Melodramatic Short Stories & Bias Cheating Novels

My wife, Jenna Cruise, is allergic to men's bodily fluids. Even the slightest skin contact makes her break out in red, swollen patches immediately. We have been married for three years, but we've never been intimate. We even use IVF to have a baby. While I'm with Jenna at her prenatal appointment, a violent patient starts a fight at the hospital, and I get stabbed multiple times just to protect her. I almost lose my life, but the thought of her and our unborn baby is what keeps me going. On the day I'm discharged from the hospital, I receive a video. It shows Jenna making love to another man, doing all sorts of things in bed. Her skin looks flawless. Aside from the love bite the man leaves on her chest, there isn't a single red welt on her body. I look up and see Jenna peeling an apple for me. She's wearing a mask, and her dress is buttoned all the way to the top. She's wearing gloves too, completely covering herself up. The timestamp shows that the video was taken just yesterday. I reach for the buttons on her dress, my hands trembling, but she immediately shoves my hand away. "Don't touch me! Stay away from me!" The look in her eyes makes me feel like I'm something disgusting. I also finally realize that she's not allergic to men's bodily fluids. She's just allergic to me. As Jenna heads to the bathroom to change, I call the number I've had blocked for the past five years. The person on the other end answers almost immediately. "Give me your location. I'll be right there," I say.

Ever since I was little, I've been notoriously good at taking advice. When I'm seven years old, I have a high fever. Not wanting to fork out money for a hospital visit, my grandfather, Cameron Stone, feels my forehead and says, "Don't be such a wimp. You just need to tough it out." I end up lying in bed for three days. Eventually, my fever turns into pneumonia, and I wind up in the ICU. It scares Grandpa so much that now, the moment he hears me cough, he rushes me to the hospital. When I'm 12 years old, my homeroom teacher, Alfred Buck, chews me out for my bad grades and tells me I'm only good enough to be a garbage collector. So, I stay up all night digging through every trash can in the school. After that, I pile three woven bags of plastic bottles in the principal's office. It scares Mr. Buck so much that from then on, he praises me for being an eco-warrior the moment he sees me. When I'm 18 years old, the prettiest girl in school, Irene Parker, gets so sick of me following her around that she tells me to get lost and stay as far away as possible. I drop out of school on the spot and buy a coach ticket to Daleton to pick cotton. It scares Irene so much that she travels 1,800 miles in tears. She finds me, feverish and dehydrated, in the cotton field and brings me back. After Irene learns about my past, she buys a small yellow notebook and writes three rules on the first page. "Words said in anger must not be taken to heart." "Important matters must be confirmed twice." "Only those who genuinely wish you well have the right to advise you on what to do." At the end, she also adds, "It only counts if the person looks you in the eye and confirms the advice twice." I carry the notebook with me for five years. In those five years, Irene never leaves a single piece of advice in it, because she says she can't bear to gamble with my life. But then, one month before our wedding, she cheats on me.

On the 1,001st day, Ruby Anderson still hadn't shown up at the city hall. The staff member tapped on the rejected application form and laughed at me mockingly. "Mr. Scott, this makes a thousand times, You should set a time with Ms. Anderson before coming back. "Stop wasting everyone's time." Everyone knew that Ruby was the richest person in this city. She had very limited time. When she was happy, everyone would respectfully address me as "Mr. Scott". However, when she was upset, I would be treated even worse than her nanny. Everyone would take a dig at me. They seemed to have forgotten that she was the one who proposed to me 99 times with roses. She had told the whole world that I was the only man she wanted to marry. I naively believed that she was always too busy. Until I found 997 used condoms locked inside her safe. Each one was labeled with the time and place, along with the name of her first love. This time, I didn't ask her again when we were going to register our marriage. Instead, I called that number, my voice calm. "Please reserve one application form for the memory-erasure experiment for me."

I'm already half-blind in my left eye, but Cedric Thompson forces me to donate my right cornea to his childhood sweetheart. Her parents berate me. "She's blind now! It's not like you'll die without one eye's cornea!" Cedric consoles me. "We're only taking the cornea for one eye. It won't affect anything." I'm forcibly placed under anesthesia. I lose all hope in life before my eyes slide shut. I would never have married him if I'd know he would treat me like this. He has no idea I can barely see with my left eye now.

