Tragic Love Countdown Short Stories & Novels

After my family goes bankrupt, my younger brother, Simone Novello, is diagnosed with ALS. Just as I think I can't do anything anymore, Don Luigi Sartori decides to propose to me. Five years into the marriage, not only have I obtained all of Luigi's love, but he's also groomed my body to the maximum in bed. Thinking that this is a sign of love from Luigi, I cooperate with him even more passionately in bed. But when I'm delivering wine in a clubhouse one day, I witness Simone, who's supposed to be wheelchair-ridden, chatting with Luigi with a smile while clad in a high-end suit. "Simone, you've been pretending to be afflicted with ASL for five years just to punish Caterina for scolding Maria back then. Now that Maria is in a good mood and plans to return to the country, shouldn't you stop punishing Caterina then?" Simone sneers at Luigi. "I'll have my doctor inform her that I will recover after some time." "ASL is a deadly and incurable disease, you know. How can you possibly recover from it? Will Caterina even believe that excuse?" Simone flashes Luigi a confident smile. "Caterina is stupid, remember? Since when doesn't she believe anything we spout? Anyway, we'll just make it up to her in the future." I lower my head, feeling my tears rolling down my cheeks quietly. The thing is, Simone, there's no more future for me. Your ASL is a lie, but the deadly disease plaguing me is real.

By the eighth year of our relationship, I have finally earned the approval of Isabella Visconti, the Madre, and secure my place in the Valentino Famiglia. I should be eagerly anticipating the Donna ceremony, counting down the days until Luca Valentino swears his oath of loyalty before the entire family. But on the day my wedding dress arrives, I choose to return to Lunavere instead. That very night, Luca comes rushing to my apartment. "You won't even try on your wedding dress or answer my calls. Elena, what the hell are you still unhappy about?" He's clearly rushed over. Dark circles shadow his eyes, and he hasn't even changed out of the suit he's worn to his meetings. I can see how much he cares about me and how eagerly he's looking forward to our wedding. But just a few days earlier, when I needed him most, he rushed back to the estate in the middle of the night. We're attacked by a rival family that day, and I was injured. While I lay in a hospital bed, he left me behind. "Viola's father died in an attack similar to this one. She'll be scared if I'm not by her side," he said. Blood seeped from my wound, and the pain was so intense that I could barely speak. All I could do was summon every last ounce of strength I had to cling to his hand. He sighed, gently slipped his hand free, and tucked the blanket around me. "Behave yourself. You'll be my Donna soon, so you need to learn to be more understanding. Don't let jealousy get the better of you." That was the day I realized it's time to let go. From my hospital bed, I called my mentor, Magda Steiner. "Prof. Steiner, I'm ready to start over." In seven days, I'll leave this place and never return.

On my birthday, my boyfriend Heath Merrick sent me a transfer of 200 dollars, same as always. The note read: [Birthday gift for Macy. Too busy lately, so I won't be around to celebrate with you.] A second later, I saw a message my best friend, Kyra Donnelly, had accidentally sent to our four-person group chat. [Fourth birthday we've spent together! Thank you, Brody and Heath, for the gifts!] The photo attached was a cake topper, a miniature figurine made of two ounces of solid gold. Less than a minute after the message appeared, my brother, Brody Lawton and also the group admin, deleted it for her. He tried to cover it up by flooding the chat with a string of GIFs, then casually typed a new message as if nothing had happened. [It's Kyra's and Macy's birthday today. Let's go eat at Sorelli's? Kyra's been wanting to try their food for ages, and I just managed to snag a reservation.] Before I could even respond, my boyfriend and my best friend had already sent back thumbs-up stickers in perfect sync. I quietly deleted the half-typed message that read: [Their food is too spicy for me.] I sent a thumbs-up sticker of my own. The front door opened, and all three of them appeared in the doorway together. Brody rushed me. "Hurry up, everyone's waiting for you!" Heath frowned. "Stop dawdling. We'll lose the reservation." No one mentioned the message Kyra had accidentally posted. I looked at the three of them, at how naturally my brother and my boyfriend stood on either side of Kyra. One of them was weighed down with shopping bags full of clothes she had bought. The other had both hands full of her snacks and drinks. The whole thing suddenly felt completely pointless. I unlocked my phone and sent a message to my advisor: [Professor, I've decided to accept the exchange program abroad.]

