Tragic Love Short Stories & Bias Cheating Novels

Back in my hometown, the women would brew wine at a young age for their future husbands. Since college, Jake Sanders and I had left our hometown for a brighter future in a city far away, and we finally returned in glory. I was finally able to open my vat of wine, which had been kept for 28 years. I knew that Jake was quite particular about hygiene, so I changed my wine to store-bought wine during the town celebration, even though I knew it was taboo. When I was about to share this secret with him, I heard his conversation with his buddies. "Are you sure you're going to drink Erica's wine? You'll have to marry her according to tradition if you do that. Won't Cassie be mad?" "Yeah. Cassie has already opened her vat of wine. If no one drinks from it, she can't marry." Jake laughed with indifference. "She won't be able to leave me. She's even willing to change that vat of wine for me. Besides, her wine has been left for 28 years. Who would want to drink that? Erica's wine is only 20-years-old, and I heard wine is sweetest at this stage. "Even though I've chosen Erica, I'll still make sure to treat Cassie well. I'll marry her if no one will." It felt like my heart had been cored out and a cold wind was gusting through it, but I decided to let this go because I was not an unwanted woman, and Jake was not the only man in this world. I replied to the text that was sent to me every year: [Will you marry me?] He replied right away: [Wait for me.]

Hallie Shaw lived her life judging everyone with a rigid scorecard. When we were dating, she used to say that any person or event scoring below ninety points wasn't worth a second of her time. After marriage, every single thing I did was evaluated. On our wedding anniversary, I prepared a full spread of her favorite dishes. She took one bite and said, "Eighty-nine points." Then she set down her utensils and left to share a meal with Miles, who allegedly had a poor appetite. For the company's anniversary party, I tried on twenty-seven suits, only for her to glance at me and say, "Eighty-eight points. Not suitable to bring along." That very night, she walked into the celebration with Miles, who was wearing nothing more than a simple white shirt. To earn that perfect score, I quit my dream job, earned seven professional certifications, and learned four foreign languages. Yet no matter how hard I tried, my score remained forever stuck at eighty-nine. Meanwhile, Miles didn't have to lift a finger. Just by standing there, he was automatically a perfect hundred. I asked her once, "What does it actually take to get a ninety?" She glanced over at Miles and offered no answer. In that moment, a sudden, bitter laugh escaped my lips. Her scoring criteria had only ever had one rule from start to finish, and it wasn't me. I pulled off my wedding ring and dropped it straight into the wine glass in front of her. "Hallie, this time, I'm the one giving out the scores. Your loyalty: zero points. Your marriage: zero points. And as a person, you fail."

To save his childhood sweetheart, who had a congenital heart condition, my husband tricked me into signing an organ donation agreement. Then he got into a truck and ran me over right in front of the hospital. Barely clinging to life, Elliot Carter tore my heart from my chest. When my body was wheeled out of the operating room, Alan Yates came crashing to my side like a man gone mad. Seeing the gaping hole where my heart used to be, he screamed and wept: "I'm sorry… I was too late… If there's another life, I'll never let you suffer like this again…" Tears fell exactly where my heart had been, and somehow, I even felt a flicker of warmth. He spun around and ran back into the operating room. When he came out again, Elliot and Jessica Foster were lying in a pool of blood. Alan, meanwhile, had slashed his own wrist to die with me. On his deathbed, he ordered that we be buried together. Then I opened my eyes. I had been reborn. Before me stood Elliot, dressed in a wedding gown, holding a bouquet, and proposing. I flung the flowers in his face and turned to embrace Alan in the crowd. However, only a year and a half into our marriage, he changed. Alan began openly pairing up with Jessica, letting her move into our home. Worse, he claimed that our cat's mating season had disturbed Jessica's sleep, and so he allowed her to run over the cat I had raised for seven years. I could not believe it. This was not the man who had loved me so deeply in my previous life. My eyes blazing, I demanded, "What's wrong with you?" However, Alan's gaze was icy. "Nothing. I just don't love you anymore."

