line of men kneeling in front of my guard. "Your Highness, if you fancy Lady Melanie, you could simply ask for her hand. Why disguise yourself as a bodyguard and stay glued to her elder sister, Lady Elizabeth's side, going so far as to have men dump her out in the wilderness just so she wouldn't outshine your beloved?" Julius Fitzroy's expression didn't so much as flicker. He kept turning the sapphire ring on his finger. "Melanie is only a concubine's daughter. She's sensitive by nature, and I was afraid a hasty proposal would frighten her off. This was the only way." That was how I found out. The Prince Julius had been living at my side in disguise this whole time, and it had never been about me at all. It was always about getting close to my half-sister. My heart turned to ash. I shoved open my father's door. "I'll marry the Crown Prince, sickly or not."

The day Mason Jablon came with me to try on wedding dresses, his assistant, Gigi, wrecked the custom gown I'd waited three months for. Mason stepped in front of her, way too calm. "The dress has a ton of tiny details. Of course Gigi had trouble holding it. Cut her some slack." I just stared at him. "Mason, I've been waiting three years for this wedding. Do you have any idea how long I waited for that dress?" His face tightened. "So we'll get another one made. It's not like that's the only dress on the planet. Once the new one's ready, I'll give you the wedding of your dreams. Promise." I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I just nodded. The dress didn't have to be this one. And the groom didn't have to be Mason.

I broke up with Nicole Hayes, my girlfriend of ten years. It was not her or I who initiated it, but her male nurse at the hospital. Nicole suffered from severe congenital anemia. For ten years, I donated blood to her for nothing in return. During our eleventh year together, just when we were about to get married, I overheard the male nurse in charge of her transfusions say, “Wow, Miss Hayes! Don’t tell me you decided to marry this guy just because he’s been donating blood to you. “You probably don’t know this, but the hospital has a donor compensation policy. Each donation comes with a thousand-dollar stipend. “Over the last ten years, this guy must have made at least $200,000 off you, yet he still has the nerve to guilt-trip you into marrying him? How shameless!” Under Nicole’s shifting expression, he added with a smile, “Maybe I should be the one donating blood to you instead. I also have a rare blood type, but I don’t want money, and I’m not asking to marry you. I’m just kind-hearted and can’t stand people who emotionally manipulate patients.” Seeing the obvious change in her expression, I let out a soft laugh and said, “In that case, let’s do that.” Over the past ten years, I had donated blood to Nicole twice every month. To recover, I forced myself to eat pork liver until I felt like vomiting, and at one point, I became so thin that I was nothing but skin and bones. I thought Nicole understood everything I had done for her. I never expected that a few words from a stranger would make her truly believe I had been profiting from my suffering. Even more unexpectedly, she also came to think that marrying me was nothing more than emotional coercion. If that was how she saw it, fine! I would give her what she wanted. Still, she had better pray that nurse would keep his promise of donating blood to her.

The night before our courthouse wedding, I was working late behind the scenes on a lawyer’s legal advice livestream. My best friend, Monique Baum, called in anonymously. “My boyfriend is marrying his fiancee tomorrow, but I’m the one he loves.” “Then, why is he going through with it?” the lawyer asked. “Because she’d fall apart if he backed out. He spent five years pretending to be broke, and she stayed by his side through it all. She lost their baby and even sold her parents’ only home for him.” Clutching our marriage paperwork, I suddenly found it hard to breathe. Sean Loker and I were getting married the next day. Then, Monique chuckled and said, “Sean said he’d send her a fake appointment confirmation to string her along, then gradually find a way to back out.” I pulled out my phone and entered the confirmation number on the county clerk’s website. There was no record of our appointment.

To support my husband Jasper Young's business, I spent four years livestreaming myself eating. I went from 100 pounds to 200 pounds because of that. Tonight, I started my live stream as usual, but a message from Jasper suddenly popped up on my phone. [End the stream now. Stop eating. Ruby feels sick just watching you eat.] The food in my mouth was suddenly tasteless, but I didn't dare stop. Instead, I shoved the food into my mouth even faster. My phone kept buzzing. His criticisms came one after another. [Kirsten, I told you to stop eating. Ruby is already suffering because of her pregnancy. Are you trying to upset her on purpose?] [You're both women. And Ruby's your best friend. How can you have no empathy for her?] [Is this because you can't have children? Are you jealous of her?] [You were the one who agreed to let Ruby have my child in the first place.] [Are you trying to go back on your word and make everyone miserable?] Tears finally fell into the bowl, and the food in my mouth tasted like dust. I had spent four years livestreaming, and ten years by his side. I gained 100 pounds, and this was what I got in the end. I couldn't keep swallowing the bitterness of this marriage anymore.

