Plot Twists Short Stories & Hypocrisy Karma Novels

On the night of the Halloween dance, Scarlett Adams, captain of the cheer squad, accused me of harassing Theodore Russo, the hottest guy on campus. She tore into me in front of everyone and called me a shameless tramp. She claimed that I, an Omega of the lowest rank, had thrown myself at Theodore. Theodore was an exceptional young werewolf, and plenty of girls on campus had a crush on him. But the giant screen in front of us displayed our messages, which looked downright filthy. "Babe, if you use my underwear to mop the floor one more time, I'll rip your throat out!" "Sweetie, my credit card's maxed out, so send me some money. If you refuse, I'm telling your dad in ten minutes, and he'll teach you a lesson!" "I'm staying over tonight. Don't forget to give me your key." Scarlett stormed up to me, teeth clenched, and screamed in my face, "Everyone, don't let this woman fool you. She's been harassing Theodore nonstop for money, driving the poor guy crazy! "Luckily, I caught her and exposed her for what she really is. She's not some sweet, helpless Omega. She's a money-crazed gold digger!" The other werewolves turned to stare at me, contempt written all over their faces. Down in the crowd, Gerald Harlow, the dean, looked furious. An Omega preying on classmates for money would be a scandal anywhere, and it would drag the whole school through the mud. I took in the looks on everyone's faces, then laughed and shook my head. Come on! Theodore is my fraternal twin brother. Borrowing a little money from him and mooching free meals at his place are perfectly normal. Since when is that something to get attacked for?

I've been caught in a relationship with a divorced man for eight years. We've broken up and reconciled too many times to count. In the end, I tallied ninety-four breakups and five divorces between us. One more would make it an even hundred, but I'm too exhausted to continue this cycle. The first breakup happened when I was giving him my virginity. Halfway through, his ex-wife called asking him to pick up some bread, and he simply left. The fifth breakup occurred when he abandoned me, newly pregnant, on the highway to comfort his ex-wife who was having complications with her own pregnancy. I ended up in a car accident and miscarried. He arrived at the hospital with his clothes disheveled. Despite all the pain he caused me, I could never bring myself to truly leave him. Our most recent divorce happened for an equally absurd reason. His ex-wife and their child were participating in a family reality TV show that required them to appear as a complete family unit. To protect his ex-wife's public image, he divorced me yet again. When filming wrapped, he called to discuss remarrying. This time I refused, because I'm going to marry someone else.

I was head over heels for Jonas Hayes, the cold and aloof scholarship student who saw me as nothing more than a walking wallet. He took my credit card but refused to let me get close. "Get lost. The sight of you and your filthy money makes me sick." Using my wealth, he showered Clara Dove, the stunning campus bella from a humble background, with luxury gifts and even threw her a lavish birthday party at the city’s most exclusive hotel. Everyone envied him, believing he was a self-made billionaire. But I didn’t care. I stayed hopelessly in love. After graduation, I poured my entire inheritance into building a life with him, convinced I could win his heart. During our honeymoon, he watched as I drowned, his voice ice-cold as he said, "Every time I think of how you used your money to control me, I wish you’d die sooner." When I woke up again, I was back in my college classroom—the day Jonas asked me to top up his card. This time, I wasn’t the desperate fool he remembered. I slapped him across the face with the card and sneered, "Even beggars know how to kneel and ask. What are you, a weed?"

