Bias Marriage 短篇故事與小說

For Founders' Day, Julian Whitmore said he was finally taking me home to meet his family. I spent three months preparing. Then I waited an hour outside his front door. By the time I made it inside, his mother was already holding the hand of a girl in a fitted red dress. "This is Camille," she announced to the room, beaming. "Julian's fiancée. The wedding's set for Thanksgiving." I looked at Julian. He kept his head down. He didn't deny it. All through dinner, he and Camille Sinclair accepted toast after toast of congratulations, while the butler led me in through the side door and sat me at a table in the corner — without so much as a place setting. Three rounds of drinks in, he texted me: [Wait for me. I'll fix this.] I sent back three words: [Congratulations to you.]

To give her family an heir, my wife got pregnant seventeen times, only to miscarry every single time. Everyone thought I was infertile. I visited every famous doctor I could find, swallowed countless herbal prescriptions, and even went through thirty treatment procedures, but I still couldn't give her a healthy child. Under pressure from the outside world, I finally agreed to let Talia Isaacson borrow sperm from her first love. On Talia's eighteenth pregnancy, the baby was finally healthy. She told me excitedly, "The Isaacson family finally has an heir. You won't have to suffer anymore. No matter what, I'm giving birth to this child." Just when I thought our life could finally return to normal, I overheard Talia talking to her first love. "Talia, you're so smart. You made Gavin believe he was infertile. He'll never guess you did it on purpose." Talia stroked her belly with a gentle expression. "Gavin's just too stupid. He believes whatever I say. If I hadn't wanted to force him into a divorce, I wouldn't have needed to abort all those children. "Once I give birth, we'll take the baby and leave this place forever." I looked down at the scars and damage left on my body by the medication and surgeries. My heart turned to ash. After seven years of marriage, we had finally reached the end.

When I was five months pregnant, Greg had missed four months of prenatal checkups because of his highschool sweetheart, Chloe. Now, on the fifth one, he stood me up yet again. Over the phone, his voice sounded cold and irritated. “The baby isn’t just mine, you know. Why can’t you step up as a mother and do a little more? Is the kid going to die without me there?“ I didn’t say a word. I just stared at the hospital waiting room TV, which showed a live broadcast of him smiling tenderly at Chloe. “Okay,“ I whispered. Greg must have noticed something off about my tone because he started to say something else, but I hung up before he could. Right then, the nurse, who had just gossiped about the news, specifically about how Greg had just spent a fortune hosting a massive fireworks display for Chloe, walked over to me. “Ma’am, please head this way for your prenatal checkup,“ she said. I shook my head, my voice calm. “No need. Please schedule me for an abortion next week instead.

On the third day after our divorce was finalized, my ex-wife, Georgie Anderson, sent me a text message. [Why haven’t you transferred your salary from this month to me?] I thought she was joking. [We’re already divorced.] [So? What does it matter if we’re divorced? You should transfer nineteen thousand dollars from your twenty-thousand-dollar income, just like you did before. The remaining one thousand dollars will be your pocket money. When you were unemployed, I was the one who took care of you. Now that we’re divorced, you’re turning your back on me?] I stared at her text messages and fell silent for a really long time. Throughout our three-year marriage, I gave her nineteen thousand dollars out of my twenty-thousand-dollar salary. She was responsible for "budgeting" our household expenses. However, she spent my money on her civil service exam, afternoon teas with her besties, and even on her study partner, whom I’d never met. As for me, I handled all the house chores—cooking dinner, mopping the floors and doing the laundry. But when I took a little time after work to game, she would yell at me for being lazy. She was demanding money from me even after we were divorced. Her reason was that I might spend the money without thinking. I blocked her number. Three seconds later, she sent me a text message from another phone number. [You’ll regret this. I’m trying to help you one last time.] I laughed. ‘Helping me?’ I thought. Nobody had ever helped me in the past three years.

