Cerita Pendek & Novel Bias Marriage

Xavier Galvan's first love, Winter Singleton, happens to return to the country on the same day our daughter, Tina Galvan, is diagnosed with a heart condition. I wait helplessly with my five-year-old Tina at the hospital for her results. Meanwhile, Xavier drives to the airport to pick up Winter and her son, Ian Becker, just so that he can feel like he has a father to pick them up. I sign the surgery consent form alone while sitting by Tina's hospital bed. Meanwhile, Xavier takes Winter shopping at the mall and even picks out a birthday present for his newly-appointed "godson". On the day of Tina's surgery, just before she's wheeled into the theater, she grabs Xavier's sleeve tightly, refusing to let go. "I'm scared, Daddy. Can you please stay here with Mommy and wait for me?" He agrees. However, a split moment later, Winter calls him. "Xav? Ian's looking for his 'daddy' everywhere at the birthday party. Can you please come over?" Xavier doesn't even hesitate as he pries Tina's fingers, one by one, from his sleeve, and says, "It's just a small surgery, Tina. There's nothing to be afraid of. "Winter needs Daddy now, but I'll be back soon afterward, okay?" Then, Xavier turns to leave. Tina doesn't cry. However, the first thing she does after coming back out of the surgery is to refer to him by a different address. "I don't want Uncle Xavier as my daddy anymore, Mommy."

I am finally pregnant with a child after being married to Anthony Johnson, my husband, who has azoospermia, for five years. Emily Johnson, my 30-year-old unemployed sister-in-law who lives off her family, tears the ultrasound scan apart and angrily accuses me of carrying someone else's baby. She then takes out a notebook packed with detailed records of every time Anthony and I have slept together since we got married. "In the past three months, the only time you slept with Anthony was three weeks ago; other than that, he never laid a finger on you! If you're over a month pregnant, then there's no way that baby belongs to the Johnson family!" I feel incredibly angry at the thought of being eavesdropped on all this time, so I seek out Anthony and demand an explanation. He merely looks at me with a pained expression and says, "You should just produce the evidence if you're innocent, Madison—just like Emily did." I laugh out of sheer exasperation. If they want evidence, then the baby I'm carrying is the best evidence there is.

My husband, Shawn Payne, goes bankrupt overnight. That very night, he ships me and our son, Tommy Payne, off to a deserted island, claiming it's the only way to keep us safe from his creditors. Worried sick about leaving him to face the danger alone, I sneak back home halfway there, only to find him throwing a wild party, his arms wrapped tightly around a beautiful woman. His best friend, Ryan Foster, needles him. "You dumped your wife and son in the middle of nowhere. How are they going to survive out there?" Shawn shrugs like it's no big deal. "Yvonne's closing down her dog food factory anyway. I had all the surplus kibble repackaged and shipped to the island. It's more than enough to keep them fed for a few years." The woman, Yvonne Sullivan, purrs and snuggles deeper into his chest. "Oh, babe, you're so good to me and the baby," she coos, gently stroking her belly, which isn't even showing yet. He taps the tip of her nose affectionately. "You're so innocent and soft-hearted. If I don't look out for you, who will?" He pulls Yvonne closer and continues, "For your sake, I had to ship that shrew off to some godforsaken island. If she ever found out you were pregnant, she'd tear you apart. Once you have the baby and she turns two, I'll bring them back. By then, it'll be a done deal. There's nothing she can do about it." His words hit me like a ton of bricks. A cold sweat soaks me to the skin. Three years later, right on schedule, he calls. "Hey honey, how are you and Tommy doing? I'm ready to come pick you guys up." I glance at the man beside me, and a rush of satisfaction washes over me. "We're doing great," I reply. "My new husband treats both me and your son incredibly well."

After leaving Clark Stane, I married a billionaire. Just recently, he transferred all his personal assets to me. I tried saying no, but I could not reject his sincerity. He claimed that love was where money went. He wanted to give me the confidence not to rely on anyone for help. Even the asset transfer itself was to happen in Atila City, my hometown. Feeling resigned, I walked into the largest law firm in Atila City. Just as I was about to state the name I had used when I made my reservation, I suddenly heard annoyingly familiar mocking words. “Hey, aren’t you Yvonne? You’re the one who chased after Clark, weren’t you? Unfortunately for you, he’s engaged now.”

