Independence Short Stories & Novels

After five years of being forcibly institutionalized in a mental hospital by my parents for “rehabilitation,” I awakened the “Slap System” skill. One slap, a million dollars deposited into my account. Another slap, my combat power skyrocketed. Just as I was thoroughly enjoying my slapping spree and preparing to leap over the asylum walls to break free, my parents suddenly arrived to take me home. The moment I stepped through the front door, I saw my adopted brother Atticus Hawthorne, eyes reddened, holding my fiancée, Cassandra Vaughn, in his arms. Meanwhile, my real brother Roman Montgomery was locked in a dog cage, bitten and torn by vicious hounds, covered in wounds, and breathing his last breath. The moment he saw me, a faint light flickered in his eyes. Using the last ounce of his strength, his lips trembled slightly. “Lysander... run…” Before the words could fully leave his mouth, his hand went limp and dropped. I smashed the dog cage open with everything I had, scooped up his still-warm body, and rushed outside like a madman. “Stop right there!” Cold-faced, my parents blocked the doorway. “Roman is pure evil. He tortured Atticus’s dog to death and drugged Cassandra. Suffering a little punishment like this is light for him! Why take him to a hospital over a tiny injury?” Atticus fell to his knees before me with a loud thud, tears streaming down his face. “Lysander, after five years, you still hate me this much... I’ll go die right now so I don’t stay in your sight…” Cassandra immediately shielded him behind her back, harshly berating me. “Lysander! The moment you return, you force Atticus to die! You should never have been released from the mental hospital!” I looked at their hypocritical, evil faces, then down at Roman’s closed eyes that would never open again, and slowly raised my hand. Bullying me? I could bear it. But torturing Roman to death... I was going to make them find out whether their bones were tougher, or my slaps were harder.

I had spent six months drifting across the ocean on a cargo ship, but I would send 20,000 dollars back home every month. So, I really only had one thing on my mind the day I finally set foot on solid ground again—my wife's pork rib soup. When I pushed open the front door, I found my seven-month-pregnant wife, Sophia Merkin, sitting on our worn-out sofa. At that moment, my six months' worth of exhaustion, frustration, and pent-up anger from the roiling life at sea surged to the surface. "I've been busting my ass out there and working more than 10 hours a day. Yet, I don't even get a hot meal at home when I'm finally home?" Sophia said nothing. Instead, she walked over to the refrigerator and yanked the door open. That was when I saw that the fridge only had half a jar of ketchup and a bag of expired pasta with bugs. Then, she asked me dully, "What do you want to eat? Take your pick."

Elle's toxic first love had only one birthday wish: for us to get a divorce. The first time I refused, she aborted our three-month-old baby. The second time I wouldn't budge, she pressed a box cutter to her wrist and asked me to choose: divorce, or widowhood. And today was the third time. Even the clerk at the courthouse knew me by now. When she handed over the divorce certificate, she teased me with a smile, "Remarrying again in a month, same as always?" Elle expected me to fall apart the way I always did, to beg her to stay. She'd already started frowning, bracing herself to explain. I just took the divorce certificate from her hand and said, calmly, "We're not remarrying." Elle froze where she stood, staring at me without moving.

My family was going on a beach trip for summer. My mother came up with the whole itinerary two weeks earlier. My father booked a room with a view of the sea. My brother picked the surfboards, while my sister went with the dresses for socials. I was helping them pack up the night before the trip when I saw the tickets on the coffee table. There were only four of them, and they were for my father, mother, brother, and sister. They didn't get one for me. My mother saw me, and she froze. "Oh, I forgot all about you." My brother didn't even look up. "She can just stay at home." My sister said quietly, "Maybe I shouldn't go, then?" My mother quickly took her side. "No. You've been looking forward to this." My father clapped my shoulder. "You can't go this time, but we'll bring you along for the next trip." I smiled bitterly at the tickets. They went to the beach the next day. I grabbed the 10 million from my lottery winnings and went to Aocity, a place more than a thousand miles away. Our choices marked the day we went our separate ways, forever.

