Hypocrisy Short Stories & Novels

A car accident leaves me unconscious for a full three years. When I wake up, my family bursts into tears of joy. They care for me with the utmost attention. But from their behavior, I sense something is wrong. There are women's clothes in the house that don't fit me. My mother's shopping cart is filled with mysterious baby items. My father's friends send congratulatory messages about a new child, and my husband is always working overtime. When my husband once again leaves me alone under the pretext that there is something urgent at the company, I secretly follow him. Inside a warmly decorated house, my parents and husband sit around a table. A woman who looks almost exactly like me is holding a baby just a few months old, gently coaxing the child to call my husband "Daddy".

I spent seven years drafting divorce papers for other people. I never expected that the ninety-ninth agreement would be my own. That night, my husband, Carter, lost a tabletop game during a live stream with his childhood sweetheart, Chloe. The penalty was to give up the thing he treasured most. Chloe smiled at the camera, tapping his wedding ring. "Lend me your marriage for a day." The comment section blew up. Carter looked at me like he was giving orders to an assistant. "Evelyn, you know the drill. "Sign a temporary divorce agreement. I’ll cancel it with you tomorrow morning." Chloe lowered her eyes, her voice trembling. "Forget it. She won't let you. You always choose her over me anyway." I reached into my bag and touched the positive IVF result. Seven years of hormone shots. Four miscarriages. I didn't even have the energy to tell him anymore. As the camera zoomed in on my face, I pushed the papers back across the table. "Carter, this time, I’m putting down a bet, too. “I bet the thing you lose tonight isn't just me.”

It's been three years since my marriage to Luca Romano, the Don of the Romano family. We still spend the first night of every year tangled in each other's arms, making love until dawn. But just as the night reaches its climax, an unfamiliar ringtone breaks the silence. Luca pulls away. The warmth beside me slowly fades as I watch him slip into his study. His voice is soft and coaxing as he speaks to the woman on the other end. "Babe, put on that dress. I can't wait to tear it off you." Familiar hunger gleams in his eyes, yet when he looks at me, he merely says apologetically, "Tesoro, something serious came up with the family. I need to take care of it." He leans down to kiss my forehead, but I turn away before he can. Watching him hurry off to another woman, I can no longer hold back my tears. Tonight is the last chance I'm giving him to make things right. But once again, he breaks the promise we made for the sake of another woman. I pick up my phone and call Vesper Group, a company that specializes in faking people's deaths. My birthday celebration is just three days away. In front of everyone, I'll meet my end in a blaze of flames, never looking back.

My husband secretly swapped the transplant recipient, giving the kidney that was meant for our daughter to the daughter of the woman he had always loved. Not long after, our daughter's condition worsened. The doctors tried to save her, but it was no use. She didn't make it. At the same time, the other girl's surgery was a success. My husband was so overjoyed that he handed out little gifts to the entire hospital in celebration. Rage and grief overwhelmed me, and I collapsed. When I came to, the doctors told me I had cancer. Late-stage. My time was running out. With nothing left to hold on to, I walked out of the hospital, clutching the urn that held my daughter's ashes. In the cold, empty house, I sat alone and drafted the divorce papers.

My best friend, Mia Sullivan, called me in tears. She told me that a creep had been stalking her and that she was too scared to stay in her apartment alone. In my past life, I felt sorry for her, so I agreed to let her stay at my house. Two weeks later, Mia uploaded a video online in which she accused my dad of having assaulted her. She cried her eyes out. The video instantly sparked outrage online. My dad’s reputation was ruined. He fell into depression and eventually jumped to his death. Even then, Mia kept demanding compensation from my family. She took everything we had until we went bankrupt. I had nothing left to live for, but she only looked at me with a mocking smile. “Charlotte, thank you for giving me the chance to gain both fame and fortune.” I returned to the past on the day Mia called me in tears. “Charlotte, please help me. There’s a man who keeps following me. My apartment isn’t safe anymore. I’m scared…” I forced down the joy that surged through me. “Sure. Come stay at my house.”

