Cerita Pendek & Novel Male POV Cheating

In my hometown, boys are expected to make their own wine by stomping on grapes from a young age. The wine will be given to their future wives and drunk on their wedding day. Since college, Suzanne Landon and I have left our hometown to make our fortunes elsewhere. Now that we've achieved success, we return home. The bottle of wine I've been keeping for 28 years can finally be opened. I know how much of a germaphobe Suzanne is. So, I deliberately replace my wine with a store-bought bottle for the Cherry Blossom Festival, even though I know it's against tradition. Just as I'm about to tell her the secret, I overhear her talking to her friends outside the door. "If you drink Finley's wine, then according to our local customs, you'd have to marry him. Wouldn't Chadwick be pissed?" "Exactly. Chadwick has already opened his bottle of wine. If no one drinks it, wouldn't it be embarrassing for him?" Suzanne laughs nonchalantly and says, "There's no way he'll leave me. He's even replaced the wine for my sake. Besides, his wine has been aged for 28 years. Who would possibly drink that? Finley's has only been aged for 20 years. I've heard that's the sweetest. "Even though I've chosen Finley, I won't mistreat Chadwick. If no one else is willing to marry him, I suppose I could always give him a place to stay by my side." It feels as though a hole has opened in my heart, and the cutting cold wind howled through it. I slowly pull my hand back. I'm not unwanted, and it's not like I have to marry her. I open the message that arrives every year without fail and type a few words before hitting send. "Are you still willing to marry me?" The reply comes almost instantly. "Wait for me."

When Ryder's professor sent him yet another email, he glanced around his cold, empty home. Faced with Seth's relentless provocations, Ryder made up his mind—he would leave Laura. With the wedding fast approaching, Ryder decided to give Laura the perfect ceremony—one that would please both her and Seth. His departure, however, would be the biggest surprise of the event. But after Ryder walked away, Laura looked at the groom standing at the altar, lost control, and destroyed the wedding in a fit of madness.

On my birthday, Heather Pond’s lover posted a sonogram on his social media account and captioned it, [We’re going to be parents!] I commented, [Congratulations. You can have the baby cot from my place.] The next second, Heather called me to give me a warning. “Brandon Smith is dying. I’ll come back to you once I give birth to his child. Please don’t trigger him any further!” I remained calm and collected when I served her the divorce papers. Then, I packed my bags and went on a vacation in Europe.

My fiancee, Winona Ziegler, moves her childhood sweetheart, Caeden Gardner, who has just come back from abroad, into our future marital home. When ordering takeout, I add an eight-dollar omelette and a five-dollar caramelized onion soup to the order, but Winona deletes them all in disgust. "Caeden can't stand the smell of onions. Do you want to make him throw up? Can't you just have some plain water?" Moments later, she orders a seafood feast worth a thousand dollars for him, complete with king crabs and a premium seafood boil. Holding a glass of plain water, I watch her fuss over Caeden with endless concern. Then, my phone vibrates. My bank account has just been charged 1,000 dollars. She uses my money to spoil her childhood sweetheart, yet refuses to even buy me an omelette that costs eight dollars. Five years of love completely fall apart in that moment. This time, I don't argue or beg like I used to. I simply pick up my phone and press "Freeze Authorized User Card".

I'd just put the condom on when someone started pounding on the door. My wife, Jocelyn Gill, shoved me aside, panic all over her face. I shot a glare at the door. Her adopted brother, Calvin Tyler, stood there, flushed, staring at her. The bulge in his pants wasn't subtle. "Jocelyn, please help me. I feel awful. I think I'm having an episode!" Seeing him like that, nothing like before, my temper snapped. "Then go get treated. Why are you barging into your sister's room? You got no shame? You can't even get married because of this, so now you're wrecking mine?" Jocelyn rushed over and slapped me. "Finley, how can you say that? Calvin's still a kid. How could he think something that disgusting? Before his parents died, they asked me to take care of him. I'm a psychiatrist—if I don't treat him, how do I face them? You're acting nothing like a brother-in-law. Apologize to Calvin right now, or we're getting divorced!" In two years of marriage, I'd lost count of how many times she'd pulled that card over Calvin. Back then, I'd risked my life just to win her. She thought I'd never leave. She was wrong. This time, I was done loving her.

