Melodramatic Short Stories & Hypocrisy Marriage Novels

I've just given Eugene Howard a lavish monetary wedding gift at his wedding when I see him passing me an instant cup noodle with a look of disdain. "You can just eat it at the entrance. You can just broaden your horizons from this spot. Why don't you take a look at yourself in the mirror, Nicholas? Do you really think you have the right to sit at the same table as the bigwigs in the wedding venue?" I suppress my rage for the sake of my fiance, Esther Howard. After all, Eugene is her younger brother. "I'm a wedding guest, so why can't I enter the venue?" Today is the day Esther will be announcing our upcoming marriage. If I get blocked outside the venue, who's going to be there with her when she makes the announcement? But Eugene scoffs at me in return. "You're worth nothing! Just because Esther flashes you a smile after seeing how good-looking you are doesn't mean you have the right to marry her! "Soon, my family will be receiving a ten-billion-dollar investment from the Warner family of Cantonia! That means we'll become the richest family in Geronton! "Plus, my future brother-in-law, Ray Atkinson, is an illegitimate son of the Warner family! A pretty boy escort like you can never compare to him!" Ray Atkinson? Wait, does Eugene seriously think that this nobody, whom I've never heard of in my life, is capable of calling the shots when it comes to my family's investment? I call Esther's number on the spot. "I heard that you want to call off our marriage and marry a bastard child hailing from the Warner family? Well then, I suppose I can retract my ten-billion-dollar wedding gift now."

The first time Silvia Robinson undergoes ECT, she is all alone. Even Gregory Fisher, her fiance who loves her so much, is nowhere to be seen. After the doctor gives her a muscle relaxant, she starts to get drowsy. She is in a daze when she recalls what happened that evening. She has waited three hours in line for a special cake, which she is planning to surprise Gregory with. However, she comes home to see Gregory kissing her younger sister, Ella Robinson. The two are deep in a kiss as they hold each other tightly in an inseparable embrace. The cake in Silvia's hands drops to the floor, smashed beyond recognition as Silvia delivers a slap across Gregory's face. Then, she finds herself being pushed down the stairs by Ella. As she rolls down the stairs, Silvia feels like she has already seen this coming. Anyone close to her will eventually be taken away by her sister.

My wife has a severe sex addiction. But in the seven years we've been married, she never lets me touch her. To suppress her urges, she spends all day submerged in ice-cold water, and her arms are covered in needle marks. Several times, I try to initiate intimacy out of concern for her, but her reaction is terrifying. She even threatens to kill herself. "I told you, I only want a Platonic relationship in this lifetime. Can you stop being so selfish? If you insist on making me do that, I'd rather die!" she exclaims. She maintains this unusual obsession for seven years. Even after ending up in the hospital multiple times from suppressing her desires, she refuses to cross that line. Then, on our wedding anniversary, a man comes in for a pre-check of his phalloplasty enlargement for the ninth time. After the anesthesia takes effect, he begins rambling incoherently. "Honey, I love you so much." Looking at the surgical scars, I shake my head, thinking this guy is really willing to go to extreme lengths for his wife. Then, I hear his final murmur. "Tasha, aren't I so much better compared to your useless husband?" My hand jerks, and I nearly drop the scalpel. It is because my wife's name is Tasha Snyder.

I was thrown out someone else's door twice before I even turned thirty. The first time was during my marriage with Donald Stern, a businessman. When it was time for my pregnancy checkup, I found out he was making love to a college girl right in front of the 100th floor's window. He called me a childish woman and threw me out the door. My father told me that all wealthy men cheated sooner or later. To prove people wrong, I married my childhood friend of ten years, Shawn Foster. He was accepting and caring of me. He did not mind that my ex-husband still sent apology gifts every year. He did not even mind that we had no children after three years of marriage. Every time we were going at it and reaching the climax, he would nibble on my ear and whisper, "We don't need children. All I need is you." On our anniversary, he brought home a woman I had never seen before and ordered the butler to throw my luggage out of the main bedroom. I clenched the pregnancy test I had not yet shown him. With a trembling voice, I asked, "What's the meaning of this?" A cigarette sat between his fingers. He had a look on his face that said he had just heard the biggest joke getting cracked. "Drop the act already, Yvonne. Haven't you learned anything from Donald dumping you?"

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.