When Ethan Lane came back from his business trip, he pulled two dolls out of his suitcase. One was pink, the other blue. His daughter, Nina Lane's eyes lit up for a second when she saw the pink one. But instead of reaching for it, she glanced over at Crystal Shaw, Vivian Shaw's daughter. That five-year-old girl had already stretched out her hand for the pink doll. So Nina pulled her hand back and said quietly, "I'll take the blue one." I froze. Nina's loved pink ever since she was little. Her backpack is pink, her water bottle is pink, even her hair clips are always pink. But the moment Crystal was in the picture, she stepped aside. Later, when Ethan drove Vivian and Crystal home, I asked Nina why she chose blue. She looked up at me timidly and said, "If I give up what I like, just like Mommy does, will Daddy come home more?" My throat tightened. I've given in so many times over the years. But looking at my daughter right now, I suddenly realized—I don't want to hold back anymore.

I had been married to Jeremy Yeager for three years, and he had a strict rule. "We can't lend our money to outsiders. We help out during emergencies, but we don't support them endlessly. This is the bottom line." Thus, I begged him on my knees when my father needed 60,000 dollars for his gastric cancer surgery. He remained calm. "If we break this rule today, your entire family will be draining our bank account tomorrow. I have to be responsible for this family." I sold my dowry to raise the surgery fee and accepted that some boundaries needed to be kept in marriage. When Jeremy's childhood sweetheart, Celia Marten, returned to the country to start a business and her start-up funds were insufficient, he transferred 470,000 dollars from our joint account. I confronted him, yet he just laughed and replied, "It's different. Celia's doing legitimate business. It's guaranteed to turn a profit. Besides, she's not an outsider." Looking at the numbers on the transfer record, I suddenly understood everything. It was not a matter of principle. The 60,000 dollars for a life-saving treatment was for an outsider; the 470,000 dollars investment was not. What truly mattered was who wanted the money. I did not argue or make a scene. I took our marriage certificate out of the drawer and slammed it on the table. "She's not an outsider, huh? Just make her your wife, then."

Before I was wheeled into surgery, the nurse kept urging me to call a family member. At last, a delivery runner rushed into my ward, out of breath. "Hello, Ms. Wexler. Mr. Adrian Prescott placed an order for me to accompany you through surgery in Ward 907." My phone buzzed twice with a new notification. I lowered my head and saw Sophie Lane's latest post. "Caught a cold and sounded a little stuffy, and Mr. Prescott noticed right away. He insisted on taking me to the doctor and even made ginger tea for me. So spicy, but so sweet." The picture showed a tall, lean man with his shirt sleeves rolled up, pouring ginger tea from a saucepan into a thermos. His eyes were focused and gentle. I stared at the photo in a daze. I had been hospitalized for five days. My husband of five years, Adrian Prescott, had never visited once. He said he was busy with work. But once again, I saw him in Sophie Lane's social media post. That careful, gentle Adrian Prescott, the man who knew exactly how to love someone. Before I was pushed into the operating room, I submitted my resignation and made one phone call. "Mr. Powell, please print the divorce agreement."

Sheila Jenkins was hit by a truck on the fifth anniversary of her wedding. The accident was devastating. Her legs were crushed beneath the vehicle, which rolled over them before finally coming to a stop. Her husband, Joshua Stewart, the man who had been her childhood sweetheart, was so frantic that he gave more than half the blood his body could safely spare, begging the doctors to save her life. When Sheila was finally wheeled out of the operating room, she had not even had the chance to thank him for everything he had done. Still drifting in and out of consciousness, she suddenly overheard a conversation between Joshua and his assistant. "Mr. Stewart, there's still time to save her legs. If the surgeons operate now, they can still treat the damage. Are you really going to give up and let Mrs. Stewart spend the rest of her life crippled?" Joshua's expression remained icy, and his voice was even colder. "I hired someone to hit her for that exact reason. The whole point was to make sure she ended up crippled." His assistant froze. "The only woman I have ever loved is Cecilia. If the Stewart family had not refused to accept her back then, and even threatened her life to force us apart, I never would have buried my feelings and pursued and married Sheila simply because she was the 'right' match. My greatest regret is that I could never give the woman I truly love the title of being my wife. Since I cannot give her my name, I will at least give her the wedding she deserves." He paused before continuing without a trace of emotion. "If Sheila finds out I'm holding a wedding for Cecilia, she'll definitely try to ruin it. This way, she'll be stuck at home, crippled and completely unaware of what's happening." Unable to stay silent any longer, the assistant let out a quiet sigh. "Mr. Stewart, I know the woman you love is Ms. Zeller. I just... don't think Mrs. Stewart deserves this. She hasn't done anything wrong. She has no idea your heart has always belonged to someone else. She doesn't even know that the baby she gave birth to was strangled to death by your own hands... and that the child she's been raising all these years is actually yours and Ms. Zeller's. That's already cruel enough. If she loses her legs too..." Before he could finish, Joshua cut him off, speaking with icy indifference. "What does her suffering have to do with me? The only person I care about is Cecilia. "From my perspective, even if Sheila loses both her legs and her own child... her suffering still isn’t worth a single one of Cecilia’s tears."