I traveled over a thousand eight hundred miles to find my wife. She was a professor at Harbor University. As soon as I arrived, I received a call. “Hi, Mr. Jaques. We’re just following up on the stroller your wife custom-ordered from us. Have you been happy with it? If so, would you mind leaving us a quick positive review?” I was stunned. We had lived apart for years and did not have a child together. Still, I remained calm and double-checked. “Are you sure I’m the one who ordered that stroller?” “Yes, sir, I can confirm that. Our system requires ID verification from both parents for all custom stroller orders. The mother on file is Shiloh Zoeller. Mr. Jaques, you are listed as the child’s father.” The customer service agent sent me a screenshot of the child’s information as proof. It indeed showed that I had a child around one month old. The more I thought about it, the more confused I became. I went to the address listed on the order. Downstairs, a young man was chatting with a group of people. “As of today, I’m no longer your classmate. I’m now the professor’s husband!” A male classmate laughed and teased him. “What a show off. But come on, the kid’s already a month old. When are you and Ms. Zoeller finally tying the knot? We’re still waiting to toast you!” Just then, a very familiar female voice spoke. “What’s taking you so long? Get up here. Our little boy is getting impatient.” I followed the sound of the voice and saw Shiloh holding a swaddled baby. She leaned against that man’s chest as if she had done it countless times.

I knelt outside Hooper Manor for three days straight before my ex-boyfriend Axel Hooper finally agreed to take me back. Now we're right back to holding hands, kissing, and telling each other how much we love each other. It's as if our breakup never happened. That all changes when Hooper Manor catches fire in the middle of the night. Terrified, I speed all the way back. By the time I get there, flames are lighting up the night sky. Axel comes rushing out in a bathrobe, shielding Rosalie Quade, the fake heiress, as he gets her to safety. Our eyes meet, and without thinking, I raise a hand. I just want to ask if the burn on his shoulder hurts, but he thinks I'm about to go after Rosalie. He shoves me to the ground and yells, "Don't touch Rosie! Fine, I cheated on you again. If you can't stand it, then break up with me again!" I hit the ground hard, sharp gravel cutting into my palms. And just like that, Axel stops looking handsome to me. "Fine. We're done."

I got back from a six month work trip and found my pet hamster dead. I couldn't just bury it. I wanted to preserve it, keep it whole. But when I carefully opened it up, I went still. Its lungs were pitch black. That kind of damage couldn't happen fast. It meant months of breathing toxic smoke. But my husband and I never smoked. So who'd been living in my house while I was gone?

Every time I slept with Jennifer Brooks, I noticed that she had changed the sheets. After we finished one night, I finally asked her about it. Jennifer traced her fingers across my chest and gave me a gentle smile. "Obviously, it's because your good friend sweats so much. Every time, right before you and I do it, he gets jealous and insists on going first. I never knew a man could sweat that much during sex until I met him." My mind went blank. I stared at her in disbelief. "What did you just say?" She met my gaze, her lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Connor, your father was tortured to death in bed by the women your mother hired, not by me. So every time you lie there like a dead fish, you completely kill the mood. "That's your trauma. I shouldn't have to pay for it. Understand? You should be thanking Hunter. He's the one holding this relationship together." The words had barely left her mouth when the door flew open. Hunter Clayton stormed in, his eyes red, and slapped Jennifer across the face. "You've gone too far! Apologize to Connor!" I looked at the two of them, but all I could taste was bitterness. So this whole time, Jennifer had seen me as nothing more than a burden who ruined the mood. This bed had never been big enough for three people. I wouldn't force myself into it again.

I had always been terrible with directions. The moment I stepped outside my familiar neighborhood, I could lose my bearings completely. My fiancé insisted that after we got married, we'd move to the suburbs, so I needed to learn how to find my way around on my own. For six months, he repeatedly dropped me off in unfamiliar places and watched me break down in tears as I wandered in circles. Tonight, as a torrential storm battered the city and the old waterfront industrial district prepared to close for construction, he left me at its entrance with a map marked with incorrect exits. "Find your way to the parking garage, and I'll consider your training complete." I followed the street signs for more than ten minutes before realizing I'd wandered into an abandoned rail yard. Floodwater surged past my ankles, and my phone signal dropped to a single bar. I called Maurice Rivas in tears and begged him to tell me which way to go, but he only sneered. "After all this time, you still haven't learned? Stop using your terrible sense of direction to fish for sympathy." The call remained connected, and I heard my brother and my best friend laughing in the background. "Watching Josefin wander around in the storm finally got Carla to take her medicine," Hakon Tanner chuckled. Carla Hickman giggled. "This is so much fun! Can we let her wander around a little longer? I want to keep watching." Maurice answered gently, "Of course. She got you fired, so it's only fair that she learns her lesson." I looked up and saw warning lights flashing ahead. Beneath my feet, the drainage gates were slowly rising. That was when I finally understood. In the past six months, Maurice had never tried to teach me how to find my way. He had simply been using my helplessness to entertain someone else.