On my wedding anniversary, my three-year-old son gave me an alpaca as a gift. I turned right around and shipped it off to the circus, where I found it a strapping alpaca husband. All because I'd been reborn. In my last life, that alpaca was sweet and gentle with everyone—except me. Every single day, it spat on me. Determined not to disappoint my son, I tried everything to win it over, but nothing worked. My mind unraveled. I stopped sleeping. I started hearing things that weren't there, and every night I dreamed of that alpaca chasing me down to spit in my face. My husband called me vicious. My son called me petty. And the two of them only grew closer to that alpaca by the day. Worn down and broken, I swallowed an entire bottle of sleeping pills and ended it. Floating above my own body after death, I watched in shock as it stood back up on its own. My son ran sobbing into "my" arms. "Mom, you're finally not an alpaca anymore!" My husband smiled and pulled them both into an embrace. "Nadia, you've been through so much. If it weren't for needing a healthy body to move your soul into, you'd never have had to suffer inside that alpaca for two years." That was when I finally understood. That alpaca had been Nadia Salem all along—the sickly impostor who'd stolen my identity for over twenty years.

Everyone in the circle called me the chatty woman around Wilson Lewis, who had poor hearing and was notoriously aloof. I would stand up for him, take drinks on his behalf, and accompany him to the hospital. When he had to get his hearing aid adjusted, I would crouch beside the table to replace its batteries for him, yet he never so much as looked up at me. One time, I drank on his behalf until I was dead drunk at a wine party, but he only glanced down at me calmly. Another time, I spent the entire morning waiting with him on the day of his follow-up checkup, but he texted his unattainable love, Noelle Surrey, instead. Wilson: [Have you eaten lunch yet?] During our three years of marriage, I became a joke in the eyes of others. On the night of our wedding anniversary, he wanted to make things up for the birthday celebration he owed me. When I was being dragged away through the back alley of a convenience store, I saw him sitting in the Maybach parked at the alley entrance through the half-open car window, unboxing a cake. I screamed until my throat bled, my fingernails digging into the wall. He glanced up at the alleyway entrance, took off his hearing aid, and put it in his pocket. When I got home in the wee hours, he was still helping Noelle with her resume. Seeing my disheveled state, he just frowned and said, "Jaclyn Scott, can you please stop making such a scene every time?" Noelle chuckled on the other end of the phone. "Wilson, is she playing victim again?" I pushed the divorce papers and a USB drive in front of him. "Wilson, I'm done making a scene. This time, it's your turn to listen."

Before my son entered university, he gave me a list of necessities he needed for school. Everything from a laptop costing 2,000 dollars to a phone at 1,000 dollars. Even the cost of traveling amounted to almost 10,000 dollars. My head pounded at the staggering figure. My mom had been hospitalized and was in urgent need of money. 10,000 dollars was a huge sum. I asked if I could give him 5,000 dollars first. My son’s face darkened in an instant, and he yelled at me for being stingy. He even wrote a lengthy post scolding his own family on social media. The next day, I read the post while at work. Someone even threatened to kill me. [A parent like you should die!] I read the latest post my son wrote, and my heart grew cold. In that case, there was no need for me to keep the truth a secret.

Holding the recommendation letter that would secure a return to the city, my fiance, Wesley Dalton, came to find me. Right behind him stood the fake heiress, Madelyn Hart, quietly wiping away her tears. Without hesitation, he ordered me to give up Willowville's only spot at Ashford Textiles. Madelyn was too fragile, he said. There was no way she could endure being sent to work in the countryside. Every elder in Willowville urged me to be sensible. Certain I'd do anything to save this engagement, they waited for me to break down in tears and give in. Instead, I smiled and tore our marriage contract to pieces right in front of both families. "She can have the position. And I won't be marrying you either." Everyone laughed, convinced I'd gone mad. They bet I wouldn't last three days before begging Wesley to take me back. Defying them all, I went to register my marriage with Logan Cross, a rugged retired veteran whom everyone else looked down upon. Three months later, Wesley kicked open my front door, his eyes red. He dropped to his knees and choked out that he regretted everything. But when he looked up and saw Logan kneeling on one knee, washing my feet, he instantly snapped to attention. "Sir!"

