Plot Twists Short Stories & Independence Face Slapping Novels

The day my ex cheated on me, I cried for about ten minutes before digging out the jewelry box he gave me. I sold everything valuable inside for four hundred dollars and used the money to buy a huge box of black candles. Today, I crouched outside his apartment complex, arranging the candles in a circle and lighting them one by one. “You crazy woman! Why are you lighting black candles? Are you trying to curse my son?” His mother stormed out and jabbed a finger in my face. The other woman hid behind my cheating ex and spoke in a choked voice: “Don, I’m scared… What if she still hasn’t gotten over you? What if she does something terrible?” The onlookers shook their heads and concluded that the breakup had driven me insane. Then a ding rang inside my head. [You lit two dollars’ worth of black candles. Ten-thousandfold cashback triggered. Twenty thousand dollars has been credited to your account!] I reached for the remaining candles and lit them one by one.

On my first night after moving into Building 4 of Hawthorne Lane Apartments, the elevator stopped at the nonexistent thirteenth floor. My younger brother, who had been missing for three months, was kneeling outside the doors. An old apartment-number plaque hung around his neck. It read 1204. I was just about to call out to him when the red light above the elevator doors came on. A building manager in a blue uniform suddenly appeared behind me and pushed a report form into my hand. His lips lifted into a frozen smile. “No talking under the red light. If you want to live, write down a neighbor’s apartment number.” Only later did I learn the truth. The most terrifying thing about this building wasn’t the thirteenth floor. It was that behind every door lived someone waiting for me to speak.

Five years ago, I catch my husband, Henry Lancaster, cheating on me. He's a college professor, and the other woman is his teaching assistant, Vera Ashmore. Henry begs me not to go public, saying it'll ruin her reputation. I agree, but only if she drops out of school, leaves the city, never comes back, and signs a binding agreement. Everyone around me calls me vain, saying I care more about money than feelings. And yet Henry is willing to turn on his entire family just to protect her name. Five years later, I travel to that same city on a business trip to attend a lecture and end up finding a little boy wandering by himself. I take him to the police station so he can get in touch with his family. The officer dials the number the boy recites from memory, and a familiar voice comes through the line, "Hey, it's okay, don't be scared. Daddy's coming to get you right now." Less than half an hour later, Henry, who's supposed to be teaching classes a thousand miles away, rushes through the station doors. I'm sitting on a bench when our eyes lock, and he freezes on the spot. I smile and rise to my feet. "Henry, I had no idea you had a secret son behind my back this whole time. Looks like that spotless professor image of yours isn't going to last much longer."

I've just gotten back from a business trip when my wife, Lisa Irwin, steps onto the windowsill. She looks at me, tears streaming down her face, and whispers, "I'm so sorry, honey." Then she jumps in front of me. Our three-month-old daughter, Ariah Conner, lies silent in her crib. She's not breathing, and her skin has turned a deep purple. Beside her, our nanny, Aunt Caitlin, lies unconscious with blood pooling from a head wound. The police tell me Lisa was sexually assaulted before she died, and Ariah suffocated. The security cameras were down. There was no sign of forced entry. In a single day, my whole world shatters. Every clue points to a phantom who doesn't exist. I spend five years hunting for answers. Yet even on my deathbed, I never catch the monster who ruined my life. As I close my eyes, one final thought haunts me. If I get another shot, I'll die before I let anything happen to Lisa and Ariah again. When I open my eyes, I'm back to the morning of the tragedy. I walk right out of my meeting and dial Lisa's number. "Don't open the door for anyone. Set up extra cameras around the house, and stay put until I get home!"

I am directionally challenged. I don't remember routes well, and I get lost quite easily. Wyatt Zimmerman, my best friend, refuses to believe me and insists on helping me fix this problem. He even gets Queenie Jackson, my foster sister, and Yvonne Lambert, my childhood sweetheart, on board to put me through "special training". They get off the subway before I do whenever we travel, leaving me alone at the station. They quietly leave through another entrance whenever we go shopping, leaving me wandering alone like a fool as I search for them. They always say it's to train my sense of direction. I step away to use the restroom during lunch today, and by the time I return, the three of them are gone again—even the table is completely cleared. I am about to make a call when I realize I have given my phone to Wyatt to hold on to. I walk to the front desk to ask about them, and the receptionist hands me a note from Wyatt. It merely states, "We've taken you along this route twice already, Scott, so I'm sure you remember it by now. You can do it! We'll be waiting for you at home!" I suddenly realize how pointless this whole training is. There's honestly nothing wrong with having no sense of direction. I can find my way without anyone's help as long as I have my navigation app on my phone.

