Male POV Cheating Short Stories & Novels

I have a poor sense of direction. I can go to the same place ten times and still not know how to get there. So, Aimee Thornton spends an entire week putting all the streets around school into a hand-drawn map for me. There are no directions on the map, only places named "The Convenience Store With the Yellow Dog at the Door" and "The Old Man Who Sells Terrible Tacos". She ruffles my hair and muses, "How is this one going to survive without me?" But everything changes when our friend, Dean Sullivan, comes home from abroad. During our trip, Aimee tells me to get out of the car and check if we've skidded. My feet have just touched the ground when the car speeds off. She texts me the next second. "There's a rest area about three miles ahead. Dean and I will wait for you there. Dean has a point. You'll never get over your poor sense of direction if I don't give you a push." I end up trekking through the torrential downpour for an hour, desperate and panicking. Aimee suddenly sends me a hand-drawn map with an arrow, and she's added a cute smiley face beside it. "Follow the map, and you'll be there in 20 minutes." Alas, I walk until my calves ache, only for the road to narrow and cut off in a dead end. I call Aimee, but Dean's lighthearted laughter greets me instead. "Hey, man, congratulations on taking the wrong way! "I made a bet with Aimee that you wouldn't notice the arrow she'd drawn on the map was deliberately pointing in the opposite direction. As it turns out, I know you better than she does. "And that means I'm the only one she gets to hang out with for the rest of the trip, since having you tag along will be too much trouble." I hear Aimee's indulgent laugh going off beside him. "A bet's a bet. Whatever you say goes, Dean." The price of codependency is too much for me—so much so that I'll be lost if Aimee decides to up and leave me. I wipe my tears dry. I want to find my way alone this time.

Lynette Kensington's rules took effect on the second day of our marriage. "Your monthly spending is capped at 2,000 dollars. For any single purchase over 100 dollars, photograph the receipt and send it to me for approval. It's not that I'm cheap. I'm helping you learn how to budget. You've never had any discipline with money," she claimed. I thought she had a point. So for three years, buying a single jacket meant budgeting for half the month, and replacing a pair of contact lenses meant waiting for her approval. Then, last month, I found a supplementary card statement tucked inside the pocket of her trench coat. The cardholder was Jayden Scott, her Administrative Director. The transactions from the previous three months: A luxury menswear boutique: 17,400 dollars. A high-end annual golf membership: 6,400 dollars. A Michelin-starred restaurant: 2,800 dollars. The total amounted to more than a year of my living expenses. I carefully refolded the statement exactly as I had found it and slipped it back into the same pocket. That night, Lynette came home and found me sitting with the ledger. "How much did you spend today?" she asked, barely sparing me a glance. I didn't look up. "25 dollars. 13 dollars on groceries, and 12 dollars on utilities." She gave a satisfied hum and walked into the study. But what I wrote on the last page of the ledger wasn't a number. It was my name, my signature on a divorce agreement she hadn't seen yet.

For the 37th time, Jonah Bellamy calls me to ask if he can borrow my wife, Celeste Rochester, for a day. His daughter, Iris Bellamy, is having a Family Day at school. Since all the other children have their mothers accompanying them, he doesn't want his daughter to be made fun of. Celeste takes one look at me before grabbing her coat and rushing out the door. Before crossing the threshold, she leaves me with her go-to excuse. "He's divorced and raising his daughter on his own. It must be hard for him. So, don't be so petty." However, that day is also the day our son, Kevin Heathcliff, has been looking forward to for three whole months—his parent-child performance. He sits backstage, clutching his costume, waiting for Celeste to arrive. Even after the event ends, she never shows up. When we get home, we see Celeste on a live broadcast on TV. She's wearing matching outfits with Jonah and Iris, and she lets him drape an arm affectionately around her shoulders. When the host asks how many years they've been married, she doesn't clarify. She simply looks up and adjusts his collar, her eyes overflowing with affection. Iris wraps her arms around Celeste's waist and loudly calls her "Mommy". The camera pans across the audience as applause and hoots erupt from all directions. Kevin stares at the screen quietly for a long while before tearing the drawing of our family of three in his arms in half. "Mommy's always being borrowed by other people, Daddy. From now on, let's stop waiting for her, okay?" I look into his teary eyes, and the last ember of hope in my heart completely dies out. I pull out my phone and send a message to my lawyer, Everett Preston. "Draw up the divorce agreement."

