قصص وروايات قصيرة من فئة Imagination وتضم Mistress وتدور في Cheating

In eight years together, my boyfriend—Shayne Raffield—blocked me eighty-eight times. This time? Because I missed his call. At my best friend's birthday party. Usually, I'd panic-order a gift, then stand outside his office, head down, ready to beg. But today? I blocked him first. The Chat Feed popped up, loud as ever: [Nooo, Ley-Bae, don't block Shay-Shay! He's just got abandonment issues. Comfort him!] [Shay's heart = shattered; Eyes = red. Ley, go! One pout and he's yours again!] Then Shayne called. Didn't say a word. Just breathed for ten seconds and hung up. The Chat Feed freaked out. [AHHHH SHAY LOVES LEY SO MUCH HE JUST SUCKS AT SAYING IT. THIS COWARD'S GONNA LOSE HIS GIRL.]

Tonight, my wife was working overtime at the office. I was about to enjoy some alone time playing video games. The Tesla car application on my phone sent an alarm notification: [Abnormal vibrations detected in the car. Please check.] Following the location sent, I arrived at the parking lot below my wife's company. I saw her sweating profusely in the car with her fitness instructor. My mind went blank. Suddenly, a mechanical voice rang out in my mind: [Congratulations! You have been linked to the Cuckold King system. Complete the task, and you will receive $100 million as a reward!]

I had been able to see the labels above people's heads ever since I was little. When I was three, my grandpa held a family dinner at his house. Dad showed up with his secretary, Vivian Clarke. The moment she walked through the door, she went straight to Mom's seat. She rubbed her lower back and smiled sweetly. "Mrs. Lincoln, I hope you don't mind. Mr. Lincoln and I have been working on a project all day, and we're exhausted." I looked around the room. Above Eric's head was a glaring label. "Cheater." Above Mom's head was a dull gray label. "Loser." And above Vivian's head was a brightly shining label. "Ultimate gold digger." I immediately tugged on Eric's sleeve and asked loudly, "Dad, what do ‘cheater’ and ‘gold digger’ mean?"

On my thirty-eighth birthday, my husband, Hugh Shaw, nearly forty, found the love of his life. He asked me for a divorce. "Mina’s only twenty. She’s sweet and kind, while you’re old and boring." I nodded at my own reflection, looking worn and lifeless. That explained Hugh’s strange behavior lately. He’d started caring about his appearance. He never left the house without putting on cologne, and he bought a bouquet of flowers every day. No matter how busy he was, the first thing he did when he got home was work out at the gym. Before the divorce, Hugh asked me, "Maya, you’ve been a housewife for seven years. Can you really bring yourself to divorce me? Don’t come crying to me later!" I smiled. "I won’t." Because that girl he fell in love with was me at twenty.

When the news of my husband's death reached me, I was seven months pregnant. My vision went black, and I fainted on the spot. When I opened my eyes again, a childish voice shouted in my head, "Mommy, wake up! Scumbag Daddy tricked you! He's not dead! He's with his mistress who's about to steal your identity!" I was stunned. The voice angrily spoke again, "The head of the Shaw family from the capital is your biological brother. Today, Scumbag Daddy is going to let his mistress take your place as his long-lost sister! Then, he and his mistress will conspire to kill you, and my brother and I will be sold off. To protect me, my brother will get his legs broken by human traffickers in the future and starve to death!" The child's heartbreaking cry jolted me awake from my grief like a bucket of ice water. I thought it was a hallucination, but then I heard the voice of an unfamiliar man in the living room. "Mr. Shaw, this is Miss Alice Woods. She's the long-lost sister that you've been looking for for twenty years!"

At our engagement party, Regina Horton walks toward me through the crowd, arm in arm with Larry Dickson, and says, "Since you love me so much, Dominic Carlson, I will ask Larry Dickson to proceed with the engagement with me in your place instead." I meet her unyielding eyes as a mechanical voice echoes in my mind. "Hi, Dominic. This is the 1000th day since you failed to win over the female lead. Do you wish to give up on being her sugar daddy?" "Yes." "Got it. You may choose a future path for her as well." "I want her bound to Larry for the rest of her life."

On our first wedding anniversary, my husband came home with a woman who was six months pregnant. He introduced her as his cousin, someone who had fallen on hard times, and asked me to take care of her. I was just about to agree when fragments of imaginary commentary floated through my mind: [She's just my 'cousin'. Uh-uh, that's a cliche.] [Poor supporting female character! A maid by day, the husband's bedwarmer by night.] [But she totally deserved it! If she hadn't broken up the main couple, they'd have a whole soccer team of kids by now!] Wait—what? Supporting female character? Me? And what's this about breaking them up? So now these two get to cheat under my roof, and somehow I'm the villain? Before I could process it all, my husband was already dragging her luggage inside. "Alice doesn't like fried food," he said matter-of-factly. "And nothing too salty or spicy. Make sure you keep that in mind when you're cooking. "Oh, and pregnant women love sweets. Go out now and buy a cherry cake. The one from that bakery in the suburbs."