After getting ready for bed, I lay down and made a video call to my girlfriend as usual. Instead of answering, she sent me a text message. [My family is making me get engaged to Dean Yates. This is the end of the line for us.] Ever since she reunited with her wealthy birth family, I had been worried that this would happen eventually. Despite my worries, it came anyway. When I tried to text her again, all I saw was a glaring red exclamation point. A few days later, her engagement party was trending online. I opened the video, and I could feel the chills in my spine. That was not her. I immediately called the police. "Hello, I need to report a murder at the Gomez Estate." The officer on the other side asked, "Who's the victim? What's your relationship with her?" My voice trembled as I answered. "Her name is Opal. Opal Lane. And my name is Tommy Fletcher. I'm her...ex-boyfriend."

When Camille Prescott's young lover, Bryce Whitfield, threatens suicide yet again, she postpones our wedding. This is the ninth time in five months. Everyone thinks I'm a joke. This time, I refuse to back down. I stare at Camille intently and ask, "Are we getting married or not?" In my previous life, due to my meekness, I allowed the wedding to be delayed again and again. My mom was so furious that she ended up in the hospital. I went to speak with Bryce, hoping to resolve things peacefully. Instead, he accused me of trying to drive him to suicide. Then, he deliberately pushed me off a balcony. I survived, but I was left paralyzed and stripped of all dignity. Not only did Camille refuse to hold him accountable, but she even pinned the blame on me and said that I was asking for it. Consumed by despair, I pulled out my own oxygen tube. After getting a second chance at life, I finally understand one thing—I should never have wasted my entire life on a piece of trash like her.

My wife, Ariel Sweeney, would always buy me a new watch every time she cheated on me. We'd been married for four years, and I'd already collected 99 watches. That also meant I'd forgiven her 99 times too. This time, she went on a business trip for three days, and returned with a Patek Philippe watch worth ten million dollars for me. I then knew that it was time we got a divorce.

Our son's birthday celebration had just come to an end when my wife of seven years smiled and asked, "What do you think about one wife having two husbands?" "What?" I stared at her, certain I had misheard. Before I could make sense of the question, my half-brother walked in, holding a three-year-old boy’s hand. I was still trying to process what was happening when Nancy leaned back with casual ease. "I asked them to come." She reached down and took the little boy's hand, her smile impossibly gentle. "Let me introduce you. This is my son with Julian. "He was born the year you were stationed overseas to manage the Scott family's branch office." The words made my mind explode, leaving it completely blank. She calmly revealed the truth. She and Julian had been together for four years. "I know you've always blamed Julian for your father's death. “I suffered through hiding them for four years out of consideration for you." Her gaze never wavered. "I don’t want them living in the shadows anymore. I want them here by my side." I struggled to stay on my feet, my voice trembling as I forced out the words. "What are you saying?" Nancy raised a hand and gently brushed her fingertips beneath my reddened eyes. "I just want you to be a little more generous. Don't interfere when I spend every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday with them." After a brief pause, she added matter-of-factly, "Or you can divorce me, but our son will stay with me." She smiled as though she were discussing nothing more important than the weather. "I just don't care about you anymore. Even if our son stays with me, I can't promise I'll take good care of him." Ignoring the color draining from my face, she looked at me indifferently. "So… "Have you decided which option to choose?"

After being forced to give my wife's first love my heart, I died in the hallway of the private hospital she had personally founded. My six-year-old son, Ash, had already begged her thrice by the time I had drawn my last breath. The first time was when he tugged on her hand, saying I was coughing up blood. Sneering, she claimed, "So he's finally learned something—teaching his kid how to lie." Then, she had the bodyguards throw him out of the room. The second time was when he clung to her sleeve, insisting that I rambled nonsense due to the pain. "It's just a heart transplant," she opined with a frown. "The doctor already said he won't die." At that, the bodyguards stepped in again and dragged him away. The third time was when he fell to the ground, clutching her pant leg with all his strength, crying that I had already passed out. She finally lost her temper by this point, grabbing Ash by the throat and hurling him out of the room. "I have already said it—Howard isn't going to die. Dare to disturb Skye's rest again, and I'll throw both of you out of this hospital," she warned. To save me, my son pawned the most precious thing he owned—his St. Christopher medal—to a nurse. "Ma'am," he said. "I don't need to live a long life. I just want my dad to live." She accepted the medal and was about to arrange for me to be transferred to the last available room. However, my wife's first love, Skye Whitley, had someone block the doorway with his pet dog. He mentioned, "Sorry, kid. Your mom's worried I'll get bored if I can't see my dog. This room is reserved for him."