Five years ago, I lost my memory in a car accident. Eira Jones had claimed she was my beloved. She saved me, cared for me, and we naturally got married. For five years, I managed every aspect of our home for her. As I tended to her every need with unwavering devotion, I was convinced I was the happiest husband in the world. But as I was about to tidy up the study, I overheard Eira and her childhood sweetheart talking. “Eira, these past five years, Vedran Clarus has been utterly devoted to you. He just hasn’t chewed your food for you! I’m getting jealous.” Eira kissed his cheek affectionately. “Silly boy, those chores are his responsibility. I’d never let you do them.” Furious, I burst through the door and accused Reed Harris of being a shameless homewrecker. But to my shock, he showed his marriage certificate to Eira. He declared that I was the third wheel in their relationship. As we shoved each other about, my head slammed into the bookshelf, and my memories returned. Apparently, I was the sole heir to the city’s wealthiest, the Grant family. I watched as Eira ranted accusations at me, and the fair-faced, pretty boy in her arms feigned hurt. I turned and dialed my childhood sweetheart’s number. “Elena Gibson, your fiance is being bullied!”

In this world, there are more ways to deal with a problem than the problem itself. That applies just as well to cheating men. Rich men, especially, will go to absurd lengths just to have more women in their lives. There's no trick too low, no scheme too shameless. Take my boss, for example. He handed over his stunning mistress to me. Honestly, I suspected he couldn't perform in bed, because she came into my bedroom night after night.

To pay for my grandmother's medical treatment, I became the boyfriend of Camille Harrington, the heiress of a wealthy family. On our 10th anniversary, she sent me the address of a wedding venue and told me she was going to marry me. Overjoyed, I dressed for the occasion and went to the venue, convinced she'd finally fallen in love with me. But instead of coming to me, Camille rushed straight into the arms of her first love. Christopher Vaughn covered his forehead and let out a bitter laugh. "Camille, I lost. Just as you said, the servant you bought with money really is obedient." The guests had spent the entire day putting on a show at my expense. Now, they burst into laughter and mocked me for being such a fool. Camille, however, was delighted that I'd helped her win the game. She immediately promised to add another 200,000 dollars to my grandmother's medical expenses. What she didn't know was that my grandmother had already died, and with her death, my relationship with Camille had come to an end. But when I turned around and walked away, giving Camille and Christopher exactly what they wanted, Camille lost her mind and began searching for me all over the world.

For the ninth time, my wife chose to have an abortion for the sake of her ailing first love. This time, I did not stop her. Even when my grandfather flew into a fit of rage, his heart faltering as he called me a disgrace to the family, I stayed silent. The truth was that I had already decided to divorce her. In three days, I'd be leaving for Westmarch to begin my research. Until then, I have decided to grant her every wish. If she wanted me to hand over a promotion so her first love could take the credit, I gave it up without hesitation. If she wanted to bring him home to rest, I vacated the master bedroom on the spot. She beamed with satisfaction, praising me for finally learning to be "sensible." She promised that once he recovered, she would give me a child of my own. However, what she did not know was that there would be no next time.

Erin Greer values a good joke more than boundaries. She always says that we have to keep things fun if we want our relationship to last. So she and her childhood friend, Mark Levine, have a standing arrangement. They will orchestrate a surprise every year on our wedding anniversary—with all their friends playing along—just to see if I'll fall for it. Three years ago, she told Mark in front of me that she regretted marrying me. When I turned to leave, she laughed and pulled me back, saying I was too easily teased. Two years ago, she had Mark put divorce papers beside my pillow. After I signed them with a trembling hand, she laughed and said it was just a prank. Last year, she and Mark held a fake wedding and forced me to stand beside them as the best man. When I got upset, she shrugged it off, saying I was being too serious again. And this year, their surprise is even more outrageous. A guilty-looking Mark stands before me, holding a prenatal test report. "Richard, I'm sorry. Erin is pregnant with my child." Not only does Erin not explain herself, but she also stands obediently beside Mark. They exchange a look, as if waiting for me to break down in despair. I look at their faces as they struggle to hold back their laughter, and suddenly, I feel exhausted. This time, I don't get angry or make a scene. Instead, I take off my wedding ring. "I'm not playing along with this year's surprise."