For ten years, I woke at three every morning to knead dough for my breakfast stall, all so I could put my daughter through college. Hot oil splattered across my arms day after day, leaving scars on my forearms that would never fully fade. But today, just when I desperately needed the money to keep my stall open, I discovered that the $200,000 in my bank account was gone. It was not until I got the bank statement that I learned the truth. My daughter had reconnected with her biological mother back in middle school. All these years, she had been secretly transferring money to her. When I confronted her over the phone, I cried so hard I could barely breathe. "That money was our retirement savings!" But she only laughed impatiently. "Stop saying you raised me. You didn't even give birth to me. My biological mother is the one who gave me life. Consider the money you spent on me your way of showing her respect." The call ended with a cold beep. It felt like a blade had been driven straight through my heart. I rushed home like a madwoman to find my husband. I thought he would at least feel sorry for us losing our retirement savings. Instead, he sat calmly on the couch and took a sip of coffee. "Blood runs thicker than water. Stop being so selfish." That $200,000 was the money we needed to survive. And he was actually lecturing me about blood ties, when he was nothing more than her adoptive father too.

My wife, Florence Jipson, told me that our son, Bart Lyons, had been in a severe car accident. His eyes were crushed in the crash, and he had completely lost his vision. I rushed from my company to the hospital. I begged the doctors to use my eye for Bart’s transplant. After the surgery was completed, I was wheeled out of the operating room. Then, I heard the sound of everyone bursting into loud laughter. “God, Benedict is such an idiot. He falls for the same nonsense every single time and never learns.” “Flo, if you told him to go kill himself next time, he’d probably do it too, wouldn’t he? He’s such a well-trained little puppy.” Florence stood in the crowd, holding hands with her assistant, Solomon Sowden. She was laughing just as wildly. “What can I say? Sol loves this kind of drama. So, I had to play along and tell him Bart got hurt. “I really thought Ben would be smart enough to catch on this time. I never expected him to actually be willing to donate his own eye.” Even the eight-year-old Bart nodded in agreement. “Having such a silly dad is so embarrassing.” I was utterly disheartened when I heard Florence and Bart’s mocking remarks. It turned out that even family members who had lived together for more than ten years could become strangers in an instant. I finally chose to let go.

The day I was discharged from the hospital after giving birth, my mother-in-law, Patricia Whitmore, kept pointing at the baby in my arms and humiliating me the whole way home. "Genevieve, just look at that pathetic thing in your arms. I doubt he'll live very long." I shot back angrily, "Patricia, how could you say that? The doctor said the baby is perfectly healthy!" Patricia curled her lip into a sneer. "You're so ignorant. Here you are, yelling at me when I'm only telling you the truth out of the kindness of my heart." I didn't want to waste my energy arguing with her, so I turned away with the baby in my arms and stared out the window. It wasn't until we got home that my seven-year-old daughter told me something. She told me that she'd seen Patricia secretly switch my perfectly healthy son with the child of my husband's childhood sweetheart, Evelyn Reed. The same child who was suffering from a congenital heart defect. That was when I finally understood why Patricia had been humiliating us. She was acting that way because she thought she had already gotten what she wanted. Unfortunately, she never expected that Nina had already switched her little brother back while they weren't paying attention.

In my third year of being a stay-at-home dad, I come across a post online. "I want to divorce my husband, who stays home and takes care of our child full-time. I want custody, but our kid is completely attached to him. What should I do?" One commenter gives advice. "If your husband has been the primary caregiver the whole time, the court will probably award him custody to keep the child's living situation stable. "But since he's a stay-at-home parent, cut off his allowance and put pressure on him. If he won't compromise, take an overseas assignment for a couple of years. Don't contact him. Don't send him money. "Those early childhood caretaking years are the hardest anyway. You'll be avoiding the hassle. Then, when you come back, you'll be in a much stronger financial position than your husband, and winning custody will be easy." The original poster thanks the commenter for the suggestion. I curse those two people for being selfish and cruel. That night, when my wife comes home from work, she suddenly says, "Honey, the company's been struggling lately. I won't be able to give you money for this month's living expenses."