On our wedding anniversary, my wife, Yvonne Ashby, who has never set foot in the kitchen before, prepares a feast. Every time I take a bite, she eagerly asks me what I think and carefully writes down my feedback. At one point, she goes into our bedroom to answer a call. It's the custom ringtone for her assistant, Michael Holden. I casually pick up the notebook Yvonne left behind and leaf through it, only to discover that it is filled with detailed notes about things that have nothing to do with me. "The green beans are a little undercooked. Michael probably won't like them." "The mushrooms are a little too salty. Remember to use less salt when you make them for Michael." "The lamb is too gamey. Replace lamb with beef when you make it for Michael." Yvonne comes back and reaches for her notebook, only to catch me holding it. "Samson Camden, you really have no manners, do you? When did I ever give you permission to touch my belongings?" I'm about to respond when an excruciating pain shoots through my head, and Yvonne's figure begins to blur and double before my eyes. "Yvonne, I'm feeling a little unwell. It's probably because the green beans were undercooked…" "In that case, I'd better write this down so I cook them longer when I make them for Michael." Ignoring me, she scribbles in her notebook and hurries toward the door. "I'm heading out. You have such a strong immune system. If you don't feel well, just take some medicine." Before passing out, I call Yvonne one more time. However, her impatient voice comes through the phone. "Is it really that serious? Are you dying? Call me when you're dead!" I think to myself, "Yvonne Ashby, I'll never reach out to you again."

Late one night, my wife called me, her voice carrying a hint of apology. "Drew, I'm sorry. I cheated." Everyone in our lives knew she loved me more than anything. So how could she possibly cheat? After realizing it was April Fool's Day, I replied with a smile, "I cheated too." She didn't sound surprised at all. Instead, she seemed relieved. "That's good. At least I don't feel as guilty now. "The divorce papers are in the second drawer of the study. Just sign them." I was about to tell her she was putting on a pretty convincing act when the call suddenly ended. Smiling, I opened the drawer and froze. The divorce agreement was real, with her unmistakable signature at the bottom of the final page. My eyes stung as I reached for my phone, about to ask whether this was really some kind of joke, when a message arrived from one of my wife's graduate students. [Mr. Jensen, so it turns out you cheated too. In that case, just step aside already. Then Ms. Jones and I can finally celebrate our first anniversary out in the open!]

On the 1,001st day, Ruby Anderson still hadn't shown up at the city hall. The staff member tapped on the rejected application form and laughed at me mockingly. "Mr. Scott, this makes a thousand times, You should set a time with Ms. Anderson before coming back. "Stop wasting everyone's time." Everyone knew that Ruby was the richest person in this city. She had very limited time. When she was happy, everyone would respectfully address me as "Mr. Scott". However, when she was upset, I would be treated even worse than her nanny. Everyone would take a dig at me. They seemed to have forgotten that she was the one who proposed to me 99 times with roses. She had told the whole world that I was the only man she wanted to marry. I naively believed that she was always too busy. Until I found 997 used condoms locked inside her safe. Each one was labeled with the time and place, along with the name of her first love. This time, I didn't ask her again when we were going to register our marriage. Instead, I called that number, my voice calm. "Please reserve one application form for the memory-erasure experiment for me."

After six whole months of renovations, I feel like an outsider in the very home where I'm supposed to be the man of the house. At six feet three inches tall, I have to bend far over the bathroom sink just to wash my hands, and water keeps splashing onto my pant legs. The closet rods are ridiculously low, and even raising my arms slightly causes my elbows to hit the cabinet doors. But when Julian Parker walks in, everything fits him perfectly. At five feet nine inches, it's as if the entire house has been custom-built for him. He casually hangs his jacket by the entrance and leans against the kitchen island. "This counter really is the perfect height. I don't even have to raise my arms to chop vegetables or wash fruit." My fiancée, Claire Bennett, looks pleased with herself as she smiles and agrees. "Of course. We based all the measurements on yours." Only when she sees my expression darken does she offer a halfhearted explanation. "The designer was rushing me, and you were working late, so I just used Julian's measurements. Don't be upset. I'll buy you some taller chairs later. You can wash your hands sitting down, can't you?" I've poured my entire savings into what I thought would be a home for Claire and me, only to discover that she's made it a perfect home for another man. I give a bitter smile. If that's how things stand, I'm done with the house. And I'm done with her, too.