The night we fought for the port, I took a ricin-laced bullet for my husband, Don Nick Valenti. As I lay dying, Dr. Bruno Esposito, the Valenti family's doctor, brought out the last dose of antiserum. He said a shot right away would save me. But Nick injected the lifesaving serum into Mia Conti instead. Mia suddenly developed stomach cramps, so Nick ordered Bruno to give her the antiserum slowly through an IV. He ignored the fact that I could barely breathe and my skin was turning blue. Isabella Valenti, Nick's mother and the former Donna, clutched her crucifix. “Your wife is the one who was poisoned, Nick! Why are you saving Mia?” Nick pressed a cotton ball to Mia's arm to stop the bleeding. “Mia's been sheltered her whole life. She's never had so much as a scratch. Julia's survived more gunshot wounds than I can count. She'll pull through this one too.” Isabella's face went cold and hard. “Julia has pulled you out of gunfire at least ten times. Her father and brother both died helping you seize power! And you won't even give her the antiserum that could save her life?” Nick's voice was cold. “Mother, I never forced them to do any of it! When Julia married me, she made her vows before God. She loves me. She chose all of this.” He came over to my bed and touched my face. “Julia, I know you're stronger than this. I'll have Bruno do everything he can. You're my wife and the Donna of the Valenti family.” He looked as tender as he had the night before, when he had held me in his arms. I looked at the empty syringe in his hand, and suddenly, none of it felt worth it anymore. “Nick Valenti! You had better pray I don't survive. “Because if I do, you'll answer to God for everything you've done!”

My mafia boyfriend, Silas Vale, didn’t recognize me when I dragged myself back to him after being tortured and shot by his rival gang. He was too busy holding Amy—his childhood sweetheart—in his arms. “Get this woman away from me,” he snapped at his guard. “Amy’s afraid of blood.” I’d lost so much blood I genuinely thought I might die that night. But luckily, a stranger passed by and rushed me to the hospital. When I finally recovered enough to walk, I went home—only to find Silas there, completely unconcerned about the fact that I had disappeared for almost a week. And Amy was there too. Her clothes were scattered across the floor. I didn’t confront Silas or say anything. I just pulled out my phone and called my brother. “You said you are moving to Italy? I’m coming with you.” If Silas couldn’t cherish me the way he was supposed to… then I’d vanish from his world for good this time.

I had been a housewife for ten years. Every day, I delivered lunch to my husband, Jackson Holloway, at his workplace. One day, it stormed heavily when I delivered his lunch. I said I would wait in the lobby and leave once the rain lightened up. Jackson frowned. “How will it look if you just sit there? It looks bad in front of my colleagues.” “But it’s raining too heavily.” “Leave quickly. If people see you looking like such a wretch, I’ll be so embarrassed.” He pushed me toward the exit. Right then, his colleague walked past and asked, “Hey, is this your wife?” Jackson’s expression changed. He coughed dryly and said, “No, this is my cousin. She’s just dropping by.” After that, he tossed me an umbrella and said quietly, “Leave now, and don’t make trouble for me.” I was soaked through in the downpour. After ten years of making and delivering lunch to him, Jackson told his colleagues that I was just his cousin. That afternoon, I took the two kids and moved into a rented apartment. That night, Jackson called to shout at me, but I only said, “Since I’m your cousin, it wouldn’t be right for me to stay with you, would it?”

My husband, Chandler Goodwin, claims that he doesn't understand what the phrases "silent treatment" or "giving the cold shoulder" mean. Yet, in the three years we have been married, he has never once spoken to me sweetly. The first time we have a falling out, I remain proud and dignified. We end up ignoring each other for seven days straight. The seventh time we have a cold standoff, I start to panic a little. However, despite trying all sorts of methods, he doesn't back down. The 11th time it happens, I have already learned to work through my emotions myself. Chandler doesn't even need to say anything before I take the initiative to apologize first. I simply think that he's just a naturally indifferent person, that nobody can warm his stone-cold heart. Then, on the third year of our marriage, I accidentally ruin his dress shirt while ironing it. Chandler doesn't say a word, but that very night, he packs his things and moves into a hotel. On the third day of being blocked, I head to his company with a handwritten apology. While passing by his office, I spot him leaning over to shoot his angry assistant a doting smile. "I'm sorry for raising my voice at you just now and upsetting you. It's been 57 minutes since you started ignoring me. Please stop giving me the cold shoulder, alright?" I freeze on the spot, the apology letter in my hand practically burning my fingers. As it turns out, it's not that he doesn't know what the silent treatment means—it's just that I've never been the person he wants to coax.