Years after graduation, someone suddenly tags me in the class group chat. "Mr. Warren is gravely ill, Mira. Aren't you going to do anything? You really are heartless!" I only realize what's going on when I click on the fundraising link in the chat. Our high school homeroom teacher, Joseph Warren, has late-stage cancer. Thus, Lyra Fairfield, the class belle, is leading a fundraiser and patient-donor matching process. "I'll donate ten thousand dollars. My husband is the director of Waverly General Hospital, and I've already asked him to arrange a VIP ward for Mr. Warren." Right after I send that message, the group pounces on me. "Mira, you contracted an STD back then and tried to pin it on Lyra. She didn't even hold it against you, and now you're trying to steal her thunder? You're unbelievable!" "I can't believe you're still lying through your teeth during such a serious situation. You never change, do you?" Lyra immediately defuses the tension. "Mira, I don't blame you for what happened in the past, but you really shouldn't impersonate the director's wife. I've already arranged the ward and surgery, and I'm donating another 100 thousand dollars to Mr. Warren!" I'm this close to laughing out of sheer anger. She's the one who scratched her name off the diagnosis report and framed me for having an STD all those years ago. I never even confronted her about it, and now she's playing the victim? Lyra soon posts a photo in the group chat, showing off her husband's car. Yet, when I see the man in the passenger seat, I guffaw. Isn't that my husband's driver? When did he start running a hospital?

My Alpha, Damon, and I grew up together. Our fated mate bond ignited the second we stepped onto the grounds of the Wolf Elite Academy. He looked at me, his eyes soft, and told me he had a surprise for me at the Academy’s New Moon Festival. He said I had to come on stage. My heart raced as I walked toward him. He wrapped his arms around me from behind, holding me tight. He told me to close my eyes and wait. The next second, the lights flared to life. I saw another Alpha’s daughter standing before me, a pair of silver scissors in her hand. Snip. My long hair had always been my pride. Now, it lay in ruined clumps on the ground. The hall erupted in the excited howls of the pack. His laugh was the loudest. The most cutting. The next day, he found out I was dropping out of the Academy. A wave of his uncontrolled Alpha power slammed into me. "You're leaving? Over a game?" I turned away calmly. "Yes."

I came home late one night to find another woman in the apartment I shared with my boyfriend, Alistair Westwood. She was wearing my silk slip, which barely covered her thighs. Barefoot, she pressed herself against him. His hand was wrapped around her bare waist. "Nika isn't feeling well, so I told her she could stay here for now." Nika peeked out from behind him. "I'm sorry. I didn't know this was your place." "Where is she going to sleep?" I demanded. "And why is she wearing my clothes?" Alistair frowned. "Nika is sick. Obviously, she'll sleep with me so I can look after her. Can't you just let this go for once?" "It's fine. I can sleep on the couch," Nika offered. Alistair cut her off at once. "No. You're too sick to sleep there." I stared at the two of them for a moment. Then I grabbed a pillow and a blanket. "I'll take the couch." As soon as the bedroom door closed, I opened my laptop and reached for an invitation on the table. Half an hour later, I typed my answer. By the next day, Alistair's company had lost one of its biggest partnerships.

Three years after I had made my girlfriend, Sophia Lambert, sleep with her superior, she finally went from being his lover to becoming his wife. Meanwhile, I barely made it out alive after years of being undercover in a drug trafficking ring. My body was broken beyond repair, and I had returned home only to wait for death. Sophia arrived with one of her arms wrapped around her husband’s during a charity visit for the poor. When she saw me standing in line for relief aid, she let out a mocking laugh. “Benjamin, how did you end up like this?” I hunched my shoulders. I hid the First-Class Merit Medal for Narcotics Enforcement I had received not long ago. After a long silence, I asked, “Are you happy now?” She twirled the diamond ring on her finger in a lackadaisical manner. “The wedding’s next week. What do you think? “If you want, you can even become a groomsman. Orlando believes in diversity. His groomsmen comprises of different kinds of guys. He’s just missing someone disabled.” I shook my head and turned down her offer. “No, I won’t be able to make it.” The poison in my body had already spread to my heart. I only had a few days left.

