Bias Female Growth Short Stories & Novels

I've been married for eight years, but my husband won't let our daughter call him "Dad" because his childhood sweetheart's son struggles with severe depression. After he missed our daughter's parent-teacher meeting again because he was with Susan Lawson and her son, I decided to leave. I prepare the divorce papers and decide to leave with my daughter. I go to her school and find her homeroom teacher, Laura Anderson. "Ms. Anderson, I'd like to apply for a school transfer." She looks surprised. "Why the sudden decision to transfer?" I reply calmly, "Her dad has been working out of town, but he's finally settled down and wants us to move there." Laura sighs. "Well, that's not bad. I always thought you were a single mom." I smile. I'm not, for now. But I'll be one very soon.

At my wedding, the giant screen that's supposed to show our photos suddenly switches to the groom's assistant's prenatal exam report. It clearly shows that he is the child's father. The assistant looks flustered and panicked as she rushes to apologize to me. The groom, on the other hand, stays perfectly calm and offers an explanation like it's no big deal. "I took pity on her because she got pregnant out of wedlock, so I went with her to the appointment and left my name. I'm going to be her kid's godfather, too." The day of her exam was also the day I went for my very first prenatal checkup. Everyone thinks I'll break down, but I simply reach up and tear off my veil. Then, I calmly schedule an abortion. "She really is pitiful, being pregnant without a partner by her side. She deserves this wedding more than I do." Then, I raise my champagne glass to congratulate him. "Congratulations to you both. May your shotgun wedding be a happy one, especially since it's happening with a bun in the oven."

It's our fifth wedding anniversary. I've booked a table at a riverside restaurant and set my pregnancy test report right in the center of the table. 9:00 pm comes and goes with no sign of my husband, Yosef Sinclair. Just as I reach for my phone, the cake delivery person texts to ask for my location. I send it over, then call Yosef. A ringtone chimes right behind me. I turn around and see Yosef walking in, looking sharp in his suit. I'm about to nag him for being late until I see him holding a cake box and answering his phone. "I'm working. I'll—" Before he finishes speaking, he visibly pauses, then asks in a low voice, "You ordered this? Meeting friends? Just don't stay out too late." He sets the cake down right on top of my test report and turns on his heel. All that I'm left with is the sight of his retreating figure. A moment later, his voice floats back in from outside. "Nobody. Come on. Let's just finish this last order, and I'll treat you to a nice dinner today!" I look out the window. Yosef is getting into a car with Clara Lawson, the bakery owner. She slips into the passenger seat like she's done it a thousand times. A minute later, my phone vibrates. I tap it open with my numb fingers. It's a new Instagram post from Clara, showing a pink rose bouquet with a sliver of a black suit in the background. The caption reads, "A guy who buys me flowers, works overtime with me, and takes me out for dinner? He's a keeper!" I like the post, put my phone down, and quietly tell the waiter to bring out the food. I've spent three months trying to snag a table at this place. No way am I letting good food go to waste. Besides, I'm leaving this city in three days and putting an end to this broken marriage.

The Moretti family had always prided itself on "absolute fairness." Because my older brother and sister—both candidates for Don—would go at each other's throats the second Father tilted even a little more power toward one of them. So Father split everything evenly in two. Every territory, every servant, every last racket. One half for my brother. One half for my sister. When I was little, I once asked: "What about mine?" His face went dark. He snapped at me: "Isn't it enough that your brother and sister are already bleeding each other dry over power? Can you stop adding to the damn mess?" Years later, it was the annual family council. The ceremony where the heirs present themselves and get evaluated by Father. With every member of the family watching, Father placed identical tokens into my brother's and sister's hands. Two custom rings set with emeralds, each engraved with their names on the inner band. And me? I was shoved into a corner, standing awkwardly under the light. Father's gaze swept the room. It never once landed on me. Some family members noticed me. Their quiet snickers reached my brother's ears. He turned to look at me, his eyes dripping with disgust. My sister rolled her eyes and said with a cold smirk: "We agreed on absolute fairness, didn't we? So this token of power cannot be touched by any third party." Father glanced irritably at me, my face crumpled with hurt. "What. Do you have something to say?" I swallowed the pain, forced a small smile, and said: "No, Father. I'll take my leave." Once outside, I dialed Ella's number. She was my best friend from childhood—and now the most sought-after young director in all of Europe. "Ella, it's been a while. That thing you mentioned last time—about coming to work with you—is it still on the table?" "Of course, Lily. You're always welcome here." If the fairness that's been missing for twenty years isn't coming, then I don't need to stay in this family any longer.