My husband had just ducked into the bathroom when his phone started ringing. I glanced at the screen and saw it was his brother calling. A frown creased my brow, but I answered anyway. "George, why haven't you sent the $10,000 to Mom and Dad this month?" Ross Serrano said. "Mom just asked me about it." I hung up without a word, but a rush of fury surged through me. My husband stood at the bathroom door, his hands still dripping wet. I forced a bitter smile. "You make $8,000 a month, right? $3,000 goes to the mortgage, $2,000 to me, and you pocket $1,000 for yourself. You told me you sent $2,000 to your parents, so how did that magically turn into $10,000?" His lips quivered, his face draining of color. My heart sank, and my hands trembled uncontrollably. We'd been married for five years, and I'd never once laid eyes on his bank card. What other secrets was he keeping from me?

I went to the bank to report a lost debit card. The teller casually asked, "Sir, there's a recurring patent royalty payment under your name. Would you like to link it to your new card?" Stunned, I froze. "What patent royalties?" The screen revealed that one of the accounts showed a quarterly deposit of $300 thousand in patent royalties. My mind went blank for a full three seconds. Then I remembered that, five years ago, my wife, Danica Pearson, had handed me a stack of documents, saying it was part of the company registration process. She said I "only understood technology, not business", effectively turning me into a figurehead consultant. I took a deep breath and told the teller, "Link it to the new card. From now on, transfer every payment directly to my personal account." That night, while Danica was overseas on a business trip, she booked the earliest flight home. At 2 a.m., she pounded on my bedroom door.

After his eighteenth failed attempt to divorce me, Jesse Pellam suddenly stopped bringing it up. Before that, every single attempt had ended in complete humiliation and chaos. I had harmed myself, threatened to jump from a building, and plastered the company lobby with intimate photos of him and his female assistant, Gianna Seyfert. At a press conference, I had even publicly stripped Gianna, leaving her with PTSD. Jesse had every reason to despise me; however, he never mentioned divorcing me again. He came home on time every day and gave me full access to his phone. He checked in with me every hour to update me on his whereabouts. Even during his business trips, we stayed connected through video calls around the clock. But I still could not shake the feeling that something was wrong. Every day, I pressed him for an answer, asking why he no longer wanted a divorce. “Haven’t I done enough?” he asked. Yes, he was better than ever, almost too good to be true. It was not until he caught me following him again that he finally admitted the truth. With exhaustion evident in his eyes, he said, “I received a phone call from my future self, ten years from now. He told me that if I divorced you, I would regret it.”

The doctor said my husband Ethan had dual personality. His primary personality was gentle and devoted. His alter — "Axel" — was reckless and wild. In five years of marriage, every time Axel surfaced, he'd fall for a different woman. Each time, I'd have to pull out our marriage certificate, walk him through our love story from the beginning, just to bring Ethan back. This time, Axel had set his sights on the new dance instructor. I dropped what I was doing at work, ready to go collect him from the psychiatrist's office — same as always. But outside the treatment room, I heard him on the phone with one of his buddies, laughing: "What can I say — I'm a hell of an actor. Five years and she still hasn't caught on." "Besides, why settle for the wife at home when there's so much more fun out there?" The panic I'd been feeling went very, very still. I pulled up my lawyer's number and texted him: Get the divorce papers ready.

I tried to die a hundred times to make him notice me. For two years, I was Shawn Scott’s wife in name only—an unwanted bride bound by a scandal, left to live in the shadow of another woman. My parents only saw my faults. My husband only saw my mistakes. As for me? I saw no way out. Every time I tried to end it, I’d wake up again, bruised and humiliated. I was greeted not with concern, but accusations such as "Why are you so selfish, Zoe Jennings?" or "Why can’t you be more like your sister Yvonne?" It wasn’t until my hundredth suicide attempt that I finally understood: I was the only one fighting for a love that never existed. So, I stopped. I walked away. I disappeared. I gave them what they wanted—my absence. However, when I left, the man who never looked at me twice started chasing the ghost of the woman he thought he knew. By the time he realized what he truly lost, I was already learning how to live again.