My husband promised we would spend Thanksgiving with my parents this year. Right before we left, he looked down at his phone and frowned. "Damn it. I forgot to change the delivery address again. Your parents' gift basket went to Cassia's place." I stood in the entryway with my fingers frozen around my scarf. For three years of marriage, Roman DeLuca had never removed Cassia Vail's address from his shopping apps. Whenever I asked him why, he always said the same thing: "Cassia and I grew up together. She’s basically family." The Italian espresso machine I wanted went to her apartment. He said her old machine had broken anyway. The sapphire bracelet for our wedding anniversary was signed for by her. He said asking for it back after she opened it would look petty. The sunflowers and baby's breath he promised me on Valentine's Day ended up in her hands. He said she had already put them in a vase, and he couldn't give me secondhand flowers. This time, I had reminded him for two weeks. The Thanksgiving basket had a low-sugar pumpkin pie, nut-free cookies, and a custom low-sodium turkey roll for my father. I had chosen every item myself. It still went to Cassia. I kept my voice steady. "Drive over and get it back." Roman's face darkened. "She already signed for it. What do you want me to do? We'll pick up wine and pastries on the way. Same thing." "It isn't the same. Get it back." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Elena, can you stop turning every little thing into a family trial? No one makes things awkward like you do." Every time something meant for me ended up with his childhood sweetheart, I asked him to get it back. Every time, I got some version of the same answer. I stopped arguing and watched him slam the door behind him. A few minutes later, I wiped my tears and texted my attorney. [Happy Thanksgiving. Please draft a divorce agreement for me. Thank you.]

My mother suffered a heart attack. We had to pay a deposit of thirty thousand dollars before she could receive bypass surgery. I borrowed money from all my relatives and friends and scraped together this life-saving sum. When I was queuing to pay the fee, my husband said, “Why don’t you go get your mom some water to keep her hydrated? I’ll wait in line and handle the payment.” When I returned with the cup of water, I saw him giving the stack of cash to a family member of a patient he had just met. “Hey, we crossed paths for a reason, man. Take this for now. You clearly need it more. We’re fine on our end, trust me,” he said boastfully and patted his chest. He had always been a show-off. A nurse stood outside the resuscitation room with a consent form in her hand as she shouted for a family member to sign. My mother’s heart monitor had already gone flat.

After seven years together, I called off my wedding to my fiancé, Jordan, two days before we were supposed to get married. The wedding planner looked at me in shock. “The wedding is less than 24 hours away. Aren’t you going to wait for the groom to come back before making the decision?” I simply smiled and glanced at the venue I had spent three months setting up, my voice indifferent. “Nah. He doesn’t have time for this. He’s busy getting married to his ex in Slandsdeca.”

Colonel Rachel Melton promises me she will only stay by her first love's side during his depressive episodes 99 times. Yet, the moment I mark down the 99th time, I catch them locked in a tight embrace. After that, I no longer stand in her way when she goes to him. I only ask her for a good luck charm to serve as our child's first birthday gift. At the mention of our child, Rachel's expression softens. "When I get back, I'll make sure to give Diana a wonderful first birthday." "Okay," I murmur, completely omitting the fact that I have submitted our divorce papers ten days ago, and that our daughter died on the very day she chose to be with Todd Weber. Now, we are already divorced.