After my death, my parents sign an organ donor consent form on my behalf. They have my corneas removed and transplanted onto their beloved adoptive daughter, Grace Lane. She later marries my brother, and they become a true family. Grace and I competed over everything in life, yet I ended up dying with nothing. Now that I've been given a chance to start over, I decide to live life without them. Surprisingly, I find myself getting a happy ending.

I've always been terrible with directions. No matter where I go, I end up lost. Seraphina didn't buy the whole "born this way" excuse. So she roped in my foster brother Gabriel and my childhood friend Lucas, and they decided to put me through "training." For the border patrol exercise, they drove off with the tactical SUV ahead of time, took my phone, and left me stranded alone at the subway entrance—right in the middle of gang territory. They said it was to sharpen my sense of direction. I opened my bag and found a note from Seraphina: "We've walked this escape route with you twice. I know Carone's blood will find its way to the safe house, Leah!" "We'll be waiting at the mansion." I stared at those words, and suddenly this whole childish "training" felt hollow. Truth is, not memorizing the tunnels wasn't even a big deal. What hurt was being left behind—over and over again. So I went home and applied for Zurich. Ten days later, I was gone. And only when I was already across the ocean did they realize what they'd lost.

At sixteen, I found Owen Hughes in the slums. He was covered in blood—but he stepped in front of me anyway. I thought he was a gift from fate. So I begged my father to keep him close. He became my bodyguard. My classmate. My husband. Ten years later, I learned the truth: it was all a trap. He was undercover. His mission—to take down my father, the mafia don. I walked away. Swore I'd never see him again. Six years passed. Then we met again. His eyes were wet. "Aubrey... is there still a chance for us?"

To teach me independence, my parents enforced a fifty-fifty rule from the time I was little. Half the rent for my room. Half the cost of a breakfast sandwich. Even when a high fever sent me to the ER, they added half the bill to my debt and reminded me, "Get a summer job. Don't make a habit of owing people money." I always believed they just wanted me to become independent. Then my younger sister, Chloe, was born. Whenever she broke something and owed Mom money, all she had to do was give her a kiss. "All right, sweetheart. Debt paid." When Chloe wanted piano lessons, she made Dad breakfast once, and he happily paid for an entire year. But every dollar spent on me went straight into the family ledger. On my eighteenth birthday, I looked at the cake and quietly asked Mom, "Can I mow the lawn to cover my share?" She frowned. "Sophie, you pay what you owe. Don't look for shortcuts." "You still owe us $1,704.08 from last month. When are you going to pay it back?" I didn't answer. I only tightened my grip on the letter in my pocket offering me a full scholarship to New York University. Soon. Once I paid it off, my debt to this family would be settled. After that, I would never owe them another cent.

