Plot Twists Short Stories & Freak Face Slapping Novels

On my first day at the villa, the production team hands me a mission card. I read it. "Welcome to 'Where's the Straight Guy?', a reality show where 12 male contestants will be living together for one month. Only one of them is straight, while the others are gay. Every week, two people will be voted out. If the hidden straight guy makes it to the end, he'll win ten million dollars." I'm at a loss for words for a few seconds after I finish reading. Then, I look up at the director. "Your team does know what the words 'male contestant' mean, right?" The director looks me over—my short hair, black hoodie, chest hidden under a sports bra, and my five-foot-nine height—then checks the application form. He rattles off, "Alex Callahan, male. A 26-year-old freelancer." I'm rendered speechless again. Lovely. I see the problem now.

Someone suddenly tags me in a parents' group chat. "Hey Madison, I notice that the lunch boxes you've prepared for your daughter have a nice variety and rich in nutrients. Why don't you prepare the same thing for my son starting from tomorrow onward? "I'm not going to leech off you. In fact, I'll pay you ten dollars per day. When it stacks up, you'll earn quite a lot per month." As I stare at the messages on the screen, I find the situation rather ridiculous. My daughter, Sophie Reed, is extremely picky, not to mention she has food allergies. All of the ingredients of her meals are flown in from their places of origin. That means one meal's net price is more than 500 dollars. Yet now, someone intends to use ten dollars just for me to replicate the same meal for them? I reply right away in the group chat, "No way." Unexpectedly, the next day, Sophie is in tears when she returns from the kindergarten. She tells me that her lunch box has gotten snatched by a fellow classmate. On top of that, the teacher scolds her for being selfish as well. Fine. Since those shameless people intend to take advantage of me, don't blame me for being ruthless at all.

On our wedding night, my fiancé's best friend barged into our room for the third time, claiming a wedding prank. Having had enough, I warned Sam Whitman that if we didn't consummate our marriage that night, it was as good as over. He glanced at my half-unbuttoned dress and dismissed my words as a tantrum. Then Candace Lombard stormed in for the ninth time, ripped off the covers, and livestreamed our intimate moments. Sam merely pushed me aside and told me to be understanding. She climbed into our bed, smirking as she claimed the spot between us. "Wedding night prank? I get it," I grinned, leaning into her livestream camera. "Alright, everyone, fire up those donations! I'm about to let my husband take a mistress live. Let's make it a show!"

It was the accolades for the school's top ten students. I had just gone onto the stage when the screen turned black. Soon, dozens of snapshots appeared. Snapshots of chat history that sounded like a seedy deal was going on. The whole campus was in an uproar. I was the one who sent the texts, and the recipient was the valedictorian and the campus' most handsome guy, who was sitting in the first row. He was Blake Landton, a junior in finance. "I'm out of money. Gimme 5,000." "I'm sleeping at your place tonight. Don't lock the door." "If you won't give me money, I'll hound you every day until your reputation is ruined." The faculty belle charged up the stage with a mic in hand. She jabbed a finger at me and announced righteously, "See? Yvonne's not some innocent top student. She's just a gold digger who harasses and extorts Blake for money! Someone this shameless doesn't deserve this prize!" Everyone under the stage shot me disdainful looks, and the school's top brass looked displeased. The She's shared her food with me several times. belle looked at me smugly. "Blake's too kind to call the cops, but you must reflect on your gold-digging in front of us right now!" I stared at the out-of-context texts and held my forehead. Blake was my grandmother's son. She had him at an advanced age, which meant that he was my uncle. So, it also meant that I could stay the night at my uncle's place and shake some money out of him. That right there was a niece's privilege, and it didn't make me a gold digger.

As soon as I graduated from university, I suggested to my three roommates that we should rent a place together. The place I found was near our workplace, and it was cheap as well. It was much better than the house they used to rent in the suburbs. During the first three months of renting the place together, everything seemed fine. One day, I got off work early and heard them talking in the living room. "I did some research online. The rent of the houses in this area is at least 2 grand a month. But ours is only 800 dollars a month. How about we rent the master bedroom out for 800 dollars? That way, we won't have to pay any rent." "Alright, I'm in! Why does Jessica always get to sleep in the master bedroom? Even if she covered all the bills of this house, how much would that cost anyway?" "I've had it with her arrogant attitude. Thinking of her being homeless makes me want to laugh!" I laughed inwardly. 'You want to see me homeless? But I'm the landlord!'