Mom and Dad have been divorced for ten years. One day, I come across a discussion thread. "Are all children of divorce having it hard?" I join the discussion. "Not always. Personally, I'm living pretty decently. After my parents' divorce, my sister and I were separated—one of us went to live with our paternal grandparents, and the other with our maternal grandparents. "For the last ten years, my parents have visited me once a year. Although they usually only stay for a few days, I can tell that they still love me." Within a minute, someone replies to my comment. "Girl, are you sure? My parents are divorced as well, but they can't bear to leave me at all. I've been with them since I was a kid. On weekdays, I stay with my mom. On the weekend, I go to my dad's. "Honestly, it's like they never divorced at all. LOL." I tap into her profile. The pinned post is a photo of Mom, Dad, and my sister, Hazel Foster. They hug her from either side. The caption reads, "A divorce can end a marriage, but it can't erase the bond we share. I'm glad I'll always be their precious baby." Meanwhile, this morning, Mom replies to me, "Your dad and I have been divorced for so long. Just get him to drop you off at college. It's awkward for me to be there." The next second, I receive Dad's reply. "Ask your mom. I'm a man. What do I know about things like orientation and college? I'll visit you someday when I'm free." I go back to the discussion thread and write back to Hazel. "You're right. Whether or not a child of divorce gets to live a normal life depends entirely on whether the parents still want their child in their lives." After closing the page, I open my email and sign up for an international volunteer program. My destination is a field hospital in a war zone five thousand miles away, where I will spend the next two years. There's no need for me to wait until Mom and Dad have time for me again. I'm never coming back here.

Mom's hearing comes and goes. She never hears me when I tell her I want to buy a new pair of shoes because my old pair has a hole. But when my sister, Stella Woodson, mentions that she wants to eat a birthday cake, she immediately gives me some money and tells me to run through the rain to buy one. Only two shrimps are left on the table. I carefully ask if I can have one. The next second, Mom peels both shrimps and puts them on Stella's plate. She then turns to me with a confused expression, asking, "Did you say something, Luna? I didn't hear you." I hang my head in embarrassment and push the mashed potatoes around on my plate, mumbling that I didn't say anything. Later, Mom makes plans to take Stella to Destinyland to enjoy the night scenery. My body aches terribly. I carefully tug on Mom's sleeve and say, "I'm in a lot of pain, Mom." Mom gives me her usual response. "What did you say, Luna? I didn't hear you." She impatiently swats my hand away before I can get another word in, saying, "Stella and I are leaving now to handle some urgent business. Behave yourself while you're home alone."

Today was my younger son, Luke's, eighteenth birthday. My ex-husband, Major General Arthur Ashford, let himself into my house without knocking. He headed straight for the liquor cabinet like he still owned the place. He poured himself a glass of whiskey and looked at me with open contempt. "Allison, how have you enjoyed the last eight years? Stuck here in Briarwood because of a family court order. "All because I broke a couple of glasses and put my hands on you a few times, you just had to file for divorce." "And what did that get you? The judge stopped you from taking the kids out of the city and made sure I got regular visitation." He swirled the whiskey in his glass, spilling a little onto the carpet. It was the same cocky look he wore the night he came home drunk and beat me with his belt. "You really thought you could get away from me? As long as I say no, you'll spend the rest of your life under my control. "After Luke cuts his cake, I am filing for emergency guardianship. You will never take my son away from me." I looked at his smug face, gripping the edge of my sleeve, and said nothing. Then he lifted his glass, ready to start barking orders at everyone. My daughter, Kate, rose from her chair and set a thick stack of papers onto the table in front of him. "General Ashford, you should read these. "As of midnight, Luke is legally an adult. Every travel restriction the family court placed on Mom is gone. "And this is the filing receipt for the name change petition for the two of us, which I filed with the Supreme Court." Arthur gave the papers a dismissive glance. Then his smile disappeared. Printed across the top in bold letters were the words: Petitions of Kate Ashford and Luke Ashford to Change Their Surname to Pierce.

Not long after getting married to my husband, he says he wants to teach me how to scuba dive. My leg cramps when I'm practicing alone in the deep sea. However, my husband, a swimming instructor, chooses to save his unattainable love—she's jumped into the sea to commit suicide. I don't ask him for help. Instead, I allow myself to slowly sink. In my past life, I stopped my husband from leaving. He saved me with gnashed teeth and allowed his first love, Millie Quirke, to drown. By the time he went to save her, she'd already disappeared in the water. He comforted me and told me it was okay, that he was glad he'd saved me. However, one night, he brought me back to the seaside. Just as I let my guard down, he grabbed my neck and plunged my face into the water. Then, he dragged me out before I could suffocate. "You were just cramping—it would've passed! But Millie got dragged away by the current because of you! You can remain in the ocean with her!" When I open my eyes again, I'm back to the day I was scuba diving.