Caitlin Wiggins' assistant, Bryan Shepard, complains about a client's bad breath, causing the company's project to be ruined. I do everything I can to help Bryan salvage the situation. But all I do is remind Bryan to watch his words, and yet he has the audacity to pin the blame on me. "Zane, your incapability is the reason why the client got mad at us. I used my family's resources to help you salvage the situation out of the kindness of my heart, you know! How could you accuse me like that?" Despite knowing the truth, Caitlin still chooses to side with Bryan. The punishment she issues me is a one-month suspension from my position. On top of that, I need to transfer the project to Bryan. Everyone in the meeting room turns to look at me. They think I'll definitely argue with Caitlin and fight for my rights. But I just hand over the rights of the project to Bryan obediently. Seeing as I've finally learned my lesson, Caitlin happily promises me that she'll marry me once the project turns out to be a huge success and that she gets promoted to the CEO's position. But what she doesn't know is that the client isn't Bryan's relative at all, but rather, my own uncle, Donovan Eaton. It all depends on me whether or not he wishes to continue working with Caitlin's company. In fact, I don't plan on helping Caitlin clean up her mess anymore. When the time comes, not only will she lose her promotion, but she'll also get kicked out of the company.

There was a lottery at my wedding with Lumi White, and her best friend Sirius Lynch won our new house. I quickly thought I should refuse, but Lumi agreed to it right away. "Winner's keepers." I fought against my rage, thinking this could wait until the wedding was over. However, as the lottery continued, my best friend Carl Singer won my wedding ring, my brother-in-law won my grandfather's pendant, and Lumi's other best friend won my necktie. They swarmed me, catching me off guard, grabbing and pulling whatever they had won viciously. Skrrrt! My shirt was shredded as I was left standing there while everyone laughed out loud. Even as I crossed my arms to protect my modesty, I turned toward Lumi with a look of distress. However, she was busy swiping through Sirius' photo album on his phone, arguing who had taken the better photos. "See? Just look at Hal's face when I said I was giving you the new house." "No way! Mine's better—the way he crossed his arms looks just like a gorilla! It's so memeworthy!" Hundreds of photos flooded the chat group, all of them laughing at them. I had no idea what was so amusing about my tears and despair, so I turned and looked Lumi in the eye. "This wedding is over."

My stomach cramped with pain. Lisa Witherspoon said she'd go buy me some hot milk, but she came back with a room-temperature one instead. When I asked her about it, she brushed it off. "I ran into Freddy on the way. He said he wanted something hot, so I gave it to him. Room temperature's basically the same anyway." Standing in the cold November wind, I thought about the past three years, every single time Lisa had chosen Freddy Bateman over me, and I suddenly felt like none of it meant anything anymore. I heard my own voice, perfectly calm, saying, "Let's break up." She looked at me like it was a joke. "So which of my social media accounts are you going to block this time?" What she didn't know was that before I ever said the word breakup, I'd already applied to a top university, Monarch University. This time, I was really leaving.

My wife’s twenty-two-year-old “charity case” put a box of condoms in front of her while every executive at our company watched. Our home security feed had accidentally appeared on the conference-room screen. “You promised me one wish if I got into a top master’s program,” he said. My wife smiled. “Yes.” Then he kissed her—and she kissed him back. That night, she begged me to forgive her. She even signed an agreement: if she cheated again, I would get everything. Less than half an hour later, I photographed them kissing outside our gate. But that wasn’t enough for her. Three days later, her lover stormed into my office, slammed his own forehead into my desk, and screamed that I’d attacked him. My wife believed him. “You’ll apologize publicly tomorrow,” she told me. “Then announce your resignation.” We had founded that company together. I had financed it. Now she wanted me humiliated and gone. “All right,” I said. “I’ll be there.” At ten the next morning, she sat at the head of the table. Her lover smiled from the back. I handed everyone a copy of the documents my attorney had prepared. My wife opened hers. Her smile vanished. “Ansel… you can’t do this.” I looked at the signature she’d given me three nights earlier. “You already agreed.”

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.

The day I found out my wife, Madison Anderson, had a secret three-year-old son with someone else, was the day I wired our house with explosives. I was prepared to end it all, with her by my side. Only that night, Madison never came home. I sat hollow and numb until my 10-month-old daughter suddenly called out, "Da-da." That single word shattered my resolve. She breathed life back into me. And so, I grabbed the most expensive car in the garage and sped away, detonating the explosives from beyond the gates. I drove straight to the airport, uncaring of the fiery wreckage that I left behind. From that night forward, the man Havenport had ridiculed as the Anderson family's worthless son-in-law vanished without a trace. Five years later, our paths crossed again at a boutique inn in Bellmont. Madison stared at me as I politely handed her the room key. For a moment, she looked lost. "Travis.... you seem different." I simply smiled and wished them a pleasant stay as a family of three.