My girlfriend, Sophie Selby, and my best friend, Darren Norton, have been at each other's throats for the past month. They're both determined to make the wedding perfect for me. Sophie wants something classic and grand. Darren insists romantic and picture-perfect is the way to go. They go through dozens of plans, arguing over everything from the guest count and Sophie's dress to the reception menu. And every time, I end up playing referee. Sophie rarely wins an argument with Darren, though somehow, we still end up going with whatever works best for her. They both joke that I'm the lucky one because I get to sit back and let them handle everything. The funny part is, whenever I actually try to give an opinion, neither of them wants to hear it. Darren just grins. "Relax. I've got this. You're getting the perfect wedding." Sophie sighs helplessly. "It's fine. Just a few more days. I can survive him that long." The night before the wedding, they're at it again. This time, it's the flowers. "I'm just saying, gardenias are prettier. Lilies are tacky." Sophie scoffs. "So you say you want gardenias, and suddenly everyone has to change the flowers for you? Can you stop making such a fuss?" Darren comes to find me afterward, looking completely crushed. "Zack, what do you think?" Honestly, I agree with Sophie. Changing all the flowers this late sounds like a nightmare. But then I see the hurt look on Darren's face. I sigh, ready to take his side. Before I can say a word, Sophie's thoughts suddenly sound in my head. [Fine. I owe Darren. I'll pay extra and have them switch the flowers to gardenias.] A second later, Darren's thoughts come through just as clearly. [Gardenias mean secret love. I may never get to be with you, but as long as you're happy, that's enough for me.]

Being fair and treating everyone equally has always mattered most to Chase Russell. That's why he has a specialized chip implanted in my uterus. Whenever his childhood sweetheart, Joanna Reynolds, suffers from morning sickness or any other discomfort during her pregnancy, every bit of her pain is transferred to me. "Didn't you always dream of experiencing what it's like to be a mother? I'm making that dream come true for you." The day Joanna goes into labor, the pain hits me so hard that I pass out in the hospital corridor. But Chase is in the delivery room, gently comforting her. "How are you feeling? It doesn't hurt at all, does it?" Later, he tells me he wants to hold a wedding with Joanna, so she and their child can have a proper place in the family. "Although Joanna will be the one marrying me, you'll still be the one whose name is on the marriage certificate," he says. "I told you… I've always treated you both equally." I say nothing. I simply take off the wedding ring he gave me and return it to him. When the wedding march begins to play, I have already boarded a one-way flight to a faraway place.

After completing my mission, I married the man I had been trying to win over. On our wedding night, I told him that the system had given me ninety-nine regret pills. Whenever he did something that hurt me, I would take one. Once all the pills were gone, I would completely leave his life. He held me close and promised he would never give me a reason to regret being with him. Three months into our marriage, his childhood sweetheart came back from abroad. The first time he stayed out all night, he realized that I would quietly take a pill after just crying once. After that, he began to act without any restraint. Ten years later, on our anniversary, his childhood sweetheart threatened to kill herself again. He left me without hesitation to handle the situation. The next day, he returned with his neck covered in love bites and begged for my forgiveness. I did not cry. I looked at him calmly and asked, “Can I take one of the regret pills?” He shrugged as if it did not matter. “Go ahead. There are plenty left.” I smiled and let him bring her into our home. He did not know that there were only three pills left in the box. Once they were gone, I would leave him for good.

After my rebirth, the very first thing I did was ride from one blood donation van to another, giving blood until I nearly collapsed. Why? Because in my previous life, my fiancé's newly hired intern, Shirley Lynch, had bound herself to a blood-exchange system. Every milliliter she donated was siphoned directly from my own veins. In just a month, she transformed from an ordinary college girl into the nation's beloved Blood Angel, showered with fame and fortune, while I, suffering from severe anemia, was fired from the hospital for being unable to work. When I exposed her scheme to my fiancé, he looked at me with disgust and broke off our engagement. "You're selfish and cowardly," he sneered. "You refuse to donate your rare blood type, and now you slander Shirley? You call yourself a doctor, yet you believe in such ridiculous nonsense!" From then on, every time Shirley donated blood, I would suffer heart palpitations, dizziness, and sometimes collapse outright. I begged the doctors in my department for help, but my fiancé blocked every attempt, accusing me of jealousy and wasting medical resources. In the end, to steal my promotion ahead of schedule, Shirley donated a full 1000 milliliters of blood live on television. As her blood drained, so did mine. I went into shock and died. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the very day Shirley first claimed she carried my rare blood type.

The night before the SAT, I record a video call between my present self and my future self ten years from now. Except the line actually connects to my future self. "Did I make it into Crythoria University's joint bachelor's-master's program? Is Brielle still my best friend? "If everything went according to plan, I should be done with grad school by now and married to David, right? High school sweethearts tying the knot! "Maybe we even have a cute kid together? I've already picked out a nickname." I blush, letting my imagination run wild. But the moment David Barrett's name leaves my mouth, the future me flies into a rage. "David gave you disappearing ink pens so Brielle could become the top scorer in the city! You didn't get into Crythoria. You had to repeat your senior year. "David acted heartbroken and promised to make long-distance work. Then he turned right around, went public with Brielle at college, and became the couple everyone envies. "Felicity Fisher, you absolute idiot! You got cheated on and still thanked Brielle for taking care of your boyfriend!"

Everyone was having a blast on the yacht for Valentine’s Day when my boyfriend, Ethan Hayes, asked me to go tell his uncle I fancied him. “Go on, tell him. You’re a lucky girl if he actually takes a liking to you! Next time we meet, I might even have to call you auntie!” Vivian Lawrence, his childhood sweetheart, was by my boyfriend’s side, smiling triumphantly. Just a few minutes ago, they had shared a glass of cocktail. I clutched the watch in my pocket—bought with two months of my savings to make peace—my heart riddled with holes. Suddenly, a line of live comment lit up before my eyes: “I’m sick of this jerk. Girl, go for the uncle. He’s the real big shot. He’s fancied you for a long time, even gave up everything abroad to come back to you!” Looking at the sneering Ethan, I took a deep breath, pulled up my skirt, revealing my long, straight legs. “Fine, I’ll give it a try! “If he returns my affection, you’ll have to call me your aunt soon.”