My husband, Jaxon Murray, was a renowned medical expert and owned a big company. He was participating in a clinical drug trial when someone tampered with his medication. Under the influence, he ended up entangled with an intern—ninety-nine times, right there on the lab table. When he regained clarity, he rushed home, locked himself in the bathroom, and submerged himself in the tub without food or water as he waited for me to return from work. "Lauren," he said, "my medication was switched during the trial. I made a terrible mistake. But I paid her off and had her dismissed. She'll never appear before me again." I wept miserably, clutching my belly that had once again failed to carry life. And in the end, I chose to forgive him. Several months later, he crashed into a guardrail while answering a phone call, causing me to miscarry. The injury left me unable to conceive for life. He buried his face in the crook of my neck, his voice choked with remorse. "Darling, I don't deserve you. I'm so sorry… We don't need children. We have each other, isn't that enough?" One day, I went to bring him lunch, only to find him in the next hospital room, cradling and feeding the woman he swore he'd never see again. "She's too weak to eat by herself," he said. "She has early-stage stomach cancer. There's no one else to take care of her… she's all alone." I chose to believe him. Again. Until one day, a pair of twins appeared in our home. Sophie Dixon knelt before me, wearing the postpartum gown he had once lovingly picked out for me, clutching my hand with tears streaming down her face. "It's all my fault. Please don't blame Jaxon. If you say the word, I'll leave with the children immediately." Jaxon grabbed my other hand, desperation thick in his voice. "Lauren, you've always been the kindest person I know. The children are still so young. How could Sophie possibly raise them alone? You wouldn't be that cruel… would you?" I looked down at the hands gripping mine from both sides, and suddenly, I laughed. "Jaxon, let's get a divorce. I wish you both a lifetime of happiness."

Just before our mating ceremony, my fated mate, Keane Blackwood, told me out of nowhere that he had to mark his widowed sister-in-law, Elara, first. He needed a pureblood heir. And I was a half-blood werewolf. "Talise, Elara is the best choice. Don't worry. This is purely political. You're the only one I love. "It's only for a year. Wait for me." His warm palm cupped my cheek, and he looked at me with the same love I'd always seen in his eyes. I believed him. But the very next day, news broke that Elara was pregnant. Three months along. They'd been sneaking around behind my back for a long time. "Why did you hide it from me?" I ran to confront him, my eyes red and my lips trembling. "It's all for the pack." He sighed, looking tired. For the Blackwood pack, he could put off our dates, stay out all night, and put my feelings dead last. In the end, even my anger was dismissed as immature, and I was supposed to graciously hand over my own mate. Suddenly I was so tired I could barely stand. But Keane didn't seem to notice. He even asked me to give up the Luna's master suite on the top floor. I scoffed, turned, and stormed home. Then I opened my laptop and replied to the email from the Mediterranean medical project. "I accept your offer," I wrote.

The day my son is born, my husband holds him tightly, looking overjoyed. However, while I'm asleep, he secretly swaps my son with the child next door—his first love's baby. I act like I know nothing and arrange for someone to switch the babies back. My husband wants me to raise someone else's child as my own but has no idea he's not even the father of my son. Ten years later, I transfer all my assets to my son's name as a birthday gift. That's when my husband's first love, Amanda Larkin, crashes the birthday party. She looks at me smugly and says, "The son you've treasured for the past decade is actually mine!"

My husband, Richard Hayes, hated special treatment and refused to make exceptions for anyone. So when I begged him to get my seriously ill father in to see a specialist sooner, his face went cold and he flatly refused. "The hospital has rules. Everyone waits their turn. Why should your dad get to cut the line?" He even dismissed the blood my father was coughing up as a flare-up of his chronic bronchitis. He said we were overreacting and wasting the hospital's time and resources. Seven months pregnant, I spent three nights camped out in the hospital waiting room so Richard wouldn't have to bend the rules for us. By the time my father finally received treatment, the delay had already taken its toll. He spent night after night in pain and was left with permanent damage. In the end, it was my father who told me not to blame Richard. Doctors couldn't make exceptions for people, he said. I needed to be more understanding. I believed in his high-minded principles, right up until today, when I left work early to bring him a meal at the hospital. I saw it with my own eyes. My husband was soothing another woman in her hospital bed. His first love, Daisy Lawson, had undergone a simple appendectomy, yet she was staying in the hospital's only VIP suite. Three of the hospital's best private-duty nurses took turns caring for her around the clock. Richard had even pulled strings to get her a hard-to-find painkiller overnight. Daisy whined that the medicine tasted bitter. Richard's face filled with concern. He unwrapped a piece of chocolate and fed it to her. "Daisy, sweetheart, take your medicine. You'll feel better soon. I've rescheduled all my upcoming surgeries so I can stay here with you." The thermos fell from my hand and hit the floor with a crash. Hot soup splashed all over my foot. It hit me all at once. There had never been any ironclad principles. He'd simply saved all his exceptions for someone else.