I rushed back from out of town overnight when my best friend, Siobhan Coventry, went into labor. After learning that both mother and child were safe, I got teary-eyed with emotion. "Have you decided on the baby's name yet?" I asked. Her smile stiffened unnaturally for a moment. "Leonard Kessler. We'll call him Leo." "Kessler?" I stared at her in surprise. "I thought you said the baby would take your last name. Is his biological father's last name Kessler?" She gave me a vague hum before quickly changing the subject. "Ginny, I've been craving the wraps from that place in the college town." I nodded, forcing my doubts aside, and went out to buy one for her. It was only when I reached the hospital entrance that I suddenly remembered I hadn't given her my gift yet. I hurried back upstairs, only to see my husband—who had been away for two years, supposedly carrying out a classified project and never once returning home—walking into my best friend's hospital room with a bouquet in his hands. He sat down beside her bed and took her hand, his face full of concern. "You were so amazing, my love." My mind went completely blank, and all the blood rushed to my head. My hand was still on the doorknob when I saw my mother carrying the baby over to them, beaming with delight. "Look—the baby smiled as soon as he heard his daddy's voice." So her baby's last name was taken from Vincent Kessler—my husband's last name. The classified project… The whole story about having a child without the father in the picture… It had all been a lie. Even my own mother had helped her goddaughter and son-in-law deceive me. The people I loved most in the world didn't want me involved with this family at all.

It's the third year since my wife, Joyce Sinclair, cheated on me. I spread her intimate photos with her male assistant, Bryan Long, on the internet. Then, I doused myself in gasoline and threatened to drag everyone down to hell with me. Bryan's so scared that he flees the city that very night. I think I've won. However, to settle my lawsuit and cover the damages, my older sister, Rachel Lovett, sells her house and takes out high-interest loans. In the end, the burden becomes too much for her, and she jumps from a high-rise building. Her voice is hoarse in the recording she leaves me. "That's enough, Ray. We've lost everything. Mom and Dad have aged overnight, and I can't take it anymore..." Mom clutches Rachel's belongings and cries until she passes out. Dad's emaciated hands clamp around my neck as he demands at the top of his lungs, "How many more lives do you have to destroy before you're satisfied?" Tears silently trail down my cheeks, and I finally come to my senses. I no longer neurotically look into every single man around Joyce, and I stop badgering her with questions about the scent of men's cologne on her. Even when I walk in on her staring at a photo of her and Bryan and reminiscing about the past, I take the initiative to bring him back. It all comes to a head when Bryan wishes to become Joyce's lawfully wedded husband on his birthday. Without the slightest hesitation, I print out the divorce agreement, sign and seal it, and deliver it to him. To my surprise, Joyce rips the agreement to shreds. She grips my chin and demands hysterically, "Raymond Lovett, what happened to the stubborn man who'd rather die than divorce me? Where is he now?"

My husband's beloved lover suffered from menstruation complications. A traveling doctor claimed that a fresh placenta was needed to cure her. His gaze fixated on my seven-months-pregnant baby bump. And thus, I was pinned down on the bed as they ripped the placenta from my body. My son was carelessly tossed aside. He didn't even get the chance to cry before his tiny body fell silent forever. My husband pinched his nose in disgust, frowning as he looked at me—bleeding out, feebly reaching for my child. “It’s just a premature baby. He'll be fine after a few days of care. Why are you making such a fuss? Sandra is waiting for her medicine." He left and locked the door behind him without looking back. He claimed it was a lesson I needed to learn. By the time he finally remembered us, my son and I had long since bled dry, our bodies cold and stiff.

On the third day since we stopped speaking to each other, my fated mate, Eric Dunn, approves the mine acquisition plan his childhood sweetheart and secretary, Irina Porter, brings to him. However, that ore deposit is long depleted, so purchasing it is bound to incur losses. He assumes that I will rush into his office and force him to rescind his order, just like I have in the past. Yet, I do nothing even after he returns from checking out the mine, one week later. That is the first time in months that he gives me an approving look. But in the next second, he tells me to hand my purchasing authority as the pack's Luna over to Irina. He thinks that that will be the final straw that breaks the camel's back, that I will lose it completely. However, not only do I keep my calm as I tidy up all the documents into a neat bundle, but I even enthusiastically hand over the tasks to Irina. In fact, even when Eric put all the foreign trade deals I negotiated with the other packs under Irina's name, all so he could push the Council of Elders to appoint Irina as Beta, I don't make a single sound of protest. Irina smiles smugly as she says to him, "See? I told you long before, didn't I? You shouldn't go head-to-head with Freya. When it comes to people like her, ignoring her is the way to go. Once enough time has passed, she'll naturally submit to you. The cold shoulder you've been giving her the past few days has made her afraid of losing you. That's why she's being so cooperative now." Eric believes every word out of her mouth, not doubting a single thing. He even praises her publicly for coming up with such a brilliant plan. That night, Eric wraps his arms around me and kisses the corner of my mouth. He promises to restore all of my authority as the pack's Luna, not just the acquisition rights. Besides that, he even does something he's never done before—he agrees to give me the marking ceremony I've been dreaming of for ages. This is the first time he's shown me any affection after believing in Irina's theories about love. He stares at me expectantly, thinking that I will be so touched that I cry. Yet, I keep silent. Seven days ago, Eric was so worried that I would change my mind that he signed Irina's ridiculous acquisition proposal without even looking carefully. Among those papers was actually a mate bond termination contract that I slipped in. However, he's still unaware of it.