My wife Naomi Holden's phone was always on silent mode. Whenever I needed to reach her, the call never went through. My only option was to ask everyone around us, but when every single person gave a different answer, I already knew the truth. She was with him again, the frail man she had never been able to let go of. On our seventh anniversary, we had plans to meet at our usual spot for dinner. Three hours passed, and she still had not shown up. I stood on the street, burning with fever, dialing one number after another. My father picked up, his voice warm and unhurried. "Naomi just came by for dinner. Don't worry, I've got my eye on her for you." A friend working at her company laughed it off. "Wyatt, relax. Ms. Holden is sitting in on a meeting in our department right now." Even my own sister swore up and down, saying, "Naomi's right here with me at a gallery opening. I'll have her home safe and sound, I promise." Last was our daughter, on the call through her little smartwatch. "Mommy's out shopping for toys with me and Grandma!" Every single person was trying to prove that Naomi was right there beside them. What none of them knew was that Naomi was standing right in front of me. Through the restaurant's glass window, she was cutting up food for the man sitting across from her. My own reflection stared back at me from the glass, haggard, rain-soaked, and pathetic. For the first time, I thought that maybe it was finally time to pull out the thorn that had been lodged in my heart for years.

After five years of washing dishes overseas, I finally paid off every debt my husband owed and brought my child home, ready to surprise him. But when we reached the rental apartment, it was dusty and locked. A passing neighbor looked stunned. "Didn't you and Mr. Guilfoyle break up? Why are you back?" I went straight to my husband's office, only to be stopped by the receptionist. "Looking for Mr. Guilfoyle? He isn't at the office today. He's at his baby's one-month celebration." My phone lit up with a news alert. "Guilfoyle Group president Adrian Guilfoyle spends millions on lavish one-month celebration; couple appears deeply in love." At the same time, a voice message from Adrian came in. "Honey, I found a few baby clothes online for our son. They were only a few dollars. Remember to pick up the package." In the background, a woman laughed softly and teased him. "The bet's over. How much longer are you going to keep using that fake marriage license to fool Maya Liddell? Aren't you tired of pretending to be poor after all these years?" So I was the only one who had ever been truly poor. After going in circles for years, I had somehow become the real other woman.

My husband, Joe Anderson, was a captain of a cargo ship. He would usually spend about ten months a year at sea. I always trusted him, but I had a habit that no one really knew about. Whenever he docked at a port for replenishment, I would go for a drink with the vice captain’s wife, Helen Scott. Luke Henson was a quiet man, but Helen was very talkative with a very low alcohol tolerance. We were chatting about life and our husbands away on the ship. Third drink in, she suddenly leaned in and said, “Joe’s too romantic. “Last month, when they were docked, he deliberately looked for a local jeweler to customize a wave-themed jewelry set. “There were necklaces, bracelets, earrings, and more. He even asked for the items to be shipped back. I’m so envious of you.” I said in a low voice, “Is that so? Why didn’t I receive it?” I did not ask any further questions, and she changed the topic tactfully. That night, when I got home, I looked through his shipping logbook and saw that the jewelry delivery address was not my home. The tides had turned, and it was time for me to leave.

My girlfriend was always extremely possessive of me. Throughout our seven-year relationship, Hannah Levin kept on repeating the same thing, “Do you have any idea how handsome you are, honey? I just want to hide you away from the world. You’re so gorgeous that anyone could easily fall for you. I get jealous whenever someone looks at you twice.” That was why she never let me anywhere near her social circle. Until one day, I stumbled across her private social media account using an anonymous profile. Three years. More than six hundred posts. Every single one of them documented her life with another man. They wandered through Skyreach Citadel, made wishes atop snow-covered mountains, and kissed openly on the streets of Silverhaven. Her latest post showed them at the beach. Surrounded by cheering and screaming friends, she kissed him for everyone to see. The caption was: When you love someone, you can’t help showing him off to the whole world. My fingers trembled as I quietly closed the page and booked a flight to Ravenport. It turned out that letting go of a seven-year relationship could only take a heartbeat.