The heir to the Vitale family gave me thirty thousand dollars a month to be his mistress—all to get back at my mother. I needed the money. And secretly, I’d always loved him. So I let him humiliate me. Later, during a heavy snowfall, he made me kneel at the funeral of my love rival’s mother. That was when I finally let go. Enzo asked, “You think leaving New York will solve all your problems?” I answered, “It won’t solve them, but at least I won’t have to see you.” For that, he trashed the immigration agency that was helping me leave the country.

Joel Gleason, my childhood sweetheart and fiancé, promised he'd marry no one but me. But then, to help Jenny Swisher, my adoptive sister, get through her depression, he secretly married her. I didn't hesitate for a second before agreeing to marry Conrad Lennon, Jasselton's most untouchable heir, who'd been in love with me for years. After seven years of marriage, he still spoiled me rotten. He clung to me every night like he couldn't get enough. And there was nothing he wouldn't do for me. I really thought I'd found happiness at last. But one day, after we'd slept together, I heard him talking to his best friend. "Jenny's an international best actress now. When are you dumping Jean?" "It doesn't matter. I wouldn't end up with the person I love either way. Besides, I have to keep an eye on Jean. I can't let her ruin all the happiness Jenny worked so hard for." I booted up the computer in Conrad's study and stumbled upon a hidden folder. Inside were over 100,000 photos of Jenny, plus 100 unsent love letters. I'd been fooling myself long enough. It was time to wake up. I got myself a fake body and got ready to start a fire. That was it. Conrad and I were done for good.

After being reborn, I decided to write my sister's name on the marriage application. This time, I would help Sebastian Holt achieve his wishes. In this lifetime, I took the lead—I let my sister wear the wedding dress first and put the engagement ring on her finger. I personally orchestrated every encounter between Sebastian and my sister. When he took her to the capital city, I headed to Southport University without a second thought. In my previous life, even when I was over 50 years old, he and our son still knelt before me, begging for a divorce. This time, I would fulfill his final romantic destiny with my sister. Living this second life, all I wanted was to spread my wings and soar high, free from love's entanglements.

When my husband, Jared Hunt, receives a promotion that requires him to travel to Belmont, a big city, he submits a list of family members who will be traveling with him to the organization. He has submitted two names; the first one being our son, Jackson Hunt, and the second being a knowledgeable young woman, Sabrina Hayes. She's a friend who has traveled to the village with him in the first place. Life in the village is difficult. There's no way Jared will let Jackson suffer in the village. As for Sabrina, he has already given her his word to take her back to Belmont a long time ago. But when it comes to me, his actual wife, he thinks I should be gracious and offer the opportunity of traveling to Belmont to others. "It's completely useless for a country bumpkin like you to go to Belmont. Sabrina is very knowledgeable, so she's a more suitable candidate. Jackson and I will come back for you when an opportunity comes up in the future." As I listen to Jared's perfunctory explanation, I can feel my heart breaking. But what Jared doesn't know is that I'm not a country bumpkin despite having lived in the village longer than him. The truth is, I'm the talent that Belmont wants the most. The promotion that Jared cherishes the most is actually something that I don't want.