I no longer deliver meals to my husband, Zachary Smith—the man who became the factory manager after receiving a scholarship that brought him to the city—since my rebirth. I even make sure to detour using the gate at the factory's north side whenever he uses the southern gate after he finishes his meetings. In my past life, I was fully aware he took me as his wife—a humble country woman—just for the chance to move to the city. Yet, I insisted on becoming his wife, anyway. After all, I was convinced that a person's true affections could be earned and nurtured. Yet, Zachary maintained a constant, formal distance throughout our marriage. He would simply offer me a book the moment I attempted to bridge the gap, saying, "You should study more so that you don't continually attract people's contempt." I got emboldened by the drink as I threw my arms around him, yet he merely accepted the embrace rigidly, whispering, "It's just what married couples do." It wasn't until decades later, as I lay on my deathbed, that I discovered the heartbreaking words in his autobiography. In it, he stated that our entire marriage was like being trapped in a mire and that he never wanted to be with me again if he were to ever be reborn. I felt a searing pain tearing through my heart as I closed my eyes in devastating anguish. When I open my eyes again, I find myself back at the point in time when the gossip about Zachary and Juliana Ziegler, the factory's technician who studied abroad, first began to spread. In this life, I choose not to fight or cause drama. Instead, I am the one who brings up the divorce.

My daughter Stella was dying—kidneys shot, barely hanging on. She needed a transplant. Fast. But my wife, Kylie—the hospital director—stole the donor kidney meant for Stella and handed it off to her old flame's kid instead. That boy lived. They celebrated. Played happy family while my daughter was bleeding out hope. That same day, I called Kylie. Told her Stella didn't have much time. All she said was, "That ungrateful brat's faking it again? Lying? If she wants to die, let her." Stella didn't make it. Her body gave out in the worst way. And when Kylie finally saw her—really saw her—she broke.

On our third year wedding anniversary, Ricardo Gambino finds me in the estate located far beyond the city's boundaries. As he clutches a pregnancy report, he finds it difficult to suppress the smile on his face. "I have good news for you, Isabella!" Ricardo exclaims excitedly. "Lucia is pregnant! It so happens that you're infertile, we'll have her give birth to the baby, and you can raise them! After that, I'll make sure to send Lucia away. You, on the other hand, shall remain as my wife!" Ricardo's tone is starting to drift. He sounds like he's done something amazing for me and wants me to compliment him. But I merely look at him as though he were a jester. What Ricardo doesn't know is that he's the infertile one. Also, we've already gotten divorced from each other. At that moment, I receive a new text on my phone. Then, I see a photo of an ultrasound report regarding the first trimester of a pregnancy. "Isabella, we're having triplets." The next text pops up immediately. "I shall marry you in three days."

Ian Ludwig and I have grown more in sync in the eight years we have been married. I believe him when he lies to me that he's on a business trip, when in reality he's buying a villa for Francesca Yarrington, his childhood friend. He also believes me when I hand him a divorce agreement, saying that it is a property transfer agreement. There's still one month left in the cooling-off period before our divorce is finalized. That gives me just enough time to clear out everything from our eight years of marriage.

My boyfriend, Zayne Jefferson, is particularly gifted in certain ways. Every time we're intimate, he insists on trying something new. More than once, he gently coaxes me, saying, "Once you graduate, we'll get married." And I believe him. I throw myself into my studies, pushing hard to finish my credits early. At the same time, I secretly watch all kinds of videos at night and read up on techniques. I want to keep his body satisfied. One night, I stay up too late studying and miss curfew. I run to the bar to find him, where I overhear him chatting with his friends. "Zayne, is your girlfriend really that wild in bed?" one guy asks. "Of course. He trained her himself!" another guy says. "What about Yasmin?" Zayne exhales a stream of smoke, his eyes soft. "She's different. She's pure." In that moment, I begin to hate him. Back on campus, I make a call to my professor. "That secret program you mentioned… I want in." From this day on, my life belongs only to my career.