When Luca Blair, Daphne Barron's childhood friend, goes bankrupt, she takes the 100,000 dollars meant to save my life and our child's just to help him. I beg her to return the money, but she snaps. "Luca will make it back. Think long-term for once instead of hoarding cash like an idiot." When I demand a promissory note from him, she calls me cold-blooded. Later, Luca breaks down crying, saying he lost everything and is going to starve. Daphne holds him close, promising she will take care of him for the rest of his life. I quietly pack my bags and call Dad. "Dad, you were right. Daphne really is trash. I'm coming home to take over the family business."

When I was three months pregnant, I walked straight into an ambush. A bullet tore through my arm, and they rushed me to the hospital. By the time it was over, the baby had been torn out of me alive. The surgeon, Mia, passed it off as a tragic mistake. I tore the hospital apart, and my husband, Leon, only looked annoyed. "It's one kid. We'll have another. Why put the doctor through hell over it?" Then I saw the smug woman standing behind him, and it all came together. I smiled at Leon. What he didn't know was that in the gang shootout three months ago, the bullet to his stomach had left him sterile for good. And that baby was the only blood he would ever have.

I was two hours late to check out our future home. By the time I finally rushed in, my fiancé, Daniel, had already signed the paperwork. He and my best friend, Gina, were huddled over the floor plans with their heads together as they debated over the interior design. They went from discussing the layout of the gaming room to the nursery. They continuously bickered over whether the master en-suite needed a freestanding tub or not. A middle-aged couple standing nearby smiled warmly at Daniel. "Renovating your first home, huh?" the husband chimed in with a wink. "Take it from me, son, always let your wife have the final say." Daniel let out an awkward cough as his eyes drifted to Gina, whose cheeks had instantly flushed a soft pink. "Alright, fine," Daniel muttered, giving in with a grin. "We'll get the tub." I stood just a few feet away, watching them decide every single corner of my future home. The three of us had grown up together. When we were kids, they were the ones who picked the schools and told me where we were going. When Daniel and I started dating, every date night and vacation was planned by them. I just showed up. And now, even with my own future house, it felt like my only job was to wait for their final memo. For years, I had lived like a shadow to the two of them. Shadows didn't have voices. They just followed silently, a step behind. But even shadows would get tired. And sometimes, on a bleak, overcast day, a shadow would stop and refuse to take another step forward.

For six years, Dante Romano kept our marriage hidden. In public, I was only the executive who managed his family’s legitimate businesses, and even our son had to call him Uncle. When his newly divorced childhood friend returned to New York, Dante missed Leo’s birthday to stay with her. That night, Dante signed the divorce settlement without reading it, and I took our son out of his world. The man who never lost control ordered every Romano contact to find us, then crossed the world to bring us back. This time, Leo and I would not turn back.

"Jump. You love me to death, don't you? Didn't you say you'd do anything for me?" Ethan Hart wanted me to throw myself off the observation deck of the tallest tower downtown, live, in front of the millions of people watching the broadcast. I stood on the wrong side of the railing. Below me, traffic streamed through the streets and neon flickered in the distance. His friends clapped and cheered. Vivian Lane laughed softly and curled herself against his arm. Ethan's grin turned vicious. "Come on, don't waste everyone's time. Jump, and I'll marry you." He'd made me a promise once. Finish a hundred of his demands, and he would marry me. When his company was circling bankruptcy, he told me to hand over everything I owned, and I did. Then he moved Vivian into my house in the suburbs and left me to sleep in a motel. The night he was tangled up with Vivian at a private party, he sent me over with something for his hangover, and made a point of telling me to bring a box of condoms, the right size. I stood at the door holding the soup I'd made, and heard him laugh. "She's my ATM. I use her, then I throw her out." No matter how far it went, I'd done all ninety-nine. This was the last one: jump. He thought I'd hesitate, thought I'd cry and beg him to pick something else. I didn't. I let go and fell. The wind roared in my ears, and the whole lit-up city slid past me. I heard him shout, heard the crowd scream, and underneath all of it, the one voice I'd waited too long to hear. [Congratulations, host. Emotional conquest progress: one hundred percent. Reward delivered. Your mother's terminal illness is fully cured.]