My husband and my best friend's husband looked exactly alike, but I never thought much of it. My husband, Cody Hill, was one of the country's top scientific researchers. Since my best friend, Ophelia Underwood, had sworn never to marry, he built an android in his own image to keep her company and take care of her. At first, I found it unsettling. But after decades passed, I gradually got used to it. Things were fine until the day of our 50th wedding anniversary. The hotel suddenly collapsed, trapping my husband and me beneath the rubble. Only then did I discover that the liquid flowing from his open wounds was blue. In the final second before another slab of concrete came crashing down, I watched him split apart before my eyes into countless precision-engineered bionic components. After I died, my soul drifted above the ruins. That's when I saw the "android" standing beside Ophelia gently wiping away her tears. In a gentle voice, he said, "She's dead. I don't have to pretend to be a robot while I stay by your side anymore." When I opened my eyes, I was 25 years old again. Inside the laboratory, two identical men stood before me. I raised my hand and pointed at one of them. "I'll take this one."

On our wedding anniversary, my husband, Ethan Pascal, who had never bothered to cook, made a table full of dishes for me. With every bite I took, he would ask for feedback and note it down attentively. At one point, Ethan went to the bedroom to answer a phone call from his assistant, Cecil Greene. Meanwhile, I grabbed the notebook he had left behind on the table. It contained countless details that had nothing to do with me at all. [The green beans are a bit undercooked - Cecil won't like them.] [The mushrooms are a bit too salty. Make sure not to add too much salt when making them for Cecil.] [The mutton is too gamey. Try using beef instead.] When he returned and saw me reading his notebook, he immediately told me off, "Did I say you could touch my belongings?" Just as I was about to say something, I felt a terrible throbbing pain in my head. His figure began to duplicate in my eyes. "Ethan, I don't feel so good. I think it's because the green beans weren't cooked properly..." "Alright, I'll have to write that right now. I'll try to grill them a little longer when I cook them for Cecil." With that, he ignored me and walked off toward the door while scribbling something in his notebook. "I'm heading out for a bit. I'm sure your immune system is strong enough. Just take some medicine, and you'll be fine." Before I passed out, I tried to call him again, only to get told off by him, "What's the problem? It's not like you're dying! Call me if you die!" "Ethan Pascal, I will never call you again."

I discover that my wife's stepbrother has secretly swapped the IVF sample I had stored at the hospital. But I pretend not to know and let my wife give birth to a son. I raise their child as if he's my own. Years later, I mold him into a business prodigy and even transfer all of my company's shares to him. At the company's celebration dinner, my wife's stepbrother suddenly produces a paternity test in front of everyone and says to me, "Jon is my biological son. Give him back to me." I smile calmly. "Take him then."

I am the last priestess of the Wintermoor tribe, blessed with the power to make wishes on behalf of others. But every time a wish is granted, I become physically younger. The year I get engaged to Ethan Hayes, I am 28. Three years into our engagement, he's left at death's door after a plane crash. That's the first time I make a wish for him. He survives, yet I become 23. Five years into our engagement, Ethan loses everything and attempts to jump from a building. I make another wish for him. He's wealthy again, and I become 18. Seven years into our engagement, Ethan brings home a terminally ill woman. He then drops to his knees, begging me to save her. I shake my head. "I can't. If I do it one more time, I'll turn three. By then, I won't be your fiancee anymore, and I won't even remember you." But Ethan sneers. "You saved me twice, and you were fine. One time for her, and you'll drop dead? Mirabel, spare me the excuses for your heartlessness." Later, Ethan stands at the edge of the sacred mountain cliff and threatens me with his own life. In the end, I save the woman. The next day, she's completely healed. Ethan holds her close, his gaze soft with affection. Then, he looks up at me and says, "I'll marry you once she's stable enough." I look down at my hands, now no bigger than a child's, and turn to leave. There's no need. In three days, I'll turn into a baby.