When Vivienne Carter married Sebastian Cross at twenty-two, everyone said how lucky she was. He was ten years older, a mafia Don with terrifying power in his hands, and yet for three years he doted on her alone. He indulged her in everything, kept her sheltered under his wing, tender and attentive down to the smallest detail. Only in the dead of night did he turn possessive and overpowering, taking without limit, never once relenting even when she begged him through tears. She had always been certain she was the one thing he loved. Then her father died without warning. Drowning in grief, she called him ninety-nine times, and every call was cut off. In an instant, a single photo shattered every illusion she had. On a Paris street softened by dusk, the man she'd loved for three years was bending to hold another woman. That woman, gentle-featured and faintly resembling her, was her cousin.

For eight years, Damian Caruso kept me as his secret wife. I handled his family's lawsuits, protected his empire, and raised the son he refused to acknowledge in public. Ethan wasn't even allowed to call him Dad when anyone else was around. I told myself Damian had his reasons. Until our son's seventh birthday. Damian promised he would come home. Ethan waited beside an untouched birthday cake until nearly midnight. Damian never showed. Because Sofia Bellini—the childhood friend everyone already treated as Damian's real woman—had the same birthday. And Damian had chosen hers. That night, I stopped waiting. I signed the divorce papers. The next morning, Damian was in such a hurry to rescue Sofia that he signed the documents I placed in front of him without even reading them. He didn't realize he had just given me permission to take Ethan out of New York. Then he moved Sofia into our home—and asked his wife and son to leave so she wouldn't discover we existed. Ethan looked at the father he had spent seven years trying to love and called him "Mr. Caruso." Damian finally looked shaken. But it was already too late. On the day we left, he told me he had to fly abroad to handle a divorce case for a client. I said nothing. Because that divorce case was mine. He was flying across the ocean to finalize the end of our marriage—and he still thought I was just taking our son out of town for a few days.

Ever since I can remember, every person who crosses my path has a floating number above their head. It shows the exact number of times we will ever see each other again in this lifetime. When that number hits "1", it means this meeting is our final goodbye. At ten years old, my grandmother's number dropped to "1". That afternoon, she brushed my hair one last time before passing away peacefully in her sleep. When I graduated from college, my mentor’s number stood at "2". After our second meeting, he moved his family abroad and never returned. At twenty-five, I married Lucas Bolton, a star defense attorney. He was an absolute powerhouse in the courtroom, yet he gave all his tenderness to me. Throughout our seven years of marriage, he made it a point to come home on time every single day. He willingly handed over all his income, and no matter how busy he was on business trips, he always called me on video before going to bed. Most importantly, from the very first day I met Lucas, the number above his head wasn't a few hundred or a few thousand. It was an endless infinity sign. I truly believed it meant we were destined to spend the rest of our lives together. That didn't change until the eve of our seventh wedding anniversary, when Lucas suddenly started working late all the time. Even though he never usually wore cologne, his collared shirts began carrying the unfamiliar scent of gardenias. When I confronted him about it, he paused for a second before leaning down to kiss my forehead. "A recent client is going through a tough divorce with her kid. She's been dropping by the office pretty often, so it probably rubbed off by accident." I looked at the unchanged infinity symbol floating above his head and told myself I was just being paranoid. After all, the numbers never lie. That was until another night when Lucas came home late again. Suddenly, the symbol that had never changed began to flicker. Its golden light faded away, and in its place, a bright, blood-red number "3" appeared. That was the moment I knew Lucas and I had no future left.