My son, Leo Hayes, is the city's top SAT scorer. He dies in a horrific accident while working a part‑time job, his body left broken beyond recognition. And on the night he takes his last breath, his mother and my wife, Madeline Shaw, stands beneath chandeliers, toasting the graduation of her childhood friend Jeffrey Locke's son, Melvin Locke. For 18 years, Madeline spends everything we earn on Melvin's medical bills, and our debts soar past the million mark. To hold our family together, I grind through 14-hour days every day, while Leo shoulders five jobs after school. But on his way to a shift, Leo is mangled in a terrible crash. The impact fractures his skull and rips open his abdomen. He is bleeding out, and the doctors say he needs a huge amount of money, fast, to save him. "Dad, I'm done fighting. I just want to see Mom," Leo begs, clinging to his last breath. I call Madeline over a hundred times in desperation, but she never answers. When I rush to her workplace, I find her hosting a graduation party for someone else's son. "A beachfront villa from Mrs. Hayes, in recognition of Melvin's brilliant results." "A high-end sports car, as a token for a future filled with success." "And an unlimited black card, to safeguard his health and happiness forever." From the edge of the crowd, I watch Madeline and Jeffrey locked in an embrace under the lights, and I dial her number for the 101st time. "Leo wants to see you one last time." "Lucas, I'm in the middle of something. Just be patient and stay with Leo. I'll be there soon." Before I can say another word, the line goes dead. I lower the phone and look up at the stage. "Madeline, our son is done waiting for you, and so am I."

I have been reborn on the day Sierra Shepherd regains her memories. I watch as the butler hands me a check and says, "Here's 1.5 million dollars. You can think of it as a reward for taking care of Ms. Shepherd during this time." His implication is unmistakable. He wants me to take the money and get out of her life for good. In my past life, as the Shepherd family hands over the check, I feel lost and uncomfortable. Sierra grips my hand firmly and says, "You should come home with me, Caleb. I'll protect you." I return with her to the Shepherd family without looking back because of her single promise. I block every scheme aimed at her, fight alongside her step by step, and help her reclaim control of the family. I have helped her until the day she holds her wedding banquet with Mason Lund, who instructs the Lunds to kidnap me and throw me into the sea. Sierra only responds coldly after hearing the news of my death, saying, "He was just a guy using past favors to try to climb the social ladder. He's better off dead." I snap back to reality and look at the check in front of me. I then say without any hesitation, "I'm afraid 1.5 million dollars won't be enough." I smile faintly as Sierra stares at me in disbelief. "I want 4.5 million dollars. I won't bother you and Mr. Lund as soon as I receive the money." I won't go back to being someone else's sacrifice since I have this startup capital. Isn't it much better to just focus on making money and living my best life on my own?

After discovering Lydia's existence, I didn't argue with Alex. I simply handed him a divorce agreement. He sat there with his head lowered. After a long moment of hesitation, he tore it in half. "Please give me ten days. In ten days, I'll send Lydia somewhere far away. She'll never appear in our lives again." Without waiting for my answer, he got up and left the house. During those ten days, he took Lydia whitewater rafting, climbed snowy mountains with her, went bungee jumping and skydiving, and shared every thrilling adventure imaginable. He also watched the sunrise with her by the ocean, prayed together in a church, and did all the romantic things that lovers do. On the night of the ninth day, after I had packed all my luggage, I accidentally received a video call from myself ten years in the past. She looked full of life and asked excitedly, "Are you really me from ten years in the future? Then Alex and I must be married by now, right? Do we have kids?" Heartbroken, I walked onto the balcony and pointed my phone's camera toward Alex and Lydia, who were tightly embracing each other below, unable to let go. "This is your answer." She stared at the screen with wide eyes, unable to believe what she was seeing. "That's impossible..." My voice was weary, as though every last bit of strength had been drained from me. "Charlotte... Please. Don't marry him."