The class heartthrob, Kevin Mosley, who scores only 1000 in the SATs, claims that he has successfully enrolled at Starvard University and is just waiting for the semester to begin. He even guarantees that he can get the entire class admitted as well. The whole class starts cheering and praising him for being their hero. All of them intend to let him submit their college applications for them. But something about his story doesn't sound right to me, so I ask a few more questions. That's when I discover that his so-called exclusive admission internal channel is CloudAI, which is just an AI chatbot! It confidently tells him that it has already reserved a special admission slot for him and guarantees that he can report to Starvard University when the semester starts. Trying to help, I point out that the AI is just generating conversational responses and telling him what he wants to hear. My childhood friend, Janice Hudson, is the first to jump to his defense. "Daryl Greer, how can you doubt Kevin? He's trying to help the whole class. What's it to you?" My friend, Aaron Yates, chimes in as well. "Daryl, AI is cutting-edge technology. It's the future. You can't dismiss it just because you don't understand it." Their words rile everyone up. As the argument escalates, I am shoved down a flight of stairs. I hit my head and die on the spot. When I open my eyes again, I find myself back at the moment when Kevin proudly announces that he's been admitted to Starvard. You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it drink. This time, I'll simply respect their choices and wish them the best.

In Sicily, forgetting a face can get you killed. I was born face-blind. Unless I recognized someone's tattoo or voice, I had no idea who I was looking at. Sometimes, I couldn't even recognize my own parents. But my best friend, Sofia Ricci, was convinced I just wasn't trying hard enough. She decided it was time to cure me of all that "drama." She even got my brother, Don Victor Lombardi, and my fiancé, Luca Marchetti, to play along. The three of them called it "extreme survival training." At the underground casino, they once abandoned me in a private room packed with strangers. At family banquets, they'd ditch the suits I knew them by and vanish into the crowd. I would be left wandering from person to person, asking strangers for help because I couldn't tell who was who. To them, it was survival training. Today, we were in an Old Town square crawling with lowlifes, negotiating a deal. I only left for a moment to wash my hands. When I returned, the three of them had vanished. They were supposed to be waiting outside, but the bodyguards were nowhere to be seen either. Meanwhile, our enemies were closing in from the street. I instinctively reached for my radio. Then it hit me. Sofia had taken my encrypted radio earlier and offered to "hold on to it" for me. I swallowed my panic and backed into a nearby bar. As soon as I reached the counter, the bartender handed me a note. I knew the handwriting. Sofia. "We've shown you twice what the enemies on this street look like. Pick them out and find your own way out. You've got this, sweetie! We'll have drinks waiting for you at the safe house." I looked out the window. A blur of unfamiliar faces was closing in. What a joke. They call this training? They're gambling with my life. But maybe being face-blind isn't such a problem after all. With a gun in my hand, I don't need to recognize anyone. Anyone who comes near me is the enemy.

The day the company was exposed for accounting fraud, my CEO husband did the unthinkable. To protect his favorite assistant, Ivy Kane, he called a press conference and publicly pinned all the blame on me, vowing to make sure I paid the price. Ivy put on a heartbroken expression and said, "Olivia, I warned you a long time ago not to misuse company funds, let alone falsify financial records. Why wouldn't you listen?" My coworkers stared at me in shock, expecting me to defend myself. Instead, I smiled, accepted every accusation, and voluntarily resigned. My husband thought I had finally learned my lesson. He lowered his voice and promised, "When this is all over, I'll make sure you get your job back. And when the time comes, I'll make our relationship public. Consider it my way of making it up to you.” What he didn't know was that, to protect the company's interests, the chairman instructed me on opening day to install monitoring software on every computer in the office. The moment those system logs were retrieved, their lies would fall apart on their own. And when that happened, what awaited them wouldn't just be massive financial penalties, it would be prison.

My car broke down on the road, so I took off my jacket, popped the hood, and started checking the problem right there at the curb. A brand new convertible swung in and stopped in front of me, close enough to make a point. My ex-wife Sarah got out on the arm of a man in a tailored suit, one hand clamped over her nose in disgust. "Leo, all these years since the divorce and you're still a bottom-rung mechanic who reeks of motor oil." I wiped the grease off my hands. I could not be bothered to explain that this limited-edition supercar was one I had picked up brand new. When I stayed quiet, Sarah shoved a screenshot of her trading profits in my face. "See that? David got me into a tech stock. One day of gains beats everything you'll make fixing cars in a lifetime!" David Ashford looked down at me, his voice thick with contempt. "Sarah, what's the point of talking investing with a mechanic? He can't even read a price chart. "A mystery fund is buying this stock in batches. I'm already in at four-to-one leverage. I'm about to be set for life." Sarah laughed and threw a few bills onto my open hood. "Here's a tip. Buy yourself a decent coffee and stop cluttering up the view." I looked at the scattered bills, then at the ticker symbol on the screenshot. I knew that one well, and I smiled. That tech company's rally was nothing but a bull trap staged by a fund looking for cover while it unloaded its shares. Anyone still in it would be wiped out. I took out my phone and calmly sent a message to my trader. "We're up thirty percent. Sell it all."