Ten years into our secret relationship, Alex pulled out a ring at a yacht party. He leaned against the deck railing, his tone lazy. "Actually, I'm planning to propose tonight. " The crowd erupted instantly. Someone whistled, someone pounded on a table telling him to get down on one knee, and guessed who the mystery woman he'd kept hidden for ten years might be. I stood at the back of the crowd, so nervous my breathing came in ragged bursts. For ten years, Alex had never publicly acknowledged our relationship. During the hardest days of his startup, he said investors didn't like founders weighed down by romantic attachments. Then, once he became New York's most sought-after biotech rising star, the excuse became that the board and the media loved scrutinizing his personal life. Time after time, I believed he just wasn't ready yet. For him, I gave up a research position at Harvard, lost our child, and didn't even make it to my mother's bedside before she died. And now, he had finally pulled out a ring. Without even thinking, I reached for the pair of dark blue cufflinks in my pocket. I had spent three months of my savings to craft them as a tenth-anniversary gift. But he didn't stop in front of me. He brushed past me, walked up to Lillian, who had just returned to New York after ending her second marriage in Europe, and dropped to one knee. The deck fell silent for a heartbeat, then erupted into even louder cheers. Alex slid the ring onto Lillian's finger, and smiled carelessly. "See? Told you she wouldn't dare make a scene even after seeing the ring. Ten years, and when has she ever really stood up to me?" Lillian looked past his shoulder at me, undisguised triumph gleaming in her eyes. So the proposal hadn't been spontaneous. They had bet on whether I would make a scene. I wiped the tears from the corners of my eyes and turned to leave. So ten years really could be worth this little.

Five years into my marriage to Dante Moretti, the Don of the Chicago Outfit, the entire underworld knew he loved me more than life itself. He’d had a violin—for me—tattooed right next to his family crest, a symbol of loyalty that could never be erased. Until I got the photo from his mistress. A cocktail waitress, sprawled naked in his arms, her skin marred by the dark bruises of rough sex. She had scrawled her name right next to the violin he’d gotten for me. And my husband had let her. "Dante says only being inside me makes him feel like a man anymore. You can’t even get him hard anymore, can you, sweet Alessia? Maybe it’s time to step aside." I didn't reply. I just made a single call. “I need a new identity. And a plane ticket out.”

The day my overseas assignment finally ended, I kept my return a secret from Marielle Knox and spent thirteen hours flying home. We'd argued only a few days earlier. Marielle wanted me to keep building my career abroad, but I was determined to come home and marry her. Even as I was about to board, she was still trying to talk me out of it over the phone. "Weston, don't throw away your future for me. As long as we love each other, it doesn't matter whether we get married." Hearing that only made me more certain. The moment I landed, I went straight to a jewelry store, bought a diamond ring, and called my childhood best friend, Chase Davis, to tell him about my proposal plan. A baby was wailing on his end of the line. Chase tried to soothe the child and snapped at me, "Weston Brown, wake up! You've been long-distance for five years, and she keeps putting off the wedding. She obviously doesn't want to marry you. "Marriage is where love goes to die. Ever since my wife had the baby, I've been losing my mind!" I was about to argue when I saw Chase walk out of a baby store, holding a child. "My wife's here. Talk later." He hung up in a hurry and waved toward the curb. A black luxury sedan pulled up in front of him. The door opened, and a woman took the baby from his arms and rocked him with the ease of someone who'd done it a thousand times. Sunlight fell across her profile, and the sight stung my eyes. The wife my best friend had kept secret for two years was Marielle—the girlfriend I'd spent five years loving from the other side of the world.