Five years after moving abroad, I return to the country for the first time at the invitation of a business partner. My partner sends a reliable assistant to meet me at the company entrance. I never expect to see my ex, Roy Henderson, who disappeared without a trace five years ago. Back then, a car accident lands me in the hospital. I need his signature, but he is nowhere to be found. Later, I find out he has gone to celebrate his lover's birthday. Everyone assumes I will forgive him like I always do. After all, I have forgiven him countless times before. As soon as I get out of the hospital, I leave the country and disappear from his life completely. Roy frowns as I walk into the company. "You actually tracked me down?" He lets out a sigh. "Forget it. Since you've found me anyway, Ava just had a baby and is still in postpartum recovery. Go take care of her."

To get me to agree to a divorce, my husband lied and told me he had stomach cancer. I glanced at the medical report in my bag and said nothing. Instead, I broke down right then and there, sobbing like my heart was being ripped apart, absolutely refusing to divorce him. Because what he didn't know… was that he actually had cancer. Just not stomach cancer—liver cancer. And with his funeral coming up soon, if we divorced now, who would inherit all his assets? No way. I couldn't let this divorce happen!

Three years ago I erased my identity without telling anyone and left Harbor City. I ran into Stella Shaw at St. Auden's. She'd brought her foster brother to the evening service. I was there to light a candle for my mother. Stepping over the threshold, I tripped. She caught me fast, and there was irritation in her voice. "Do you not watch where you're walking?" She didn't recognize me. Leo, at her side, smiled. "Sorry about that. My sister just worries about me. She thought you might knock into me. "There's a service this evening. Are you here for it too?" I paused, and found myself glancing at Stella, whose lips were pressed into a line. "It's the anniversary of my mother's death. I came to light a candle for her. "There's an old injury in my leg. I lost my footing for a second. Sorry." Leo looked at my bad leg and shook his head, sorry for me. "Poor guy." My chest seized. I pulled the mask tighter over my face without thinking and walked away fast. Three years ago, at a banquet, I was drugged and lost consciousness, and woke up lying next to a homeless man. Overnight my photos were on every screen in the country, and I was the degenerate the whole city lined up to condemn. And the drink that put me under, Stella had handed me herself.

I've painstakingly prepared a nice feast for my son's fifth birthday. My wife, Cheryl Bennett, looks a little impatient. She complains, "You really love making things hard for yourself, huh? How are we supposed to finish everything with just the three of us?" I just smile at her. Then, I whip out a birthday cake and get my son, Jasper Ford, to make a birthday wish. After the candles are lit, I close my eyes as well and make a sincere wish in my mind. When I open my eyes again, I hear Cheryl's system exclaiming in surprise, "Congratulations, Cheryl! You've completed the quest! You and Jasper can now leave this world!" Yes, both Cheryl and Jasper have already made up their minds to abandon me so that they can return to their original world. That's great news. After all, I no longer want them by my side either.

During the SAT exam, My sister and I both had an emergency at the same time. Overwhelmed by stress, I suffered a heart attack and was on the brink of death. Yet my mom, who was working as an invigilator that day, rushed to tend to my sister—who only had a stomach ache—without a second thought. I begged her to save me. But she kicked me away fiercely. “Can’t you pick the right time to put on a show for attention? If you ruin your sister’s grades, I’ll beat you to death, you beast!” Later, I failed to respond to resuscitation and died in the hospital. Mom collapsed overnight.

During the holiday, a hashtag related to honeymoon trips goes viral on social media. The topic is, "How are you planning to spend your honeymoon?" One of the threads that has the most replies reads, "I have to bring my mistress along, of course." "Wow! That's crazy. Can you teach us how to pull that off?" I frown as I scroll down the thread and find the reply. "There are a lot of poor, female backpackers these days. As long as the mistress acts pitiful enough, you can pull the wool over your wife's eyes. And just like that, a couple's haven will become a world of three. "My wife and I will be going on our honeymoon trip tomorrow. I'll give everyone live updates in this thread." Feeling disgusted, I close the thread. … The next day, my husband, Sean Clifford, and I meet a poor, female backpacker on the road. She has no car, money, or any suitcases with her. Sprawling herself across the windshield, she begs, "Can you give me a ride, sir? I have blisters all over my feet. I can't walk anymore."