My little brother got himself a girlfriend. The moment the news reached them, the whole family lit up. My sister, Serena, clapped so hard her palms cracked. "Who is she? Which lucky girl caught our handsome Tyler's eye?" Mom's face glowed like the credit was hers. "Look who raised him. It was only a matter of time before some girl noticed." Dad couldn't stop grinning. "That's my boy. Good for you, son!" The second they caught Tyler looking embarrassed, they pressed their advantage. "So it's like that, is it? Thanksgiving's almost here. Bring her home. We want to meet her." Then it was my turn, and all they managed were a couple of flat, dutiful lines. "Adrian, you're not as good-looking as your brother, and you've never been quick with words. You're lucky anybody wants you." "So don't be picky. Just lock the wedding in and be done with it." Serena tossed in a joke without even looking up. "Right. Five years, and she still hasn't dumped you — she's even talking marriage. She must be a decent person." They never asked whether my girlfriend was good to me. They never asked whether her parents were decent people. They never once asked to meet her. They just approved the marriage. Not because she was good enough. Because in their eyes, I was worth nothing at all. I let out a slow breath and drank down my tea. It had gone cold a long time ago. If they didn't love me, then I'd go pick a family that did. From now on, we go our separate ways.

Six years into our long-distance relationship, I tell my girlfriend, Claire Whitmore, that I'm too busy with work to spend her birthday with her. Behind her back, I secretly take the property deed with me and board a ten-hour flight to her city. I want to propose to her in front of all our friends and surprise her. While waiting for my ride, I use my work phone to reply to a few messages, then casually scroll through my social media feed. The first post I see is from my childhood friend, Ryan Cole. "I'm going to be a godfather! My goddaughter is 8.5 pounds. I'm so happy!" I open the photo and see Claire and Damian Pierce posing together, a baby between them. My mind goes completely blank. I scroll through Ryan's other posts and discover that they're all about Claire and Damian's life together. Every moment from the past six years has been documented, from when they first met and fell in love to their marriage and the birth of their child. In their wedding group photo, I even spot several of my closest friends. My heart sinks. They all know about this. I'm the only one who's been kept in the dark for six years.

I come across a highly upvoted answer in a forum titled, "How Far Into a Relationship Do You Need to Be Before Getting Married?" The answer reads, "I have been in a seven-year relationship. I finally get to call my dream woman my wife." I look at the photos attached to the post, with screenshots of countless daily interactions and two marriage certificates. I am slightly surprised when I notice that the woman's name is identical to my girlfriend's. It's only when I look closely at the photos that I realize Thea Jordan has cheated on me. I open the comment section, and the first comment is from Calvin Dawson, my childhood friend. "Thanks for making me your best man, Hayden! Wishing you and Thea all the best!" I feel as if someone has stabbed me in the chest. I find myself losing my composure several times before calling Calvin to press him for answers. Calvin remains quiet for a long time before he finally sighs and says, "They've been together for eight years. They even got married yesterday, at the same wedding venue you liked. I'm the one who told them not to tell you. "You're uneducated and hot-tempered, so you'd just throw a fit and put Hayden on the spot. Hayden had also stayed by Thea's side for all these years without a real status in the relationship, so now he's finally getting what he deserves. You shouldn't hold it against them, William." I feel my blood run cold after hearing all of that. What about the nine years I spent loving Thea? Do those years mean nothing? I look at Thea's slightly protruding belly in the photo. She's carrying my child while marrying another man. It really is true, then. She never loved me from the very beginning.

My mother has a strange obsession with cleanliness. Everything has to be scrubbed down with bleach before she considers it clean. I know full well how damaging bleach fumes are to the lungs, and I pull up research to talk her out of it. She finally stops. But then, my brother catches an infectious disease, and a doctor recommends disinfecting the floors with bleach. She turns on me immediately, screaming that if she hadn't listened to my nonsense, my brother never would've gotten sick. My brother hears this from her every single day and takes it to heart. When his condition gets worse, he pushes me off the top of a building. Maybe even God can't stand how unfairly I died, because I come back to life.

I'm working the overnight shift at a convenience store, restocking shelves, when a female live streamer bursts through the front door at 2:00 am. She holds her phone out in front of her, broadcasting live to over 600 thousand viewers online. The camera sweeps across the store before zeroing right in on me. "You're still working the overnight shift at a convenience store at your age? Are you just not planning on getting married?" I don't even bother looking up. "Not really interested." She gives me a knowing smile. "Oh. I guess your income doesn't really allow for it, huh?" The comments in the live chat explode instantly. [A night shift clerk talking about marriage? How absurd!] [He's only making 1,500 dollars a month, and he thinks he can afford a wife?] [LMAO! As if any woman would actually marry him.] [Just a sexually frustrated guy trying to save his pride.] [ROFL! What a brutal reality check!] I place the last bag of chips onto the shelf and stand up. "Come. Let's talk." The next day, the streamer is canceled and banned across the internet.