To save the man she truly loved, the princess locked me in our room and cut out my heart's blood. The last time she drew blood from me, I finally reached the end of my strength and died. But without a shred of pity, she drove the knife into my chest again. "Alec, just bear it a little longer. Stephen's illness came on so suddenly. I need you to give one more bit of your heart's blood." She thought I would struggle in pain. Instead, I lay motionless on the bed and let her take what she wanted. She finally froze, then softened her voice and said, "I'm glad you've come to your senses. I'll make it up to you some other day." But she didn't know there would be no other day. Because I was already dead. What lay before her now was nothing more than a ghost without pain or feeling. In seven more days, I would disappear completely.

Damian began to notice that I had stopped telling him everything. When I bought new jewelries, I no longer asked for his opinion. When the Blackwood family's annual gala came around, I attended alone. When I needed surgery at the Blackwood family's private hospital, I arranged everything myself. No phone call. No message. Not even a note for him. When Damian eventually found out, he frowned. "Why didn't you tell me? Give me your file. I'll have someone make the arrangements." The answer came before I even had to think. "No. I've got it. I don't want to trouble you. Thank you." The words hung between us. For a moment, neither of us spoke. Because only two weeks earlier, I couldn't even choose which necklace to wear to a Family event without asking Damian. I'd text him over lunch. I'd call him just to ask when he'd be home. Every tiny decision in my life had revolved around Damian Blackwood. But now, I wouldn't tell him about my feelings when he was too busy listening to Clara, completely ignoring the fact that I was sick and needed him by my side. I wouldn't tell him I was pregnant. And soon, I wouldn't tell him I was leaving, either.

I'd been married to Dante Vitale, the Don of the Sicilian Mafia, for three years. Everyone knew it. I was the woman he'd carefully protected and cherished since we were young. When I was fifteen, a group of thugs cornered me. Dante stepped in to protect me and ended up with several broken ribs. Three years ago, in front of the entire Mafia, he swore before my late father's portrait that he would love me and take care of me for the rest of our lives. Then I accidentally spilled coffee on our marriage certificate. When I took our marriage certificate to get it reissued, the clerk told me it was fake. Isabella was his real wife. And Dante didn't even seem to think it was a big deal. "Dante says you're as pure as the moon, meant to shine where everyone can see you. I'm the blade he keeps close to his side. He wants us both. But, Marie, I'm the one who's actually his wife, aren't I?" I closed the message without responding to Isabella's taunt and replied to my friend's email instead. "Book me a flight to Paris for next week."

On our seventh wedding anniversary, I made a phone call. "Help me erase every record of who I am. I want to disappear so no one can ever find me." My friend on the other end of the line was stunned. "Vivian, are you sure? You nearly died at your wedding to the Don. And your parents, in that fire... "And all of Chicago knows how much the Don adores you. You've been married for seven years. You're really just going to walk away?" I clenched my fist and took a deep breath. "Yes." "Why?" I looked down. A small bottle of massage oil sat on the desk. For seven years, Vincenzo had Bulgarian white-rose oil flown in every day to soften the burn scars on my body. Every night, he massaged it into my skin himself. But a month ago, the oil that arrived had quietly changed. Now it smelled of daisies. It was another woman's scent. "Because something changed."

Shortly after we said "I do," the Family sent my husband, Dario, down to the Mexican border. He told me it was a meat grinder down there—cartel territory. where guys were zipped into body bags every day. He said he had to go—to expand the territory, for the glory of the Family. He claimed it was too dangerous and that his enemies would paint a target on my back, so he wouldn't take me with him. I believed him. I stayed behind in his old, rot-infested house in New Jersey, taking care of his bitter, spiteful parents. I spent my days and nights in the Family's moldy laundromat, washing bills stained with blood. He told me he sent every dime he made down there to the widow of a brother who took a bullet for him. He asked me to be understanding. I never complained. Day after day, I pressed expensive suits in that humid laundromat, waiting for him to come home. It wasn't until the eighth year that a mobster came back drunk. When I asked about Dario, he froze, then sneered at me through a haze of alcohol. "Dario? Are you kidding? He’s been a King in Manhattan for years. He’s the youngest Underboss of the Corleone family." I stood frozen, the iron in my hand burning a hole right through a shirt. "And he got married seven years ago. Biggest cathedral in New Jersey. Half the mob was there to toast the groom..." He pulled a crumpled photo from his leather jacket. Snuggled up against my husband was a woman in a high-end couture gown—the very same "poor, widowed sister-in-law" he had told me about. The next day, I contacted a fixer who specialized in fake IDs. On the application for a one-way ticket to Europe—a ticket to vanish off the face of the earth—I filled in the fake name I had prepared long ago. He trapped me for seven years with a sham marriage. From now on, I’d be done with this damn loyalty.