An hour before the college application deadline, I jolt awake in my hotel room in Chanont. My girlfriend, Evelyn Keate, and my adopted brother, Marvin Needham, are nowhere to be seen. I immediately call them, reminding them to get their applications in before the deadline. To my surprise, they burst out laughing. "We're already back home, and we got our applications in last night. You still haven't submitted yours?" I can hear my parents criticizing me in the background. My mom said, "He's always like this. He's so careless that he doesn't even take his own future seriously." "Marvin has always been so much easier," my dad remarked. Laughter and chatter fill the other end of the line, while I begin to shake with panic. I almost miss the deadline. After receiving our exam results, the three of us agree to apply to the same college. Marvin can't make up his mind, so Evelyn patiently indulges him and says, "There's no rush. We'll take our time and help you pick." However, she casually brushes me off. "Just go with whatever we choose and enjoy yourself in Chanont for the next few days." Just then, my phone buzzes. Evelyn sends me the application code for Solridge University. "Hurry up, or you'll miss the deadline." I stare at the application page, my eyes stinging with tears. My score is much higher than theirs, and I can get into a better college. It turns out that the compromise I'm making doesn't matter to anyone at all. With one second left before the deadline, I click the submit button and apply to Harburt University, the school farthest from home. The three of us are one too many, so I choose to walk away.

I am the only princess of Hawkridge. The moment the Skyveil opened, every ruler in the known world started looking at me strangely. "Mara, come back to Frostmoor with me." King Ronan Blackwood stood with a cold blade in hand, his eyes rimmed red. "You swindled three shiploads of gold out of me. How exactly do you plan to repay it?" King Sebastian Redfield advanced on me, working the counters on his counting board. "You even lied about dying..." Crown Prince Adrian Locke coughed blood as he clamped a hand around my wrist. My skin crawled. I tightened my grip on the treasury sigil I'd just lifted out of a hidden drawer and got ready to run. Then the door closed with maddening calm. Regent Elias Crowell blocked me inside his study, his expression cool and his gaze sharp as a knife. "Your Highness." "Your romantic debts out there are nearly settled. Now let's settle the account for what you stole from me."

A week before our family wedding, my fiancé, Matteo, suddenly changed the location to a luxury yacht in Boca Raton. I only found out when the wedding coordinator called me. Over the video call, I heard Matteo's careless voice in the background: "It's just a wedding. It's the same anywhere. Don't bother asking Sienna. She does whatever I say." "Besides, Camilla always dreamed of a fairytale wedding at sea. I'm just making her dream come true. Sienna will understand." Just because his childhood friend, Camilla Moretti, said she liked ocean views, he ruined the wedding I spent months planning. And he didn't even bother to tell me. He knew damn well I nearly drowned as a kid. He knew deep water terrifies me to my very core. Matteo thought I was crazy in love with him. After all, I once took a bullet to the head for him, damaging my vision. He was dead sure I'd back down again and smooth things over with my family. He thought wrong. I'm done taking his garbage. I tore up the wedding contract and walked away without looking back. Screw this wedding. And screw him.

In my last life, a girl named Sophie came to see the house right around graduation season. She said she'd just landed a job with low pay and begged me for a cheaper rate. I felt sorry for her and dropped the rent from eight hundred to four hundred a month. I even let her pay month to month instead of months upfront and only charged half the deposit. Three months in, I went to collect rent. She hid inside and wouldn't open the door. That same night, I came across a video she'd posted online. The footage showed me standing at her door, knocking. The caption read: "Heartless landlord jacks up rent to drive out a fresh graduate. Eight hundred a month, and she just raised it on a whim." I called her, furious. "I cut your rent in half! Why are you lying and saying I raised it?" She sneered. "You're the rich landlord. I'm just a poor student. People will believe whatever I say." "Pay me thirty thousand in emotional damages, and I'll take the video down. Otherwise, I'll make sure you never rent this place out again." The video went viral overnight. My phone number and home address were dug up and posted everywhere. Strangers called day and night to curse me out. The house sat empty for six months. I lost thousands of dollars. The stress was so severe I hemorrhaged, miscarried, and ended up in the hospital. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the afternoon Sophie first came to see the house. Ha. Everyone believes you, huh? This time, you won't get a single dollar off the rent. And you're going to pay for everything.