My coworker found out my girlfriend was a wealthy heiress, and he saw his chance to worm his way into her bed. Two months later, he strutted up to me with his nose in the air. "Your girlfriend's pregnant with my child. Do yourself a favor and back off before this gets ugly." Whose child? I froze. The problem was, the wealthy heiress "girlfriend" he kept talking about was actually a man. So whose baby was it?

Grayson Harmon's childhood friend, Sophia Lexton, got into a car accident. She didn't just lose her memory—she came away with some post-traumatic stress disorder, too. That's what the doctors called it. They said we had to keep her calm, avoid anything that might upset her. So, for the sake of her recovery, Grayson asked me not to argue with her. To let her have her way, no matter what. She took my engagement necklace and moved into the little love nest Grayson and I had made our own. And on our wedding day, she threatened to kill herself, forcing Grayson to take her to the hospital. He looked at her bleeding out and said to me, calm as ever, "Brianna, I'll make it up to you after the wedding. I'll throw you an even grander one. Sophia is dying." Then he picked her up and walked away, never once looking back. If he had—just once—he might have seen something was wrong. He might have seen the blood soaking into my wedding dress.

After the SATs, my niece’s essay went viral online. It was titled: The Pains of Living in Someone Else’s Home. During her freshman year, my niece, Kristen, had moved in with us. Afraid that she might not settle in well, I made sure she got everything my own daughter, Gabrielle, had. I bought them all the same things. However, ten days after the SATs, Kristen’s essay went viral, and a target was painted on my back. [Why did you abuse me when my parents send you money for my living expenses every month? Why did you make me feel like vermin living in your house?] In the end, because Kristen accidentally revealed our location, I was nearly killed in a car crash perpetrated by a self-righteous netizen. Gabrielle was doxxed and bullied online. In the end, she broke down and committed suicide. Before I died, I went back in time. When I opened my eyes, I found myself back on the day of the SATs. Kristen and Gabrielle were holding hands as they walked out of the school.

During a viral family mediation livestream, the notoriously difficult Dolores Bishop appeared on camera clutching her beloved toy poodle, Buddy, who was foaming at the mouth and suffering violent seizures every night. Convinced her daughter-in-law cursed the dog to death, Dolores demanded half a million dollars in emotional damages. The chat erupted with criticism, calling her a shameless bully trying to extort her own family. But after reviewing Buddy's test results, renowned veterinarian Dr. Alex Warren delivered a devastating diagnosis: irreversible neurological damage. The only humane option was euthanasia before the seizures became even more agonizing. Just as everyone accepts there's no hope, I heard Buddy's desperate voice. "Don't kill me! Please, Grandma, save me! I'm not sick! Every night that chubby three-year-old grandson uses me like a mop, dragging me across the floor after spilling peppermint oil everywhere. It burns so badly I can't stop convulsing!" My hand jerked, nearly shattering the teacup I'd just poured. Taking a deep breath, I walked over to Dolores. "Mrs. Bishop, is your grandson carrying a full bottle of peppermint oil in his pocket?"

As soon as I get off the surgical table after my miscarriage, my husband, Presley Quinn, sends me a text message. "You were ten cents short when you paid your share of the power bill this month. Transfer the money to me immediately." I can only sit on the cold bench in the hospital on my own. The anesthesia has yet to wear out, but my belly is already hurting so much that I can practically feel it constricting on itself. The next thing I know, a new post appears on my social media homepage. It's a post made by Vivienne Ashford, the intern Presley is in charge of tutoring. In the photo, Vivienne can be seen holding a bouquet of flowers folded from money bills. A bright and radiant smile blooms on her face. The four-leaf clover necklace adorning her neck is the same necklace I've seen in Presley's purchase history two days ago. The caption of the photo writes, "I don't want a lot of money. I want a ton of love instead." Only then do I remember that today is Valentine's Day as well as my fifth-year anniversary with Presley. Over the past five years, Presley and I have been splitting every single bill, down to two decimal places. If I take a shower for more than 20 minutes, Presley demands that I pay extra for the water heater's power bill. When I cook myself some supper in the middle of the night, Presley wants me to split the gas bill generated by the stove. Even when my mom is hospitalized due to kidney failure and is waiting for her surgical bills to be settled, Presley refuses to lend me a single cent. Instead, he sends me a few links leading to web loans. As I stare at the social media feed, I chuckle all of a sudden. It turns out that Presley does know how to spend money. It's just that he doesn't have the heart to spend it on me. I smile once again as I leave a like on the post. Then, I transfer the ten cents to Presley. From now on, I don't owe him any single penny.