I am a Servant of Death, sent to the werewolf realm by the Dark Goddess of the Underworld. She gave me a single rule. Every year during the pack's Dark Moon Festival, I must receive a water lantern carrying a genuine blessing. The first year, my future Alpha mate, my brother, and my childhood best friend all wrote my name on their lanterns. The second year, my childhood friend Julian said my adopted sister, Chloe, was too weak, so he wanted to pray for her just this once. The third year, even my brother, Ryker, who swore to protect me forever, gave his lantern to Chloe. Only my fated mate, Declan, left one for me. This was the fourth year. I couldn't sleep at all, so I finally told them the truth. "Please, just leave one lantern with my name on it. That's all I ask." The three of them smiled and promised. "Don't worry, you'll get every single one." But on the night of the Dark Moon Festival, the pack's sacred lake was filled with water lanterns drifting toward the Underworld River. Not a single one bore my name. I searched everywhere with tear-filled eyes, only to find the three men surrounding Chloe in celebration. "Four lanterns! I'm the one with the most blessings from the Moon Goddess this year!" Pain stabbed through my chest, and my voice trembled. "You promised me." Ryker looked away. "Chloe is under a lot of pressure for her Werewolf Academy interview this year." Julian, my once-gentle childhood friend, shrugged. "You've had so many before anyway. Missing one year won't kill you." Declan, my Alpha mate, didn't even look up. "To fight over a few lanterns, you even made up this 'Servant of Death' nonsense. Aren't you embarrassed?" Chloe leaned on his shoulder, covering her mouth to hide a laugh. "Stop making a scene, Amara. If you're a Servant of Death, then I'm the true daughter of the Moon Goddess." But they had no idea that if I failed to receive a single lantern, the Dark Goddess would take me back to the Underworld.

There was a legend in Mist Pack that whoever possessed the Moonstone Pendant, which was passed down through generations of the pack, would spend a lifetime with their fated mate. When my mate, Lucas, fastened the Moonstone Pendant around my neck, he promised he would never betray me. Later, on the day he publicly ordered me to take it off so he could place it around Layla's neck himself, every werewolf in the pack waited to see how I would react. After all, everyone knew how deeply I loved Lucas. Every time he led a hunting party, I would wait for him atop the pack's highest watchtower. It didn't matter how fiercely the snowstorm raged or if I had to stand there until dawn. Every werewolf wondered how I would tear Layla apart. But when Layla appeared before me while elegantly linking her arm through Lucas's, I simply removed the pendant and fastened it around her neck myself. While holding Layla in his arms, Lucas looked at me with contempt. "Diana, if you can stay as obedient as you are today, I might just let you remain by my side." I touched my bare neck with a blank expression on my face. What Lucas didn't know was that just before the ceremony, all of my memories had returned. I was the daughter of the Alpha King. I was also his only heiress. In three days, my dad would arrive at Mist Pack with his elite guards to bring me home.