My brother-in-law, Benjamin Fallow, got trapped in a deep pit, so I grabbed some ropes and risked my life to climb down and pull him out. Just after I tied the rope around his waist, the line went slack and we both came crashing down. When I looked up, I couldn't believe my eyes. My wife, Celeste Fallow, had cut the rope. Meanwhile, her childhood friend, Vincent Jameson, grinned and egged her on. "Do it." Black-clad bodyguards started shoveling sand into the hole, trying to bury us alive. I grabbed the walkie-talkie and screamed up at her, "Celeste, your brother and I are still down here!" She sneered back. "Three years ago, during the quake, you left Vincent's brother trapped under the rubble for five days while you saved others. Now it's time to pay what you owe." Vincent shed crocodile tears and crowed, "Celeste, thanks to you, my brother's revenge is finally complete." With the sand already up to our ankles, I shouted at the top of my lungs, "Celeste Fallow, your brother is really down here with me!"

Over the weekend, I went with my best friend to one of the premium auto shops owned by my company to get her car serviced. Just as we were about to leave, someone stopped me and ordered me to wipe down her car. I explained that I didn't work there, but she got angry anyway. She flipped a 10-cent coin at my face. "Consider it an honor that I'm letting you wash my car. A broke girl like you has probably never even seen a luxury car in her life! I'm trying to broaden your horizons, and you're not even grateful?" I shot back, "You're right. I've never met a car owner who can only spare 10 cents. Consider my horizons broadened." She exploded on the spot. "Do you even know who I am? The chairman of the Penzo Group is my mother-in-law! Scared now?" I paused for a beat, then calmly called Leo Penzo. "I hear your mother went behind my back and found you a new wife?"

After closing a 100-million-dollar business deal, I dip into an ordinary-looking cafe by the street on a whim. "I'll have a cup of cappuccino, please." The waitress, who's immaculately dressed, rolls her eyes at me before sashaying toward me. In a fake, nasally tone, she says, "I'm sorry, but there aren't any servers here. I'm the owner of this place." She eyes me up and down before continuing, "The prices here are relatively high for regular people. Are you sure you want to order coffee from me?" I pause in the act of massaging my temple. Finally, I scan around the cafe. "Your cafe is nothing to look at. Are you saying that you're not going to serve regular people, then?" The owner's friend jumps up to her feet instantly at my comment. Then, she starts berating me angrily. "Gianna has opened this cafe just to burn her free time and contribute to the community by giving them a taste of what it feels like to be rich! How dare you question her! "Do you even know who Gianna is? She's the successor of Luxara Corporation! Her boyfriend is Levi Anderson, the CEO of Miller Group! How dare you talk to her like this! You won't be able to make a living in Westford anymore!" I raise an eyebrow in response. The man who had kneeled before me with tears rolling down his cheeks while begging me to invest in his company… was the boss of Luxara Corporation, if I remembered correctly. Also, isn't Levi that live-in husband of mine?

"You are a sick, twisted monster." My mother glared at me. The doctor frowned and recommended genetic testing, suspecting a rare disease. My mother only sneered. "Rare disease? She's mentally warped. She fakes being sick to get attention!" The noon sun blazed overhead. I huddled under the shade canopy, trembling violently, clutching my collar shut. Then my mother shoved the canopy aside and overturned it. She tore off my long coat and pushed me down onto the scorching sand. The intense UV rays seared through my skin in an instant. Huge blisters swelled up along my arms, then burst one after another. My mother stood there, revulsion all over her face. "Iris, have you no shame left at all, faking an illness like this? "You love lying down so much, then lie there in the sun until you die!" Mom, this time I really am going to burn to death.

My husband's gym was celebrating its grand opening, so I grabbed my best friend and headed over under the guise of "checking the place out," armed with a $10 trial class we had snagged from a group deal. I never once mentioned that I was the owner's wife. The moment we wrapped up the workout, a female trainer slapped a price sheet into our hands and gave us a look that could cut glass. "Let me guess, you two came here to milk the freebies? Our private training sessions cost hundreds. They're not here for people like you to exploit." I let out a disbelieving laugh. "We bought a perfectly valid trial class. How does that make us freeloaders? Get your manager." She rolled her eyes, acting like she was the rules. "Call whoever you want! The owner is my boyfriend, and he can't stand penny-pinchers who show up trying to mooch off his gym." Then, right in front of us, she called him—voice raised, dramatic, dripping with fake indignation. "Babe, there are two cheapskates in your gym demanding the manager. Come deal with them for me!"