I had just found out I was a perfect match and was preparing to donate a kidney to my wife’s foster brother. That night, he left his iPad in the living room, and the screen lit up with a chat history between him and a doctor. “Doctor Evans, whatever you do, don’t tell my brother-in-law,” the message read. “If his kidney is removed, his hidden heart condition will flare up, and he won’t last three months.” The next day, I decisively canceled the donation. My wife was furious, calling me cold-blooded and forcing me to sign a divorce agreement that left me with absolutely nothing. A day later, I overheard his smug laughter from outside his hospital room. “He’s so stupid,” Boyd said. “I just photoshopped a fake chat log, and he actually believed he was sick. Now, we’ve stolen his luxury penthouse, and we can finally be together out in the open.” My wife kissed him. “Good boy. I’ll buy you a better kidney on the black market later.” Standing outside the door, I sneered. Of course, I knew the record was fake. After all, I had just reincarnated from the future. In half a month, a zombie apocalypse would strike, and this toxic pair of secret lovers would not only steal my medicine but also throw me to the undead. This time, with only three days left before the city is overrun by zombies, I want to see something. I want to see exactly how many days a sick bastard without a kidney transplant and a heartless woman without any survival supplies can last inside my luxury penthouse.

Five years ago, I was nearly killed in a car accident while saving my mother-in-law. My injuries were so severe that I spent years abroad undergoing treatment and rehabilitation. The moment I landed back home, I ran into my former college roommate, Vanessa Caldwell. She and her designer-clad friends looked me up and down with open disgust. "Gianna Lott?" Vanessa stared at me. "Is that really you?" One of her friends covered her mouth and giggled. "Vanessa, why does your old roommate look like she just got out of cleaning the airport bathrooms?" Vanessa waved a hand, pretending to defend me. "Don't be rude. Then again, Gianna's mother was a housekeeper..." She paused dramatically before giving me a fake, apologetic smile. "Oh my God, Gianna. I'm so sorry. Was I not supposed to mention that?" I had no interest in entertaining them. I turned to leave, but Vanessa stepped directly into my path. "By the way, my son's first birthday party is tomorrow," she said. "We haven't seen each other in years. You absolutely have to come." I rejected, "No, thanks. I'm not interested." Her friend's expression immediately darkened. "Don't be so ungrateful. Do you even know who Vanessa married?" She leaned closer, her voice dripping with superiority. "Her husband is the heir to the most powerful family in Crownmere. Someone like you could live 10 lifetimes and still never get close to a man like him." Another woman tittered meanly. "Just look at her. She probably doesn't even own a proper dress. Gianna, should I donate one of my old ones to you?" Vanessa raised a hand, putting on another performance. "That's enough." Then, she looked at me with exaggerated pity. "Gianna, I never imagined your life would turn out this badly." She sighed. "For old times' sake, I can arrange a catering job for you at the party. You'll earn a little money and get a glimpse of how the upper class lives." Before I could refuse, she shoved an invitation into my hand. I was about to throw it away when the name listed under "Father of the Birthday Boy" caught my eye and my breath hitched. It was my husband's name, Alexander Whitmore.

I had been in a secret relationship with Levi for five years. Just as I was about to meet his family, they went bankrupt. Levi told me that once he took everything back, he would return and marry me properly. No more hiding. No more secrecy. For him, I turned down every arranged match and waited for five years. Five years later, Levi returned as the business tycoon who swallowed my family whole. At a corporate gala, he appeared with his arm wrapped around the daughter of my family's rival. "I have to thank my fiancee," he said. "Without her, I wouldn't be where I am today." Everyone waited to see me break down and lose control. But I simply smiled and raised my glass. "Congratulations, Mr. Coleman." The next day, I called his sworn enemy. "Does your proposal still stand?" On the night before my wedding, Levi smashed open my door, his eyes bloodshot as he pinned me against the wall. "If you marry him," he said through gritted teeth, "I'll make sure he never walks away from this."