It is 1:00 am, and I'm still in the inspection office in the suburban power plant, compiling the equipment defect records for the week. Suddenly, there's loud kicking at my door. Brad Greer's panicked voice rings out. "Sam! Come with me right now! The pressure-regulating valve on the main steam pipe of Unit 4 is completely stuck! "The automatic pressure relief device didn't get activated! If it explodes, the three maintenance workers in the control room next door will be burned to a crisp!" Just as I grab my hard hat and am about to rush out, an anonymous encrypted email pops up on my office computer. It said, "Don't go there. The three maintenance workers have already been burned to death by the gushing steam. "He is the one who violated regulations by performing the pressurized maintenance after replacing the valve core with a substandard one, and now, it's completely stuck. He's just trying to make you take the blame. "If you touch the valve even once, you'll get your fingerprints all over it. The CCTV footage will show only you fiddling with it. You're going to take the fall for him and spend the rest of your life in jail. "You're going to have to pay tens of millions of dollars in compensation, and the victims' families will even have the right to sell off all your assets for compensation. You'll never have a peaceful life in prison either." The kicking at the door continues, and the hinges on the wooden door are about to fall off. "Samuel Williams! What are you dawdling for? You're the only one in the whole plant now who's received valve debugging training! You're the only one who can do it! "If you come out any later, those three maintenance people are going to be cooked!" I grip the computer mouse and withdraw my hand from the doorknob. I then say, "I'm sorry, but I'm only an inspector, not a maintenance technician. You need to call the plant's emergency number right away."

After getting into a car accident, I'm left fully paralyzed and can only spend the rest of my days in a wheelchair. My mind also regresses to that of a three-year-old. However, my wife, Ingrid Sanford, doesn't abandon me. Instead, she quits her job and cares for me for six long years. During our hardest times, even when she has no money for food, she still makes sure I get the best medication she can afford. I can never forget how she sits by my bedside and holds my hand, whispering, "Don't be afraid, Nick. I'm not the kind of woman who will abandon you. Even if you end up being like this all your life, I will still always stay by your side forever. "But if you do get better, please don't forget to hug me back. I've really suffered a lot these past years…" However, in my previous life, when she arranged for someone to repair my oxygen concentrator machine at home, a man showed up using a fake account on the repair platform. He was the one responsible for dragging our peaceful life straight into hell. He locked the door on us and violated Ingrid right under my nose, forcing me to watch helplessly. Even in my dazed and confused state, I could still never forget the despair in her eyes. After reporting the incident to the police, Ingrid suffered from severe depression and ultimately jumped from the hospital rooftop to her death. As for the repairman, Tyler Wilkerson, he was released and walked away scot-free due to insufficient evidence and my health issues which rendered me unable to testify in court. When I finally regained my senses after that, I learned that Ingrid had paid for all my rehabilitation fees in advance before she died. I open my eyes again, and suddenly, I'm back home in our apartment, where the doorbell is ringing. "Hi, I'm here to repair the oxygen concentrator."

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.

My wife, Monica, hated the smell of alcohol, so I had never once seen her drink. Not even at the celebration for my succession as Don did she touch a single drop. That changed at a Family banquet, when a party game broke out halfway through. Monica lost. The penalty: sit on the lap of your one true love and share a lovers' toast. Without a second of hesitation, she picked up her glass, settled onto Dillon's lap, and drank it down. The room erupted in cheers, and every pair of eyes turned to me with the same expectation. They were waiting for me to flip the table and storm out. But I just watched Monica in silence, slid the ring off my finger, and placed a set of divorce papers in front of her. "Divorce." My voice was flat. Monica froze for a beat, then let out a scornful laugh. "All because I didn't drink with you?" "Exactly. That's why." I pushed the papers a little closer.

It took me three years to thaw the frozen heart of Theo, the Mafia's top surgeon, just to marry him. To be his wife, I shut down my documentary studio and locked my Best Director trophy from the independent film festival inside a drawer. I was willing to put away my camera and stay in the shadows as the woman behind the Family's chief surgeon. After he said having a kid in this business was a death sentence, I went to a clinic the very next day and got an IUD. Everyone in our circle was absolutely certain that we would be the perfect power couple. But today, on our fifth wedding anniversary, I decided to get a divorce. My lawyer was my best friend, Jade. She twirled her pen before stopping. "Are you out of your mind? You threw away the title of North America's best independent director for him back then, and now you are telling me you want a divorce?" I swallowed the bitter ache in my chest. "Just draft the divorce papers for me. As soon as possible." She frowned. "But why, Harper?" I looked at the black velvet gift box on the dining table. Inside lay a carefully preserved peony. After a long hesitation, I gave her my answer. "Because of a flower."