Brandon Smith has flown for eight years. I've been with him since the time he was an assistant pilot, all the way until he successfully rose to the ranks as the head pilot. In the year Brandon's busiest with his career, I resign from my job and begin cooking according to his aviation schedule. Just once, I bring up the question, "Can you please show me the sight of being thousands of feet in the air in the near future? Just once, please!" Brandon continues eating from his plate. "The plane is a workplace, not an amusement park for you." I reply, "Okay." Since then, I never bring up that matter in front of him. That is, until I find myself suffering from insomnia one night. That's when I accidentally come across an encrypted photo album tucked away in Brandon's phone. There are over 40 photos in the album, all from his perspective as a pilot. There are seas of clouds, sunsets, double rainbows after a downpour, as well as the Milky Way in the night sky when the plane is over thousands of feet in the sky. Every photo has been sent to the same person with a bear's emoji as their name. The latest photo is a photo of the beautiful evening colors from three days ago. Half of the sun can be seen in the clouds. The caption that comes with the photo says, "Today's sky is still beautiful as ever. When you come over next time, you can take the observation seat on the right. It gives you the best angle of the sky." The bear emoji person responds with a hugging emoji and a short sentence. "Wait for me to go on my break." I put Brandon's phone back where it belongs without changing the password and deleting the album. Once the morning sun is up, I brew myself some coffee as usual before finishing it quietly. Then, I turn on my computer and book myself a flight ticket to Dalco. It's been eight years. Finally, I don't have to chase after Brandon's flight routes and wait for his mealtimes. I no longer have to stay in an empty house while guessing which flight destination he's headed to right now. Since Brandon's sky refuses to tolerate my presence, I shall move my roots elsewhere and watch the sunset on my own.

I married Don Alessandro in secret. The Five Families of Chicago had ruled for generations. And I had married into the most powerful of them. For four years, Alessandro made me promises. One hundred and twelve times. And one hundred and twelve times, he left me standing alone. The first time, his ex‑girlfriend’s father had a heart attack. Alessandro canceled the wedding and stayed with her for three full weeks. The second time, she crashed her Maserati into a fountain in Monaco. Drunk. He flew there overnight and paid off the police chief personally. Every time, right before our wedding, she manufactured another crisis. I begged. I screamed. I put a knife to my own wrist. Alessandro just laughed, pulled the blade from my hand, and fucked me against the nearest wall. “She’s my ex‑girlfriend. You’re my wife. You don't need to be jealous of her.” After the one hundred and twelfth time, I stopped feeling anything. I pushed a piece of agreement in front of him.“Our marriage. Our alliance. Consider it terminated.”

I am an infamous pilot in Gradenburg whom everyone calls a jinx. In the past six years of my career, every time I had to fly a plane, it either started raining heavily or became terribly foggy. Eventually, passengers started avoiding my flights when booking their tickets, and the airline company pulled me off its flagship route. Nonetheless, I refuse to believe that I'm that cursed. It isn't until the 99th time that my flight is delayed that I overhear some people talking in the break room. "Mrs. Zayner can't fly again today?" Another person lets out a mocking laugh. "She seriously still thinks that she just has rotten luck. Little does she know, all the extreme weather she's experienced is actually interference by Mr. Zayner as he pleases his mistress. "She wants rain? He'll call for a rainstorm. She wants to see dark clouds? He'll do it for her. His mistress' happiness is certainly more important than whether his wife can actually fly!" Amid the scornful laughter that rings out, I clutch the 99th disciplinary notice I've received for flight delays so far, feeling my entire body go cold. Just last night, Samuel Zayner was tending to the injury on my wrist I got when a passenger threw their luggage at me. In a low voice, he comforted me, saying, "The weather isn't something anyone can control. Don't blame yourself for it." However, right now, I check through my flight records from the past six years. Every single delay coincides with a social media post from the same woman. "I suddenly feel like admiring a rainstorm." "The summer sun is just too glaring. How I wish black clouds would darken the skies over Gradenburg." Without fail, Samuel has liked every post. As it turns out, the bad weather that has kept me trapped for the past few years is nothing more than a little flirting game played between him and another woman. I stare at the flight assignment roster for three days later and let out a soft laugh. Then, I submit a route transfer request. From now on, whether it's rainy or sunny in Gradenburg has nothing to do with me anymore.