I was one month away from donating a kidney when strangers ambushed me on vacation and tried to drag me away to harvest it. I fought with everything I had, drawing a crowd of onlookers. "Miss Ashford, my mother needs a kidney transplant right now! "You took my $1.5 million and signed the agreement. Running off with the money is pretty low, don't you think?" As he spoke, his men tried to drag me into a black car. But the patient I had agreed to donate to was a man. I had signed an agreement, yes, but I had volunteered to give this kidney free of charge to the man who had saved my life. He was one of the most powerful men in New York. He would never stoop to tactics this dirty, and he had no need to. I tore free of their grip, pulled out my phone, and sent a text.

I post a WhatsApp Status with the caption, "Vacation's coming soon. Countdown starts now." I make sure to hide it from everyone at work. But the very next second, my boss, Thomas Burton, shoves a screenshot of my Status in my face. "So you've got plenty of free time, huh?" he bellows. "Go scrub the toilets! And you're getting a 30% pay cut!" I freeze, a chill running down my spine. I had blocked everyone at work from seeing my Status. So how the hell did Mr. Burton get a screenshot of it? When I return to my desk, my colleague, Caleb Knowles, comes over with a cup of coffee. "Don't worry about it, man," he says, comforting me. "I'll put in a good word for you." I thank him, but my eyes remain fixed on his phone. He's looking at the exact Status I posted earlier.

My best friend, Sydney Cox, is a troublemaker by nature. She thinks everyone around her owes her a good life. During summer break, she insisted on working in a factory. I was worried that she might get tricked, so I let her work in my family's factory out of the kindness of my own heart. In fact, I even gave her the easiest position with the lightest work. But I didn't expect her to think that her salary was lower than that of the veteran employees in the factory, leading to her setting fire to my neighborhood. The blaze was far too strong. Even though the firefighters came as soon as possible, my family and I still ended up dying in the fire. When I open my eyes again, I've returned to the day before Sydney's first day in a factory.

My supervisor, Jessica Lawson, spotted me coming and going from a multimillion-dollar oceanfront estate in the Hamptons. She decided I'd landed a wealthy man and was about to marry into money. That same night, she dropped the estate's location into the company group chat and invited everyone to a department party there. "Emma Bennett is hosting at her oceanfront estate this weekend. Bring your families. Everyone in the department is invited!" I patiently explained that I was just a part-time caretaker. "My job is literally walking the owner's dog." But the group chat went feral. Everyone ignored me and started placing orders. "Remember to open the Romanée-Conti early so it has time to breathe." "Pick me up in the Lamborghini that day. Ferraris just aren't my vibe." In under ten minutes, more than fifty people had signed up. Jessica tagged me directly. "The catering bill is going under your name. Make us proud, and don't embarrass the boss." I gave a humorless laugh at the endless sign-up list. Richard Hale, the estate's owner, was a boxer who stood nearly six foot six and was built like The Rock. The last thief who trespassed on his property is still in a coma.

“Hudson, lend me your car for today,” my driver asked over a call as I was busy working in the office. I sat stunned for a few seconds, then said, "Uncle Wagner, have I said yes before you started using my car? Also, the client I’m meeting today is very important. Go to the airport right now to pick him up.” “I have something urgent to attend to and need the car. I’ve just transferred 20 dollars to your client. Isn’t it the same getting him to take a taxi to the hotel?” When I read my driver’s text, anger rose in my chest. He had been working for me for three months. He was great at the start, and I respectfully addressed him as Uncle Wagner on account of him being similar in age as my dad. Did he really think that made him my uncle?

A parent in my son's preschool group chat tagged me out of nowhere. "Theo's dad, your son's lunches always look pretty nice. Starting tomorrow, pack one for my daughter too." "I'm not asking for free food. I'll give you ten dollars a day. That adds up. You can make a little extra on the side." I stared at the message, almost laughing from how absurd it was. My son has severe food sensitivities and a fragile stomach. Every ingredient in his meals is specially sourced, and a single lunch costs far more than five hundred dollars to prepare. And this man thought ten dollars could buy it? I replied with two words: "Not happening." The next day, my son came home crying. His lunch had been taken by another child, and the teacher had scolded him for being selfish. Fine. Since they wanted to push this far, I would show them exactly how far I could go.