I am the Luna of the Silver Moon Pack. On the day I gave birth, I drank the birthing tonic that Elena, our pack healer, had brought me. My wolf convulsed violently, and the moment I delivered my pup, I fell into a coma. When I woke again, I was bound by thick silver chains, trapped for five years in a lightless forest prison. It wasn't until Caleb, the Alpha of the Silver River Pack, was hunting down a rogue that he caught my scent by chance and freed me. I dragged my weakened body all the way back to the Silver Moon Pack. Only to hear my Alpha mate Killian announcing before the whole pack that Elena, the very woman who had poisoned me, was about to become the new Luna. And the son I had nearly died to bring into the world was nestled in her arms, sweetly calling her mommy. Eyes burning, I rushed forward and exposed the truth in front of everyone: she had poisoned me. Killian cut me off, impatient. "Lila, as Luna you vanished for five years without a word. Elena carried your burden for you, and instead of being grateful, you make up some pathetic lie to smear her?" Eric's face twisted with disgust. "Daddy, throw this liar out. She's scaring mommy!" And Elena, hiding behind them, gave me a taunting little smile. Something in me let go. That very night, I drank the potion that would sever the mate bond from my side alone. Fine, then. This mate, this son, I no longer wanted either of them.

One week before our engagement ceremony, fiancé took me and his foster sister to their hundredth dinner together. The maitre d' knew their table, their wine, and Serena's favorite meal. She sat beside the fireplace while I was squeezed into a chair in the aisle. Then the restaurant presented them with a silver decanter engraved: D & S. Always at the same table. The date beneath it was my birthday three years ago—the night Damian had abandoned me at a clinic because of an "emergency." He had spent those two hours here with her. Serena smiled. "After you and Evelyn get engaged, are we still keeping our monthly dinners?" "Of course," Damian said. "You're my family. If Evelyn can't accept that, she isn't fit to become a Moretti." For four years, I had fought Serena for every place in Damian's life. I fought for the seat beside him, for the bedroom meant to be ours, and for the right to be chosen whenever we both needed him. Every time, he told me to stop keeping score. That night, I finally understood how foolish I had been to abandon my own future for a love that never chose me first. So this time, I chose myself. I accepted Saint Clair Design Group's offer to become its Global Creative Director and youngest equity partner, then booked a flight to Milan for the morning of our engagement. Damian thought my silence meant I had finally accepted Serena's place in our marriage. He didn't realize I had stopped fighting because I no longer wanted a place in his life. He and Serena could keep their fifteen years of brother-and-sister devotion. In seven days, my love for him would be over.

Dario brought me a silver bracelet engraved with pomegranate blossoms when he returned from Madrid. He pulled me into his arms and nuzzled my temple with the tip of his nose, as tender as every reunion over the past seven years. "Mira, tell me, what does your family value most in a relationship?" I looked down at the bracelet on my wrist, sure he was finally about to keep his promise. Seven years earlier, he'd met me in a whitewashed town outside Granada, moved into the courtyard I'd inherited from my mother, and left a pair of handmade leather shoes beside the front door. I come from a Romani family, and my grandmother's side kept an old custom: when a man truly meant to make a place his home, he left a pair of shoes at the door. If the woman put them outside, the door was closed to him for good. I smiled and answered, "Sincerity, of course. " Dario kissed the side of my neck and chuckled. "I knew it. " "Sofia and I got married yesterday. She's carrying my brother Javier's baby, and the Vega family won't let its first grandchild be born without the Vega name." The smile froze on my face. "Then what are we? Nico is already four years old." He reached up to touch my cheek, soothing me as if I were a child who didn't know any better. "Since when did you start using a piece of paper to pressure people? Don't Romani families care more about family acceptance and building a life together? I never said I was leaving you. So what exactly are you upset about?" I looked at his self-righteous face and suddenly laughed. He had probably forgotten that those shoes were still by the door. My family had lived here for three generations. Yet the moment Dario needed me to excuse his betrayal, he reduced me to a Romani woman too ignorant of the law to deserve recognition in public. Now he simply dressed the same prejudice in a gentle voice and spoke it to my face. All I had to do was put those shoes outside. Then this courtyard, this home, and I would never wait for him again.

I waited at the bus stop for three hours in the pouring rain, but Brandon Cruz never showed up like he promised. Just as I was about to call an Uber, I noticed the text he sent five minutes earlier. [Something came up. I can't make it.] A minute later, his assistant posted a photo on social media. I recognized the dashboard immediately. It was Brandon's car. Her caption read, [Best boss ever. Thanks for the ride home!] In the past, I would've blown up Brandon's phone, calling and texting him nonstop until he gave me an explanation. This time, I just tapped the heart beneath her post. Then I went home, packed my bags, and left without saying a word. That was when Brandon finally panicked. He searched everywhere for me. When he finally found me, he begged, “I can change! Just don't leave me!”