My wife, Claire, wanted our son to give up a kidney to save her childhood sweetheart's daughter. I refused. I fought her so hard that I thought she'd finally let it go. Then our son vanished, and Claire stopped answering my calls. I went to the hospital to find her. There, I learned that the little girl had finally found a donor. Claire would perform the transplant herself. She'd promised to keep her safe. Then I saw the name listed under deceased organ donor. It was my son's.

I receive a message that a hotel booking has been made on the day that I achieve the Global Racing Grand Slam. I rush to the five-star hotel with a team of reporters and catch my wife, Rebecca Samson, and my apprentice, Hayden Erikson, red-handed in bed together. Rebecca looks panicked when I hysterically demand answers from her, but a few moments later, she steps forward and shields Hayden behind her. "I was the one who couldn't control my desires. This has nothing to do with Hayden." After Hayden broke my legs due to constant criticism from people online, I gave Rebecca two options: either she sent him to prison, or I would file for divorce. Rebecca's eyes are bloodshot as she gazes at my disfigured legs. The next day, she submits evidence that proves Hayden's involvement in my attack. From that day on, she shifts focus to work behind the scenes, accompanying me as I endure the toughest parts of my recovery period. Later, the doctor informs me that there is a chance that I'll be able to return to the racetrack once again. Over the moon with joy, my first thought is to share the good news with Rebecca. However, when I walk past the maternity store, I see a man wave his hand and declare that he wants to buy everything in the store. "My wife is pregnant," he says. "She's very indecisive, so I have no choice but to buy everything. Do you have a delivery service? You just have to deliver the products to the villa estate in Southport." I'm so stunned that I'm rooted to the spot when the man turns around, giving me a chance to catch a glimpse of his face. It's none other than Hayden, who is supposed to be locked behind bars.

On the night of my birthday, I got a photo from Tyler Pattison, the college student my wife, Helen Watkins, had been keeping. In the photo, my wife lay topless in his arms, her face still flushed. Tyler: [Helen loves me. Why do you insist on holding on and refusing to let go?] I stared at the photo, expressionless, and forwarded it to my wife. [Is this what you want?] [Fine. I'll let you two have each other.] She'd forgotten that our marriage was something she had wanted with all her heart, something she had begged and pleaded for. Since she loved her freedom so much, I would give it back to her.

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."

I discover Quilton Fuller's affair before our wedding, so I lie to him about having aborted our child. He hates me for that and gets engaged to a woman who looks just like me. On his wedding day, he video-calls me, wanting to show me his bride. However, he's greeted by the sight of me bloody and battered after being tormented by abductors. I beg him to at least save the baby in my womb, but he says to the abductors, "You'd better kill her and her child."

My best friend was fighting a divorce case, so I had my lawyer husband help her out. She had nowhere else to stay, so I rented her our empty unit across the hall, cheap. On my wedding day, I pressed the bouquet into her arms. "May you find happiness again," I told her. The words would come back to haunt me like a curse. She started drifting through my kitchen every morning in a silk nightgown, and Alan Gordon would hand her a cup of warm milk. In the evenings, he'd come out of her apartment with his shirt half unbuttoned, still carrying the warmth of a home-cooked meal. The lady neighbor upstairs grabbed my arm. "Aren't you going to do something about this?" I forced a smile. "He's just helping her with the case." Then I saw Lyndis's post on Instagram: [This house is missing a man.] The photo showed a pair of men's slippers, tags still on. Same brand, same size as the pair sitting in our own entryway. That night I tossed and turned while Alan took his pillow and went to sleep in the study. At two in the morning, I heard the lock turn. Through the peephole, I watched her door swing shut, warm light spilling out from underneath it. I stood barefoot on the cold floor and thought back to my wedding day, to the moment I'd handed her that bouquet. Alan's eyes had been on her fingers as she took it from me. So she really had found her happiness… during my wedding, in my house, with my husband.