On the day I received my wife's prenatal checkup report, I suddenly heard the inner voice of the unborn baby in her belly. 'Daddy, Mommy is going to divorce you right after she gives birth to me! 'Since her first love is infertile, Mommy wants to give birth to a son so she can run away and live happily ever after with him!' Believing this without a shadow of a doubt, I resolutely chose to get a divorce. However, after the divorce, my health rapidly deteriorated day by day, and I was eventually diagnosed with terminal cancer. While undergoing chemotherapy at the hospital, I crossed paths with my ex-wife. Once again, I heard the voice of the baby still in her womb. 'Haha! In truth, Mommy never cheated on you at all! I lied to you!' Why did the baby lie? I couldn't understand it even up to the moment of my death. When I opened my eyes again, I had returned to the exact day my wife's prenatal checkup report came out.

On the day of the wedding, Steve Lane, my fiancee Ruby Clark's ex-boyfriend, uses a Reconciliation Voucher to swap the wedding and make it his own. This time, I don't argue or make a scene. Instead, I just calmly take off my wedding ring. My hand freezes in midair as I hold it out, and I say, "Ruby, if you change the groom, we're completely over." She takes the wedding ring and smiles helplessly. "Ivan Turner, don't say things you don't mean. I promised Steve that if he ever used the Reconciliation Voucher, I would give him a wedding. I can't go back on my word. But don't worry. The wedding is just a show. You're the only one who will be my husband. We'll go register our marriage tomorrow." She gives me a reassuring hug, then steps quickly onto the stage and puts the ring on Steve's finger. Watching her gentle profile, I let out a soft laugh. Not only does she not know that I have a Reconciliation Voucher too, but it has also taken effect just now.

In the eight years since my wife handed our daughter over to her widowed brother-in-law, I went to court eight times. This time, the judge asked me the same question she always did: was I here to sue for custody again? I corrected her. "I'm here to withdraw the suit. I'm giving up custody. I'm agreeing to the divorce." Ten years married to my wife, Vivian Simpson, and eight of those years spent in courtrooms. I'd become the whole city of Northbridge's favorite joke. Now, I'd finally endured enough to let go. From now on, the most spineless man in Northbridge would never have to show his face in front of them again.

After being tortured by kidnappers for three days and three nights, my wife, Abigail Hunley, empties our savings to pay my ransom. But as I lie on the operating table, barely clinging to life, I overhear her talking to the doctor. She instructs, "Later on, cut up my husband's face. Make sure no amount of plastic surgery can ever fix it. And while you're at it, break his leg. Make sure he never stands again for the rest of his life." The doctor is stunned. "But Lorne Carmack is the most handsome stage actor in our country. Ms. Hunley, are you really going to ruin the man you love most just for Noah Jenner?" Abigail replies, "It's okay. Lorne will understand why I have to do this. He loves me so much that even if he finds out the truth someday, he'll forgive me. Never mind. Destroy his eyesight as well. What he can't see won't hurt him. I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to him." A chill runs down my spine as overwhelming fear and grief consume me. The wife who once loved me more than life itself is willing to destroy my future for the sake of her first love. If the love we've shared for the past ten years is nothing but a lie, then I don't want it anymore.

For the ninth time, my best friend was left at the altar. And for the ninth time, my fiance was dragged in to play the part of her pretend groom. I was holding two cups of coffee. Before I could knock on the dressing room's door, I heard my best friend purring at someone. "You're the best, Anton. You knew this was an act, but you played along anyway." My breath caught. Through the half-open door, I stole a glance inside. My fiance, who had always been cold and unreadable, was looking at my best friend as if she were the most precious thing in his world. "Getting left at the altar must've traumatized you. If I don't help you get over it, Emilia's going to be worried even if she marries me." My best friend tugged lightly at the hem of his shirt. "But this is going to affect your relationship with her." "Not like it's the first time. She's still with me. We're still a couple." My fiance took out a diamond ring and held it against my best friend's finger. "We've been together for ten years. She has no other choice, anyway." The summer heat was scorching, yet part of me felt frozen solid. Slowly, I took my phone out and dialed a certain number. "Hey, I'd like to show you what I look like in that wedding gown."