Three months had passed since my husband vanished while hiking in the fjords. Then I spotted him in a VIP room at a Manhattan strip club, one arm wrapped around my adopted sister's waist, looking like he didn't have a care in the world. "Thank God you came up with this idea. I'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be free of that control freak." His friends raised their glasses and cheered, asking how much longer he planned to play dead. Alex swirled his drink as he considered the question. "Next week. Once the guilt and panic drive her crazy, I'll show up and give her a nice surprise." I stood in the shadows, watching him enjoy his newfound freedom. Then I called a friend who worked at the courthouse.

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."

I took a blow to the head to protect my best friend Samantha Lane from the most popular girl in school. It almost got me expelled. Then Samantha turned around and sold me out completely, her voice dripping with sweetness as she sucked up to the girl who'd bullied her. "Cassandra Jones is a raging psycho. If she hadn't stuck her nose where it didn't belong, I would've been in your group ages ago." The next day, Samantha cried on camera during an interview. She twisted the story of me taking a beating for her into some sick power trip I'd been running on her. By the time it spread, the whole school had turned against me, and I was getting torn apart online. I stared at the screen, watching the two of them play best friends like nothing had happened. Then I calmly picked up my phone and called my older brother, the richest man in Hartwell City's elite social circle. "Hey, I'm done playing broke."

"How can there be a perfect choice in this world—one that betrays neither the Sandharan Order nor the one you love?" It's a romantic line, but it has nothing to do with Rosalie Stone. Her fiance, Bradley Wakefield, is a man revered like Sandhara himself, but it's not because of her that he leaves the Sandharan Order. She thinks he will never fall in love. But later, she learns that it's just her that he won't fall for. And so, she gives up on him. She gives herself seven days to forget about Bradley.

Three years ago, on a full moon night, my mother jolted awake at midnight, claiming the Moon Goddess had delivered a prophecy: On the day of my twentieth birthday, the feral gene inside me would spiral out of control. I would shift into a wolf and kill my sister. At first, my parents were skeptical. But after I awakened my wolf at eighteen, my sister would seize up whenever she was near me, clutching her chest and collapsing to the ground in violent fits of gasping. To protect her and force my wolf into dormancy, my parents resorted to every harsh measure they could devise. They poured suppression potions down my throat that ate away at my organs, and clamped a restraining collar around my neck so my sister could keep me on a leash. Eventually, my wolf vanished completely. And somehow, I survived to my twentieth birthday. A flash of joy hit me, and I reached for the cake on the table. My father backhanded me so hard I went flying. "That feral gene in your blood really is impossible to tame! "If anyone eats first, it's your sister. What makes you think you can touch it?" Clara stepped forward as if to soothe things over, but my mother pulled her behind her back, eyes full of wariness as she edged away from me. Then my father dragged me up to the attic and bolted the door shut. Through the door, they said, "Stay put and get through tonight. The prophecy will be broken. "After this, we'll give you half the love we've shown your sister." I sank my teeth into my lip, not daring to make a sound. Years of the suppression potion had already hollowed out my body. My consciousness was fading, piece by piece. Mom, Dad, in that dream the Moon Goddess sent you, did she happen to mention this part? That the one dying today might be me?