Three years after his wife died, Simon Radcliffe went to file the school enrollment paperwork for his daughter, Poppy Radcliffe. Instead, he saw Eleanor Marlow, the wife he had buried, alive and well. She had one hand holding Poppy's and the other hooked through the arm of his brother, Jeremy Radcliffe. Simon was about to rush over and demand answers when his best friend, Kevin Sutton, held him back. "You've seen it now, Simon, so I might as well tell you. Eleanor never died. She faked her death to get away from you so she could marry Jeremy. Everyone else already knows." All of it was because Jeremy had been diagnosed with a terminal illness and wanted to know what having a real family felt like before he died. Simon's best friend had lied to him just to give Jeremy that, and his wife and daughter too. Even his own mother had sided with Jeremy, her adopted son. Simon was left with nothing but despair. If this was what they all wanted, he would give it to them and disappear from their lives for good.

It was the day of our marriage. We were supposed to meet up at the City Hall, but my fiancee stood me up. I waited for her the whole day, and the only answer I got was a picture from her assistant. My girlfriend sat astride on his lap, and her arms were wrapped around his neck while they were locked in a deep kiss. "Sorry, Mr. Terraton. Sophie insisted on comforting me. You don't mind, do you?" I demanded answers from my girlfriend, but that only made her impatient. "He donated his blood to me. Yeah, I was with him, but so what? Man up, will you?" That killed any love I had for her, and I called my soon-to-be ex-girlfriend's sister. "Hey, Sylvie. Yeah, about your proposal. So will you marry me?"

Ten minutes before my childhood friend, Scott Burdett, got married, I personally handed him a bouquet of condoms. He laughed and asked, "Aren't you worried I'll be tapped out by morning?" Caitlyn Harp stood off to one side, her expression hard to read. After Scott left, she adjusted her earrings and studied my reflection in the mirror. "Actually, I'm the one marrying him today. I'm going to use up every last one of those condoms you bought tonight." I froze. She laughed. "Just kidding. I'll explain everything after the ceremony." After that, time seemed to blur. I stood in the best man's spot and watched the two people I loved most walk down the aisle and exchange rings before the officiant.

When my 520th flight touches down, I find my girlfriend—someone who has never once picked me up from the airport—waiting for me there in the terminal. Lindsay Shire is holding a bouquet of air-freighted roses and a velvet box with a diamond ring sparkling inside. The moment she drops to one knee, a collective, stunned gasp ripples through the crowd. We've been together for ten years, and this is the first time she's ever indicated that she wants to marry me. Pretending to keep my composure, I slip the ring onto my finger. My voice trembles as I say, "Lindsay, we—" But she suddenly laughs and glances to the side, one eyebrow arched smugly. "I told you he'd say yes. I won the bet. Hand over the painting." I freeze as a wave of cruel laughter erupts behind me. A whole crowd of wealthy socialites and trust-fund babies saunters over, led by none other than Trent Morasca—Lindsay's former fiance. He's laughing so hard that he's nearly in tears. "I was wondering why you kept him around for so long," Trent jeers. "If I had a lapdog this obedient, I wouldn't have the heart to kick him to the curb, either." Then he turns to me. "I heard you grew a backbone this time after your fight and actually moved out of Amber Estate. But the minute Lindsay crooks her finger, you come running back?" One of the rich heirs thrusts his camera into my face. "Guys, look at him! He actually fell for it! He's so moved he's actually got tears in his eyes!" "Lindsay, I think he's going to latch onto you now and demand you take responsibility!" he adds, before breaking into loud laughter. Lindsay shoots them a sideways glance, and the crowd instantly falls silent. For once, she actually bothers to explain. "It's Grandpa's 80th birthday, and I couldn't find a suitable gift in time. "Trent just won the 'Misty Peaks' painting at an auction last week, and you know how much Grandpa loves stuff like that. So, we made a bet. "As long as you accept my proposal, the painting would be mine."