On the last day of the year, my music player app pushed out my 2025 listening report. My keyword was 'Resonance.' I had not actually spent much time listening to music that year. My account had mostly been used by my boyfriend, Jeremy Steward. A small line of text appeared underneath. [At 4:00 A.M. on December 1st, you were still sharing the same song with someone. So this is what love looks like, staying awake through the night.] My breath caught. December 1st was my birthday. However, that night, I had gone to bed early. Jeremy had rushed off right after cutting the cake, saying he needed to go back to the office for overtime. Almost as if possessed, I tapped my trembling hands on the unfamiliar profile that showed up as my most frequent interaction. Their keyword for the year was 'Exclusively Yours.' My heart skipped. I opened the details. [This year, you and this user listened to songs together late at night 688 times. Every time is a private whisper between souls.] Right then, a message from Jeremy popped up on my phone. [Babe, I have to work late again tonight. Don't wait up for me. Sleep early, okay?] At the same moment, that unfamiliar account posted a new update. A photo of two hands intertwined inside a car, fingers tightly laced together. [I love working late with him the most. We'll listen to music together for a lifetime.]

It is the last day of my overseas assignment. I suddenly see my girlfriend Stella Leach's Instagram story, which she deletes almost immediately. It shows a private room in a restaurant at the hotel, packed with familiar friends. Its caption says, "Waiting for tonight's guest of honor!" I figure she realizes I changed my flight to an earlier date and is planning a surprise for me. I follow the location tag and rush inside, but the moment I open the door, all the laughter in the private room cuts off. Michael Soden, my childhood friend, is the first to snap out of it. "Welcome back, Henry! We've been waiting so long for you!" Everyone ushers me to take a seat, taking turns proposing toasts to welcome me home. I feel lightheaded after a couple of drinks, so I lean back on the couch and close my eyes, pretending to be asleep. "Henry?" Stella, as usual, pinches my cheek gently to see if I'm really asleep. She covers me with her coat after seeing no reaction from me. I smile faintly. I'm just about to tease her when Michael suddenly asks, "What are we going to do about our wedding in two days, Stella?" Stella immediately lets go of me, turns to him, and takes his hand. "Don't worry. We're still having the wedding as planned." Our friends join in to reassure him. "Henry has no idea, Michael. We're all covering for you, after all. What's there to worry about?" I freeze completely, feeling my blood run cold. I slowly open my eyes to a sliver, my gaze landing on the banner that has been hastily hidden away under the couch. "Happy First Wedding Anniversary, Stella & Michael!"

On Christmas Eve, I giddily wait for my husband, Hunter Gibson, to come home while nursing my eight-month pregnancy. Unexpectedly, Hunter bursts through the front door with his childhood friend, Winter Jones, in his arms. I attempt to help him out, only to get shoved to the floor instead. My belly bumps into a corner of the coffee table, causing pain to shoot up my nerves. Cold sweat soon beads on my forehead, and yet Hunter doesn't even spare me another glance. "Get out of my way! Someone drugged Winnie's drink at the bar! If I don't purge the poison out of her, she'll die!" As I shield my belly, I dig out my phone. "I'll call an ambulance for her—" But Hunter snatches my phone away before hurling it at the floor, breaking it into splinters. Then, he grabs me by the neck angrily. "Are you trying to ruin Winnie's reputation? If word gets out, how is she going to live with her head hung high?" In order to prevent me from "ruining his plan", Hunter decides to trap me on the balcony while disregarding my pleas and the fact that I'm only wearing thin pajamas. "You should take some time to cool off! Once you've finally learned your lesson, you're only permitted entry!" I can only slam my palms onto the glass door desperately with tears running down my face. There, I'm forced to watch as Hunter and Winter go at it like desperate rabbits on the carpet in the living room, with the Christmas songs serving as their ambiance. A heavy snowfall has occurred that night. At the crack of dawn the next morning, Hunter finally remembers that I exist. He calls my number, yet my phone was turned off. Furious, Hunter yells, "Where the hell did you go? Winnie's stomach is in discomfort! Get your ass back here right now and cook her some soup!" What he doesn't know is that I'm right outside the balcony door. The thing is, dead people are incapable of answering phone calls, not to mention Hunter has already broken my phone, to begin with.