It's my fifth year working at my relative's factory after giving up a high-paying job. I'm in the middle of helping the administrative staff clear out the printer when I accidentally catch a glimpse of the new clerk's payslip—Base Salary: 6,500 dollars. I freeze right on the spot. Five years ago, I've turned down two high-paying offers and joined Dad's younger brother, Liam Graham's, factory. Back then, he patted me on the shoulder and said, "We're family. I'll never shortchange you." I believe him. However, it's been five years, and my salary is still the same five grand I started with. Every single time I ask for a raise, Uncle Liam cries poverty, claiming that the factory isn't doing well. My girlfriend breaks up with me, saying my salary makes it impossible for her to see a future. I pull the weight of three people and pour my heart into training the newcomers, only to find out a new hire is making 1,500 dollars more than me. I jeer out of sheer exasperation and hand in my resignation to Uncle Liam. "Why?" he asks in shock. "The pay is terrible. There's no career progression. I can't do this anymore!"

After a century of wandering and sealed away in seclusion, I came home to the Ashveil Order. The one who received me was the youngest apprentice of the current generation. Taking me for a fresh recruit, he put me through a so-called pre-training inspection and helped himself to my travel pack. "You're carrying this many rare reagents and relics? For someone just starting out, that's nothing but a burden. I'll go to the trouble of taking some off your hands." "Why do you have so many elixirs and warding sigils? Did you rob someone? That's dangerous. I'll keep them safe for you, so no one comes hunting you for them." Then he laid a hand on my soul-bound blade and said, "This sword carries far too much killing edge. It clashes with your gift and will tear at your soul if you wield it. Lucky for you, it suits mine perfectly. I'll take care of it for you." I'd had enough. I backhanded him across the face. Did he have any idea that the Ashveil in Ashveil Order came from me—Rowan Ashveil?

An employee blasted me on TikTok, accusing me of not approving her wedding leave. Ainsley Castillo ranted, "Our marriage rates are low; birth rates are low. It's all because of toxic capitalists like you! You won't even approve my wedding leave. In your eyes, am I just a workhorse? Not even a person? I believed your nonsense about building an all-women company and a women-friendly workplace. Now your true bloodsucking capitalist face is showing!" The video blew up instantly, and countless young people empathized with her hardcore. They piled on online, cursing me, even doxxing me and sending razor blades. As the boss, I went live and confronted her head-on. "Sorry, but I can't approve her wedding leave. She can quit and go through labor arbitration, or sue me, but her wedding leave is out of the question." The live stream exploded in views that day. Among the supporters for her, some claimed to be lawyers, offering to sue me pro bono. But Ainsley looked troubled. "I just want my wedding leave. I never thought about quitting, let alone suing her."

My roommate, Andrew Hayes, has become obsessed with this viral tiramisu place off campus. Every night without fail, he brings a box of it back. He tries to sell us on it more than once. Supposedly the texture is silky and rich, and it melts in the mouth. I just can't be bothered to care. Everything changes on the day before the grad school recommendation list is posted. My pen is moving across the page of a paper when something at the edge of my vision suddenly catches my eye. A few lines of text have appeared. [Tonight, your roommate, Andrew, will ask you to help him buy tiramisu from that viral dessert shop. After he eats it, he'll rush out of the dorm. The next day, the police will take you away on charges of aggravated assault. [Online exposés will say you attacked your roommate out of jealousy, and the Internet will explode with outrage. Relentless cyberbullying will consume your life. Even your parents will get dragged down with you and lose their steady jobs. Ultimately, you'll be driven into a mental breakdown and die from depression.] I figure I've started hallucinating after finally cracking under the pressure, so I toss the workbook aside. That night, Andrew pushes open the dorm room door. His tone is easy and familiar as he asks, "Luke, grab me a tiramisu on your way back, okay?" My brain blanks for a second. This scene matches the prediction word for word. Andrew's smile is bright and sunny as he walks closer, but I only feel a chill down my spine because of one of the prediction's sentences. [After you're taken in for questioning, you'll miss your interview. The guaranteed grad school spot will fall right into Andrew's lap.] Is Andrew really going to ruin my entire life over a single guaranteed grad school slot? My grip tightens around my pen. I say, "Sorry, Andrew. It's not really convenient for me."