After losing my unborn baby, I finally rid myself of every habit Matteo Cassano hated. He spent entire nights with Seraphina. I stopped calling. He didn’t go home for several days, I stopped waiting. Even when I fractured my leg in a car crash, I simply told the doctor, "Don’t let him know." Yet, Matteo began to feel uncomfortable with my changes. He hated my composure, asking why I had turned so indifferent. I never told him that I had already filed for divorce, and accepted the invitation to a top-secret medical research project in Zurich. In seven days, I would cut off all communication with the outside world completely. Matteo assumed I was merely throwing a fit. He was confident that I would return to him sooner or later, just as I had countless times before. When the divorce decree arrived at the Cassano Manor, he finally realized I had taken everything with me and canceled all my contact info. The woman who once wept for him if he was even an hour late coming home would never look back at him again.

Marcus Dawson put a price on everything. If he decided something wasn't worth the money, he refused to pay for it. I had broken my right leg saving his life. Even then, he refused to buy me the custom orthopedic brace that would protect my healing leg. "You won't need a brace for that long. It's such a waste of money." "Be reasonable, Ren. I'll get you the best crutches instead. Walking more will help you recover, and they won't cost nearly as much." I was quiet for a long moment. Then I whispered, "Okay." But minutes earlier, I'd seen a new Facebook post from my best friend, Jessica Vance: a five-thousand-dollar designer handbag with one breezy word in the caption. "Surprise." The hand holding the bag was blurred, but I would have known the fresh scar on that forearm anywhere. Marcus had gotten it in a car accident only weeks ago. It was Marcus. A five-thousand-dollar brace was a waste. A five-thousand-dollar bag was a surprise. The same number was excessive when it was spent on me and romantic when it was spent on her. I'd always assumed he was just being frugal. Now I realized he'd done the math a long time ago. My leg wasn't worth five thousand dollars. And neither was I. I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I hadn't called in a long time. "Nathan, I want to come home."

Someone @'d me on the hotel's internal guest service system. "Hey, penthouse guy. You're alone. What do you need a whole infinity pool for? My wife's hosting a livestream event. We'll be needing it starting tomorrow." "Don't worry, we'll give you three grand a month. It's a sweet deal. You should be thrilled." I stared at the screen. This was a joke. I was Don Alessandro Ricci. The ruler of Chicago's entire underworld. I checked into my family's flagship hotel under the radar to keep a low profile—needed some peace to close a critical overseas deal and take a few days off. That pool was the penthouse's exclusive amenity. The crown jewel of this hotel. And now someone thought they could take it for three grand? I shot back two words: "Dream on." I didn't expect the hotel manager and two security guards at my suite door the next day. Someone had filed a complaint about me "misusing hotel public resources." And now, for the sake of "guest harmony," they were demanding my keycard. Fine. You want to bring it on yourself? I'll play.

I accompany the Luna of the north and my future mother-in-law, Willow Joynes, on a cruise for a vacation. A high-pitched, feminine voice resounds behind us not long after we make our way to the deck. "Who gave you permission to be here? Moonshine is reserved for noble wolves. Rogues have no business being on this cruise ship!" I turn around and see a she-wolf clad in a tailored gown and dazzling jewelry. She marches toward us and lets out a scoff after she scrutinizes Willow’s plain clothes and mine. "Whose maids are you? Or did you sneak onto the ship? How repulsive. The Moon Goddess blessed this part of the sea, and yet it's been tainted with the stench of poverty that both of you reek of." My expression immediately turns cold. "Moonshine is open to all invited patrons," I say. "If you don't like looking at other wolves, you should buy your own cruise ship." The she-wolf's expression darkens. She points an accusing finger at me and exclaims, "Do you have any idea who you're speaking to, you bitch? I'm Beatrice Quillo, and my mate is the future Alpha of the north! This entire stretch of sea is his territory. The luxury suite on this ship is open only to me! "Get on your knees and grovel for my forgiveness right now. If you don't, I'll teach you the consequences of getting on my bad side." Willow and I frown as we exchange glances. It's true that this part of the sea belongs to the north. However, the future Alpha of the north, Julian Layton, is Willow's only son—as well as the wolf I'm about to be mated with. When did Julian get another mate?