On my birthday, my wife, Iris Lockwood, has ordered a few workers to carry a dust-covered second-hand air conditioner home as my birthday present. She points at the air conditioner while gushing excitedly, "This is a big brand, you know! It might look dirty on the outside, but the insides are brand new! "Remember, we're scrimping all the pennies we can get in order to move into a penthouse in the future. That way, we'll be able to live comfortably as a family of three!" I'm very understanding toward Iris, seeing as it's very difficult to earn money nowadays. So, I endure the pain that's flaring from an old hip injury I've sustained during my early days as a manual laborer as I crouch on the floor and clean the air conditioner for two long hours. But as soon as it's turned on, chemical powder sprays from it, soon filling the whole apartment. Because of that, our three-year-old son, Flynn Holt, goes into shock immediately from the severe allergy. With red-rimmed eyes, I yell at Iris to take Flynn to the hospital. But she quickly leaves after taking a phone call. "Crap, my biggest client is met with a car accident! I need to deal with it right away! You can flag down a cab and take Flynn to the hospital on your own!" That midnight, I head over to Quantum Heights, which is known as the most luxurious residence in the city, after receiving a phone call regarding the wrong address. In the corridor, I see Iris embracing a young man. She has nothing but love and affection for him. "There's no need to save money, you know. Young men at your age love new and branded goods, don't you?" Right… To Iris, a useless husband like me who didn't have an educational background only deserved to use second-hand things. But even the most saintly man will revolt one day once his patience is worn out. Besides, I've been faking my nice, understanding personality all along.

After three years in a long-distance relationship, I secretly traveled a thousand miles to give my girlfriend a surprise. That afternoon, right outside her apartment building, I caught her playing the claw machine with her first love. The girl I had always considered the perfect, completely devoted girlfriend was gazing at him with a bright, tender smile as he manipulated the joystick. The moment the plushie dropped into the chute, she threw her arms around him, her eyes brimming with delight. I clenched my phone and dialed her number. She answered almost instantly, her voice as soft and caring as ever. "Parker? Why are you calling right now? Did you miss me?" I stared fixedly at her from barely ten feet away, my voice tight. "Where are you? What are you up to?" While cooing into the receiver to reassure me, she attentively reached over and zipped up Benedict Wooten's jacket. Her tone carried just the right mix of fatigue and apology. "I'm still at the office, working late with my team to pull the proposal together. Get some sleep, okay? As soon as this crazy rush is over, I'll fly out to see you." The line went dead. On the street side, an electronic billboard was flashing a breaking news alert. [A major hurricane will make landfall tonight. All residents are urged to seek shelter immediately...] A sudden gale swept through the street, blowing away the last remnants of my wishful thinking. It turned out that her three years of single-minded devotion were nothing more than a masterclass in time management. Candace Richards wasn't loyal. She just wanted to have her cake and eat it too.

During those seven years, I helped Michael Spencer pay off his debts and worked alongside him until he became the company’s general manager. Almost all of my daily necessities were “secondhand.” I picked up a decade-old flip phone to use, and mended an old coat with the padding falling out to wear. Even our dishcloth was something I had salvaged from the old rags that the neighbors discarded when they moved. Back then, Michael would always hold me close. His eyes were filled with tenderness. “Nancy, just wait a little longer. “Once things get better, I’ll definitely throw you the wedding of a lifetime.” I believed him. That was until the seventh year, at the wedding rehearsal, when he walked into the backstage area and tossed me a “secondhand” wedding dress. “This is the one my cousin, Joanne, wore when she got married ten years ago. “You’re used to living frugally. A haute couture wedding dress doesn’t suit your style. You’re better off with this vintage one.” Before I had a chance to react, I saw the suit I had picked out replaced by a tattered jacket. It was on my father, Dan Norman’s back. “Your father comes from the countryside. He doesn’t understand suits and etiquette.” “This one from Joanne’s husband fits him perfectly.” Joanne was Michael’s first love. She had just returned home after her divorce last month and was standing beside Michael. I looked down at the frayed wedding dress in my hands. Then, I looked up at my father’s awkward smile. Suddenly, I realized something. This wedding, which I had waited seven years for, was no longer necessary. “Order me the most expensive wedding dress you can find,” I said over the phone. I was going to wear it to marry someone else.