The heavy rain had brought all the buses home to a standstill. I called my Alpha fiancé, Caleb Hunter, fifteen times, but he didn't answer a single one. Then I saw his childhood friend, Elise, post a casual update on Instagram. 【Can someone come pick me up? I don't want to ruin my pretty dress in the rain.】 Caleb replied instantly. 【On my way.】 When he arrived, he had brought only one umbrella. He carefully shielded Elise as she climbed into the passenger seat, even holding the car door open to make sure she didn't bump into its edge. It was only when he turned around to fold the umbrella that he noticed me. Seeing me standing in the rain, soaked from head to toe, he frowned slightly. "Why are you still standing there? Get in." I climbed into the back seat, shivering like a drenched stray dog. But the only blanket in the car was already wrapped around Elise's shoulders. "Elise is delicate. Don't fight her for it." Elise peeked out from beneath the blanket and gave me an apologetic look. "Serena, my bad for taking your umbrella and blanket." As soon as she finished speaking, she sneezed. Caleb immediately tucked the blanket more securely around her, his voice full of concern. "My princess, could you please take better care of yourself?" "Serena is much healthier than you. A little rain won't hurt her." Elise pouted. "What's wrong with me?" Caleb sighed helplessly. "Who was it that caught a cold from getting caught in the rain last month and took half a month to recover? I had to run between the hospital and the office every single day." "Our marking ceremony is next month. I don't want my maid of honor looking half-dead on the big day." The heater was running at full blast, but I still felt unbearably cold. I didn't take the tissues he offered. I simply turned to look out the window. So, even as his fated mate, I was worth less than a friend who needed his constant care. Just moments ago, I had submitted an application to the Pack Elders to cancel our marking ceremony. Some roads, once the umbrella tilts away from you, are meant to be walked alone.

Damian Moretti cast the only vote against my promotion. I did not argue. I submitted my resignation, put my apartment on the market, and booked a one-way ticket out of New York. That night, he held me as if nothing had changed and offered me a new collection of handbags and a ski trip to Switzerland. He said one position did not matter because I already had him. For five years, Damian gave me wealth, protection, and a place beside him. He also decided where I worked, how far I could go, and which parts of my life were allowed to belong to me. By twenty-seven, I finally understood that a man could love me and still refuse to respect me. So I left before he could make another decision for me.

On the night before the wedding, New York was washed in cold rain. The rehearsal at St. Patrick's Cathedral had been set for seven o'clock. Under the vaulted ceiling, the white roses, black satin bows, and silver candelabras had all been arranged exactly the way I wanted. But by the time the rehearsal ended, he still hadn't shown up. At 11:17 that night, I finally got a message from him. [Sophia is pregnant. Although the baby isn’t mine, I can’t let her child be born carrying the name of an illegitimate child.] [I went to City Hall with her tonight and made it legal.] [The wedding is still happening tomorrow.] [That piece of paper is just a formality. The person standing at the altar will still be you.] [Don't let outsiders know too much. And don't ruin her reputation.] I stared at those lines for a long time. In the end, I replied with a single word. [Okay.] I don't want the wedding and you.

On what should have been our wedding day—for the eighth time—Luca Romano was called away yet again by his childhood sweetheart, Vivian Marino. I didn't argue or make a scene. I even smiled and wished them well. Everyone stared at me in shock as I calmly announced that the wedding was canceled. No one knew I had been reborn. In my previous life, I instinctively grabbed Luca and tried to stop him. After hesitating for a moment, he stayed and went through with the wedding. But Vivian was heartbroken. In a fit of despair, she agreed to a marriage alliance in Moscow, only to die in a car accident on the way there. From that day on, Luca hated me. I was still his Donna, seemingly blessed with the status, power, and man everyone envied. But in reality, he ignored my feelings and shut me out for twenty years. Until a rival Family laid an elaborate ambush for us. The moment the bomb went off, Luca pulled me tightly into his arms and shielded me with his body. Warm blood smeared across my cheek. He gave a faint laugh as he wiped away my tears. “Diana, I've repaid everything I owed you in this life.” “If there's another life, let Vivian and me be together.” I eventually died, consumed by grief. When I opened my eyes again, I had returned to the day Vivian agreed to the marriage alliance out of spite. This time, I would give him what he wanted. So why did he lose his mind with regret after I left?