I get picked up by the cops in the middle of the night for street vending. While questioning me, they pull up my file. One officer eyes me suspiciously through my mask and asks, "What's a Clairefield University graduate like you doing selling stuff on the street at midnight?" I freeze and lean over to look at the file. The ID number matches mine, but the photo has been replaced with one of Madison Bass. That's when it hits me—20 years ago, I was the one who got accepted to Clairefield University! Dazed and numb, I stumble home only to hear my husband, Joseph Gunther, speaking on the phone. "Madison, don't worry. I won't let Lucy interfere with your life. Just go abroad in peace." It's him! Joseph helped Madison steal my identity and my future. My stomach twists. I turn to confront him, to expose the truth. But before I can, he strangles me to death with a belt. "I'm sorry, Lucy. You can't ruin Madison's future…" When I open my eyes again, I'm back in the classroom. Our homeroom teacher is handing out university application forms. This time, I'm taking my life back.

Five years after moving abroad, I return to the country for the first time at the invitation of a business partner. My partner sends a reliable assistant to meet me at the company entrance. I never expect to see my ex, Roy Henderson, who disappeared without a trace five years ago. Back then, a car accident lands me in the hospital. I need his signature, but he is nowhere to be found. Later, I find out he has gone to celebrate his lover's birthday. Everyone assumes I will forgive him like I always do. After all, I have forgiven him countless times before. As soon as I get out of the hospital, I leave the country and disappear from his life completely. Roy frowns as I walk into the company. "You actually tracked me down?" He lets out a sigh. "Forget it. Since you've found me anyway, Ava just had a baby and is still in postpartum recovery. Go take care of her."

I was scrubbing a mountain of dishes in a restaurant kitchen when I spotted my fiancé, Matteo DeLuca, who'd sworn he was buried in debt. He sat in a private dining room on the top floor of a three-Michelin-star restaurant. His tailored suit only added to his cold, intimidating air. Beside him, his right-hand man leaned forward to light the Don's cigar with practiced deference. Across from him, his legal advisor held a glass of red wine. "Matteo, isn't it time to put an end to this test? She even pawned her precious cello to pay off your debts." Matteo blew out a smoke ring and said nothing. The woman raised an eyebrow. "Then test her one more time. Tell her your enemies are going to cut off one of your hands, then see if she'll step in front of the blade for you." Hesitation flickered in Matteo's eyes. His fingers tightened around the cigar. After a long silence, he answered in a low voice. "This is the last test. If she passes, I'll give her the DeLuca name and all the honor that comes with it." I stood behind the glass partition, still clutching the $100 I'd just earned that day. To pay off his fake gambling debt, I'd given up my summer orchestra audition. I juggled three jobs, and the chilblains on my hands kept splitting open and scabbing over. I'd believed that if I could just get through it all, I'd be able to play my cello again. All that struggling just to survive, and it turned out I was only auditioning to become a Donna. I straightened the crumpled $100 bill, slipped it into my bag, and calmly untied my apron. If I still hadn't passed his loyalty test after everything I'd done, then I was done playing his game.

On our anniversary, Gus King overslept again. When he woke up, I was curling my lashes in front of the mirror. He looked apologetic. “I’m still adjusting to the time difference. Please try to understand.” For the past month, he and a junior labmate had been traveling around the world collecting marine samples. I calmly put away my mascara. “It’s fine. I made plans with a friend instead. This makeup is too nice to let go to waste.” He relaxed, though his expression turned a little strange. After all, in the past, I would have thrown a fit and cried at him. Gus hugged me from behind and smiled. “You’re getting so mature, sweetheart. By the way, I saw the new photos you posted. Where did you go?” “Oh, Seaview City,” I said casually. “While you were away in the North Isles.” He froze. I’d spent the whole first year of our relationship begging Gus to take me to Seaview City to see the ocean. He always said he’d take me when he had time. For our second, third, and fourth anniversaries, he kept telling me to be more understanding, then headed off with his junior labmate to their next destination. In the fifth year of our relationship, I suddenly stopped waiting. It turned out that traveling alone was pretty fun too.