The night before our engagement, my best man Reese suggested we play Never Have I Ever — our version, where you name something you have that you think no one else does, and anyone who doesn't have it puts a finger down. "Sitting in this room is someone I can't have," he said. Everyone else's fingers went down, except Reese's and my fiancée Molly's. The others erupted in whistles and teasing, not caring that I was right there. "I have the most loyal fiancé," Molly said. "Boring and dull." Everyone glanced at me, and the private room fell into an awkward silence. I was suddenly exhausted. Molly and I had been together for two years. Tomorrow was our engagement party, yet she'd just publicly admitted there was someone she wanted but couldn't have. And in her eyes, the only redeeming quality her fiancé had was loyalty. When my turn came, I said calmly, "I have a grand wedding of the century." I turned to Molly beside me. "But as of now, it's canceled."

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."

My best friend, Eleanor Fitzroy, and I both transmigrated into an era of turmoil, where we happen to become students of a legendary seer. I am born with an uncanny gift for divination. With nothing more than three coins, I can read the signs of fate and predict what is yet to come. Eleanor, meanwhile, possesses an extraordinary mind for strategy. She can decipher the most complex military tactics and, with a single formation of her own design, turn the tide against thousands of soldiers. After leaving Ravenvale, our mentor's secluded valley, we join forces to support the disgraced Seventh Prince, Alexander Wyndham, and help him rise to the throne. Alexander soon falls deeply in love with Eleanor. He marries her in a lavish royal wedding, making her the queen of the realm. 15 years into their marriage, they are still as devoted to each other as ever. They have eight sons together. Then, last night, the palace receives joyous news—the empire of Arden has welcomed its first princess since its founding. Overjoyed, Alexander rides through the night with his eight sons and arrives at the gates of Ravenvale, begging me to come out of seclusion and divine Matilda Wyndham's fate. Of course, I agree. I hurry to the royal palace that very night. I place a dab of vermilion on Matilda's forehead and bestow a blessing of peace and safety upon her. With my task complete, I prepare to leave. But on a whim, I toss my coins one more time, intending to divine Eleanor's fate and see what the rest of her life holds in store. The moment the coins hit the ground, however, the signs turn ominous. The reading reveals chaos, death, and a fate that has been sealed long ago. My blood runs cold. If Eleanor has already been dead for some time, then who is the woman lying on the queen's bed, smiling at me so warmly?

On my wedding night, I find out my childhood sweetheart, Sean Clay, has a mistress who is highly fertile. She's already given him a son and a daughter. "My family line is dying out, and your health has always been fragile. Paige gets pregnant easily. With her around to take the pressure off, it'll be easier on both of us. As long as you don't make a fuss, I promise she'll never take your place." I can't believe what I'm hearing. I trash everything in the room and kick everyone out. Clutching my chest, I collapse in front of the bronze mirror, only for the glass to reflect me ten years into the future. The woman in the reflection is gaunt, her hair completely white. "I've already tried throwing a fit and divorcing him. It only led to mutual hatred and absolute ruin. Let me give you a piece of advice. Accept Paige. "She might be fertile, but most of her children won't survive past the age of five. The ones who do will end up mentally impaired." She taps the surface of the mirror, and a flood of unfamiliar memories rushes into my mind. When I come to, tears are streaming down my face. Looking at the aged face in the bronze mirror, I reach out to touch it. "I will save you. And I will save myself."

I come home for the holidays to find four pairs of slippers beside the shoe cabinet. There's a pair for my dad, Dean Pratt, a pair for my mom, Nancy Kerr, and two pairs for my sister, Luna Pratt, including a spare. Mine isn't there. Although my sister attended school in another state, kept her room exactly as it was. Even her slippers sit by her bedside, waiting for her return. I had been away from home for three years. When I returned, I discovered that my belongings had disappeared one by one. And now, they hadn’t even kept a pair of slippers for me. I stand in the entryway, my feet bare. "Where’s my pair?" Mom pokes her head out. "You hardly ever come back, so I threw them away. They were taking up space." But the soles of my sister’s spare pair had already been worn smooth, and they were still neatly sitting in their original place. The next day, I buy a new pair for myself at the supermarket and put them beside the shoe cabinet. That night, I check the shoe cabinet and find them gone. Dad is watching TV on the couch. "Luna's classmate came over, so I gave them to her." "I just bought them." Dad doesn't even turn around. "It's just a pair of slippers. Get another one." Luna pauses. "Huh? I thought Mom had bought them for guests." It makes sense. Guest slippers were supposed to be thrown away once the guest had left.