On the day of my wedding, my groomsman, Steve Hayes, asks my bride, Vera Johnson, three questions. Both she and her bridesmaids will get money and a gold necklace each if she answers the questions correctly. I assume that she's determined to win, but surprisingly, she gets the first question wrong. "What's Colin's shoe size?" "Size 9," Vera replies without hesitation. "What's Colin's favorite color?" "Blue." Everyone exchanges glances with each other, feeling a little awkward. Steve asks Vera the easiest question. "When did Colin graduate from university?" Everyone believes that Vera won't get this question wrong. After all, we are university classmates. "2013," Vera answers. "I gave him a protective charm from Mt. Cloudpeak as his graduation gift. There's no way that I'll forget that." Panic grips my heart at that moment. I glance at my best friend, Steve, who's dressed in a blue groomsman suit. There's a protective charm hanging on the necklace around his neck. Steve's eyes flash before he whispers, "Colin graduated in 2012. The one who was held back was me." I'm struck by a realization. The last hint of hesitation in my heart disappears. The corners of my lips curl up into a smile as I look down to send my family a message. "Mom, Dad, can you drive the car over? I'm not getting married anymore."

At our engagement party, my sister said she saw my fiancee at the hospital for a prenatal checkup. Inga Lane looked at me nervously, then smiled and handed the test results to our parents. “I’m one month pregnant.” Both families were over the moon. I was the only one who could not smile. After everyone left, Inga said, “I’m sorry. I’m pregnant. I was drunk that night. The baby is Xion’s.” I clenched my fists and tried to stay calm. “Then, why did you come to the engagement today?” She leaned toward me and said, “Don’t worry. I’m not going to marry Xion. He has cancer. He doesn’t have much time left. “We grew up together. He’s the only child in his family. I just wanted to give him a child to carry on his family line.”

After graduation, my girlfriend, Ada Tyler, drove me home to meet my parents. Except Owen—my little brother—had already claimed the front seat. He flashed me a smug grin. "You cool with that, Jace?" Ada sighed. "He gets carsick. He needs the front. Can you sit in back? Please?" At a rest stop, I got in line for her favorite iced Americano. When I came back, the car was gone. All I had was a voicemail. "Owen's stomach hurts. I'm taking him to the hospital. Find your own way home." Behind her, Owen was laughing. Rain came down hard. Three buses and five hours later, I finally made it home. The second I reached the door, Dad laughed. "Ada, you really know how to take care of people. Owen would be lucky to marry you." Mom patted her shoulder. "You're exactly the kind of woman I want for my son." I pushed the door open. The whole room went dead silent.

Queenie Gibbs had a habit of breaking down anything that couldn't be quantified into data, then scoring and evaluating it. Love was no exception. She didn't want children, so I went and got a vasectomy without being asked. Plus five points. When her mother, Charice Gibbs, was hospitalized, I put my entire life savings toward the medical bills. Plus two points. In our third year together, I finally scored high enough to clear her bar for marriage. I'd always believed that as the youngest top-tier data analyst in the country, she simply carried the rationality of her work into our relationship. It didn't mean she didn't love me. Then, the day before our premarital checkup, a notification popped up on her phone. [Subject B: Last night's physical data has been logged.] I tapped it open and found a chart comparing two men. Subject A was me: stability 97, lifestyle compatibility 95, physical attraction 88. Subject B was Bill Hutley, the project consultant who had just joined her company. He scored lower than me on the first two, but his physical attraction was a 99. Below the chart was a video file that had been left open. It was only a dozen or so seconds long, and the footage shook badly. Queenie was pinned beneath him, panting in a way I had never heard before. At the very bottom was one more line: [Recommend increasing intimacy samples.] That night, I pushed the phone in front of her. "'Increase samples.' What does that mean?" Queenie was silent for two seconds. "Exactly what you think it means." "How many times did you sleep with him?" "Seven." She answered methodically, "The first time could have been a fluke, so I verified it six more times." I laughed, but she frowned at me. "You don't need to be bothered by this. In the current overall rankings, you're still number one. Our wedding isn't getting canceled, either." She even explained earnestly, "Marriage is a lifelong decision. I'm just eliminating the margin of error before I get married." In that moment, she was still calculating her margin of error, and I was already done being her sample.