He almost never texts me first, and in person he barely says a word. In three years together, he's never remembered a single anniversary, and he's never once suggested we celebrate a holiday. But the second I message him first, he lights up, all "baby" this and "baby" that, fussing over me, coaxing me to sleep. Sometimes I'd get this strange feeling that there were two different Noahs. His explanation was that he was just bad with words face-to-face, and that texting or voice notes felt like less pressure. I kept telling myself that being together meant meeting each other halfway. He was quiet and reserved, so I'd be the one to reach out. He forgot anniversaries, so I booked the restaurant and reminded him to keep the night free. He had no time to schedule our engagement shoot, so I handled the whole thing with the studio myself. He was too busy with work to help us move, so I packed everything alone, booked the movers, and got it all done. When I was so worn out I was about to break, I'd send him a voice note, and he'd say, "I'm so sorry, baby. The lab was insane today. I couldn't be there for you, and it kills me to watch you run yourself into the ground." Hearing how guilty he sounded, all my hurt just melted away. And that's how I carried three years of this relationship on my own, running on the flawless tenderness he only ever gave me online. Until today, when I found a program on his laptop called Boyfriend Assistant. It analyzed every message I sent and generated the perfect reply, the perfect response, every single time. Cold snap? It sent: Bundle up, baby. Time of the month? It pinged an API and auto-ordered hot chocolate to my door. All those late nights he spent "working," the gentle voice notes that lulled me to sleep, every one of them was synthesized in Noah's voice. For three years, the person who'd been there for me, day and night, was never Noah at all. For three years, I'd been performing a one-woman show.

After our last mock exam, the whole class went to a karaoke lounge to celebrate. A video suddenly appeared on my phone, supposedly sent by Mason Blackwell ten years in the future. Mason and I had grown up together for over a decade, and I'd secretly loved him for five. In the video, he wore a suit, his familiar face softened by a tenderness I'd never seen before. "Hannah, I'm getting married. "To Paige Monroe." The next second, class beauty Paige linked her arm through his, their fingers intertwined. "Hope you find your true love soon." The video ended. The black screen reflected my reddened eyes. I splashed water on my face and went back into the private room. The moment I walked in, everyone turned to stare. Paige stood up with a bright smile and announced into the microphone, "See? I told you she'd cry!" The room erupted in laughter. Mason rose with a frown, swept a cold look across the room, and said, "Knock it off." He walked over and looked down at me, a trace of nervousness in his voice. "Paige asked me to make that video. Her grades improved this time, so it was her reward. Don't read into it." Behind him, Paige added with a laugh, "It was just a joke. Don't tell me you can't take one?" I stood there, staring at the face I'd secretly loved for five years, and said nothing. The video really was a joke. But ten years later, they truly did get married. Because I'd come back from ten years in the future.

Pine Hollow has followed the same wedding custom for more than a century: the groom must hand-stitch a pair of bridal shoes for his bride to wear during the wedding send-off. If the shoes fit, it means the ancestors have blessed the couple with a lifetime of happiness. I tried on six pairs, but each one was either too large or too small. Every wedding had to be canceled. Each time, Cole Bennett promised me guiltily, "Audrey, wait for me. I swear I'll make you a pair of bridal shoes that fits perfectly." I believed him. Then, at our seventh send-off, I put on the shoes and my toe tore straight through a hole in the front. I froze, but Piper Dawson, who had come with the groom's party, pointed at me and burst out laughing. "Sorry, Audrey. I didn't know the pair I bought this time would be so poorly made. They're even worse than the first six!" I stared at Cole in disbelief. "She bought all the shoes? We prepared for seven weddings, and you let her turn every one into a game?" He frowned and looked at me as though I were the unreasonable one. "Piper is a tomboy. Why are you making such a big deal out of this? You already waited through six weddings. What difference does one more make?" Then he stroked my hair and spoke casually. "Stop making a scene. I promised Piper I wouldn't marry you until she turns twenty-five and can live independently. "I promise I'll stitch the next pair myself." I watched him in silence. He had forgotten that I no longer had the right to make a scene. In Pine Hollow, seven failed wedding send-offs marked a bride as ill-fated. Within three days, she had to enter an alliance marriage with someone outside the community. And she was forbidden from returning home for seven years.