I had just finished my check-up and stepped out through the glass doors of the hospital's outpatient building when a sudden, brutal force yanked my arm. I stumbled and crashed onto the cold tiled floor. "You bitch! Have you no shame seducing men right inside a hospital?! I'll beat you to death today!" A woman in a mink coat grabbed my collar and dragged me aside, her nails scraping across my neck and leaving a burning sting. "Since you like acting like a slut so much, why don't we let everyone get a good look at you?" I struggled desperately, raising my voice in protest. "You've got the wrong person. I'm not a mistress!" The woman shoved her phone right in front of my face. "How dare you deny it! Isn't this a photo of you with my husband?" I fell silent as I looked at the man in the picture, for he was the leukemia patient I had just been matched with—the very one I was preparing to donate bone marrow to.

The year I turned fourteen, Grandma and I were crammed into a beat-up trailer on the edge of a desert town. She couldn't afford paint, so she mixed colors from the cheapest red clay pigment at the general store. When a frame broke, she hammered it back together herself. When canvas tore, she patched the back with old cloth and sealed it with a paste she boiled from leftover church wax and cheap resin. Grandma never went to school. She painted out of pure love, and she kept at it for thirty years. Then one summer, a gallery owner named Evelyn Hart crawled into Grandma's leaky shed and examined every painting, flipping each one over to study both sides. The next day, every last painting was gone. Finished oils, sketches, pigment records, old photographs, frames. Everything cleared out overnight. Three months later, Grandma walked into Evelyn's gallery and saw her own painting, Madonna of the Red Rock, hanging in the brightest spot. But the brass nameplate beside it bore Evelyn's name. She lunged for the painting. The security guards pried her fingers loose and dragged her out the door. That night, a blizzard sealed off the roads. She pounded on the glass, but no one came. The next morning, when I found her outside the gallery, her body was already frozen solid. After the funeral, I went to clean out what was left of the burned shed. Inside the lining of an old brush pouch, I found a small scrap of painted canvas. It was a piece Grandma had trimmed off while repairing Madonna of the Red Rock. The thief had missed it. I tucked it away and kept it. For twenty years. Twenty years later, I was the compliance director at an international art marketplace. A young woman submitted an auction application for a series of paintings. The Desert Madonna Series was about to be sold to collectors and private museums around the world. The collection was valued at more than $150 million. I opened the file. In the artist field, I stared at the name for a long time. "Application denied."

On my third day at the company, my supervisor suddenly patted me on the head. “Anna! I saw you won the lottery! I’m giving you a chance to make a good impression. The day after tomorrow, I’ll get everyone together for a private party aboard the luxury yacht Black Pearl. It’ll be your treat, of course!” Before I could even decline, Sarah was already rattling on. "There are over a dozen people in our department. We'll need at least ten bottles of XO, Australian and Boston lobster for everyone to pick from, and we all need terrace suites." “You can afford a little thing like that, can’t you, Miss Moneybags?” I frantically tried to explain that the ticket was one I'd bought for someone else. I didn't have any money at all. But Sarah just shot me a look of pure contempt and walked away. That night, the work group chat exploded. She announced to the entire group, "To celebrate Anna winning the lottery, we're having a blowout bash on the Black Pearl the night after tomorrow! Everyone sign up!" Over fifty people jumped on the list within seconds. Even the cleaning lady signed up with her three grandchildren in tow. "Oh my God, our parties are usually just drinking beer in someone's apartment. We've never been on a luxury yacht! Thank you, Sarah!" Sarah's private message came through. "Anna, I noticed the account you used to claim the lottery ends in 0663. The club booking is already confirmed. We're counting on you, Miss Moneybaaags~" I stared at the booking screenshot she sent, breaking into a cold sweat. That lottery ticket was one I'd claimed on behalf of the company's CEO!

When my best friend, Sienna Cross, found out I was married to a millionaire genius designer, she decided my life should belong to her. She wanted my face, my name, and my spot beside him. I was shaking when she strapped me to the operating table. Sienna smiled, thinking I was terrified. In truth, I was just trying to hold back my laughter. After all, she wasn't the only one anticipating this day. I was even more excited for it than she was.