In the seventh year of my long-distance relationship with my girlfriend Quinn Summers, I quit my job without telling her and traveled more than six-hundred miles to Oceanton. I only wanted to surprise her and ask her to marry me. When the receptionist heard I was looking for Quinn, her expression slightly shifted. "Our CEO Ms. Summers is still in a meeting. Please wait a moment." I was surprised. Quinn had never told me she had been promoted. During our video call last week, she had even complained about how stressful work was and how far away a promotion felt. When I turned around, I heard the receptionist whispering to her coworker. "So… This is the guy Ms. Summers is keeping on the side? Seriously, he has some nerve, coming all the way to the company." "If Mr. Gomez finds out Ms. Summers is cheating during their marriage, this is going to be very bad." I was about to turn back and tell them they had the wrong person. Quinn was not married, and I was her real boyfriend of ten years. But before I could speak, a man in a black suit walked in from the revolving door. The receptionists immediately fell silent and greeted him with deep respect. "Mr. Gomez." The man was on the phone, his voice low and gentle. "Honey, I'm downstairs. You must come with me to your prenatal checkup today!" A clear female voice came through the phone, agonizingly sweet. "I know, honey. The meeting's almost over. Wait for me at the guest lounge." I had listened to that voice for seven years. I knew it far too well. It was my girlfriend, Quinn.

In the seventh year of being a caretaker for my comatose wife, Gwen Anderson, I got a well-paid job request. [Accompany my wife for her pregnancy check. I’m paying ten thousand dollars for a half-day task.] When I arrived at the hospital, I saw Gwen, who was supposedly in a coma, smiling as she talked on the phone. “It’s just a check-up. It’s not my first time being pregnant anyway. Why do you have to hire someone to accompany me? “That’s right. I bought the mansion located in the south of the city. It’s only a few hundred million dollars. Just treat it as your birthday gift for this year! “Why are you bringing Zac up? If he didn’t fake his illness on the day you came back to the country, we wouldn’t have wasted a month! “I pretended to be in a coma for seven years so he would pay off my debt. That is the punishment he deserves.” I was stunned. To pay off the debt, I sold my assets, my company, and even my family heirloom. Just as I was about to step forward, Gwen said cruelly, “Alright, I’ll listen to you. I’m tired of pretending for so many years anyway.” The next second, my phone buzzed. It was a text. [Zac, I’ve woken up.]

My girlfriend, Emma Marshall, had hearing loss and was always claiming she misheard me. I asked her to pick up a gaming setup. She came home with two. "I must've heard you wrong again. Kevin can take the extra one." I asked her to order tacos. She got sushi instead. "Sorry, I heard you wrong. Kevin loves sushi, though. We should invite him over." Then I spent months planning every detail of the home we were supposed to build together and asked her to buy a place in Blackmere. On the day we were supposed to go see it, she drove straight to Carlifield instead. She didn't seem to notice anything was wrong until she realized I hadn't said a word the entire drive. "I'm sorry. I really thought you said you liked the scenery in Carlifield, so when I found this place, I bought it without thinking twice." But Kevin Stone, her childhood best friend, worked only a few minutes away. She hadn't misheard me. She just never cared enough to listen. Something inside me went completely still. For once, I didn't argue. I didn't ask for an explanation. I didn't even feel angry. I just looked at her and said calmly, "Emma, I think we should break up."

After an argument with my wife, Joan Newman, I momentarily stepped out of the car to pick up a package. When I returned, our son, Jimmy Newman, was gone. From that moment, I searched for him like a madman. Each waking hour was consumed by guilt. My mother-in-law blamed me. My mother cried herself to sleep. Joan jabbed a finger at my head and screamed, “Why are you still alive? If you don’t find our son, I’m divorcing you!” From that day forward, for four long years, I gave up my career and my life. I traveled across the country almost a hundred times searching for my son, only to be met with disappointment every single time. My body became covered in scars from self-harm. I fell into severe depression. By the hundredth trip, I could no longer summon the will to face another defeat. I swallowed an entire bottle of sleeping pills. As death closed in, I heard Joan talking to her childhood friend, Randy Kilk. “Joan, you’ve tormented him long enough. When are you going to tell Steven that the boy was never missing? I can’t wait to see the look on his face.” Joan laughed and casually said, “There’s no hurry. He forced me to abort our child, so now, he is suffering the consequences. When he finally understands his sins, I may consider telling him.” So, the inhuman torment I had endured for four years had been nothing more than her punishment. As a final tear rolled down my cheek, my soul left my body. Joan, you got exactly what you wanted.