Cerita Pendek Melodramatic & Novel Male POV Marriage

Ever since my wife, Delia Sutcliffe, and Jensen Pike become an on-screen couple, accidents keep finding me. The first time, funeral wreaths line our front door, and someone swaps our Home Sweet Home sign for a funeral notice. The second time, someone douses me with a bucket of pig's blood outside my office building. The third time, a car hits me while I'm walking down the street, and I spend three months stuck in bed. Every time I fight with Delia about it, she brushes it off. "Those people just get a little carried away. If you'd listened to me and stayed home, none of this would've happened." Then, the tenth time comes. A fire breaks out in our house for no apparent reason, I end up with burns all over my body, and the doctors fight for seven days in the ICU to save my life. The day I wake up in the hospital, Delia hands me a set of divorce papers. "Jensen and I still have to work together for a while, and we need to get married to keep the buzz going. Let's divorce first, and we'll remarry once it's over. "You know it's just for publicity." This time, I don't explode. I calmly sign my name.

The first week after I married into Claire Smith's family, her grandfather looked at me across a table full of relatives and said calmly, "From now on, keep your mouth shut and do as you're told." Claire did not say a word in my defense. She did not even look up at me. Yet when we returned to our room that night, she bought me a brand-new watch that had just been released. For the next three years, her younger brother ordered me around like I was his servant, while her mother repeatedly pointed a finger in my face and accused me of living off her daughter. At the family Christmas dinner every year, I was never given a seat at the head table. At the company's annual dinner, I could not even get a proper seat. Every time it happened, Claire would make it up to me afterward with a gift and a few words of comfort. "Just hang in there a little longer. Once I become general manager, I'll finally have a real say in this family." I believed her, so I endured it for three whole years. That all changed when Hank Lawson, a young man Claire had been supporting through a scholarship, joined the company. Hank completely botched a multimillion-dollar project, yet Claire did not criticize him once during the meeting. Instead, she took responsibility for his mistake in front of the entire executive team. "He's still young. He needs time to learn." At the Christmas dinner that year, Hank clumsily knocked over an antique teapot that Claire's grandfather had treasured for years. It hit the floor and shattered, sending pieces of ceramic skittering across the room. Claire immediately grabbed Hank's hand and carefully checked his fingers for cuts, then she looked up at her grandfather. "Grandpa, don't scare him." On Hank's birthday, Claire rented out an entire ballroom at a hotel for the celebration. Almost everyone from the company showed up. They gathered around the two of them, laughing and raising their glasses, as if they were celebrating an engagement rather than a birthday. It was only then that I finally understood. Claire was not incapable of standing up for someone. She simply had never been willing to stand up for me. This time, I did not fight it. I pulled out my phone and called my brother. When he answered, I was silent for a few seconds. I finally said, "I lost. I'm ready to come back and help you."

My wife, Wendy Sinclair, has a severe sleepwalking disorder. After she falls asleep, she always wanders out in a state of unconsciousness. The night before our wedding, she disappears without a word. I have no choice but to postpone our wedding. Only then does she walk out of her childhood friend's house next door, rubbing her sleepy eyes. Afraid I might overthink, she cries and apologizes to me. "There's no cure for my condition. From now on, just tie me up when I sleep, okay?" I feel sorry for her, so I just change the door lock to make sure she cannot go out. But in the middle of the night, I wake up and see her standing on the edge of the balcony. She climbs in through the window and goes into her childhood friend's house again. Soon, suggestive and intimate sounds come from inside. My blood runs cold. Her sleepwalking isn't an illness at all—it is out of love.

My wife, Ivy Hart, is about to give birth to the baby she conceived with Toby Clayton, her first love. Her parents hire ten bodyguards to stand guard outside the delivery room. Cora Norris, Ivy's mother, takes Ivy's hand and remarks, "Don't worry, Ivy. We'll make sure he can't get within two feet of you! Your dad is standing guard outside with the bodyguards. If he dares to stop you from having the baby, we'll report him to the police!" Ivy nods, her complexion pale, but she instinctively looks toward the door anyway. She doesn't see why I can't be more understanding of her. All she wants to do is help Toby have a child to carry on his family name. The birth proceeds without me showing up to cause a scene. She smiles gladly when she sees the crying baby in the nurse's arms. She thinks to herself that if I visit her tomorrow, she is willing to forget all about our previous fights. She is even willing to let me be the baby's father. What she doesn't know is that I've already submitted my application to the Alliance of Nations. In seven days, I will be leaving the country to become a field doctor for the Frontline Medical Corp, a humanitarian organization. I won't be coming back ever again.

On the day of our wedding, all the guests take their seats, and the photographers and lighting crew are ready to go. The emcee announces, "Please welcome the bride, Lana Bowen!" Even though he has repeated himself three times, Lana is still nowhere to be seen. I call Lana, and she only picks up on my fifth try. I can hear the noisy bustle of a mall in the background. "Mark, Nick says he wants to be your groomsman. He's picking out a suit right now. Give me an hour. Once Nick gets changed and gets his hair done, we'll head over." My palms are getting clammy as I softly say, "Lana, this is our wedding day, not some casual get-together." She clicks her tongue. "Mark Waters, it's not like I said I wasn't going. Nick's going to be your groomsman. I can't exactly have him showing up in a T-shirt and shorts, can I?" My good friend Robert Decker is so mad that he's ready to give her a piece of his mind, but she hangs up the moment Nicholas Sampson calls her name. The emcee comes over and asks if we should postpone the ceremony. I turn to my parents, who are waiting expectantly, then to my future in-laws, who have looks of disdain on their faces. "Start on schedule, but change the bride's name." I tap Robert on the shoulder. "Get your sister to help me out and go through the wedding with me instead."

Grandma lay bedridden, her dementia taking hold as she repeated Scarlett Hayes's name over and over. Tears streamed down my face as I dialed my wife's number. When she picked up, Scarlett sounded irritated. She said she was working late tonight and would call me back when she was free. I could clearly hear the sound of a man's laughter in the background. The moment I hung up, Grandma gasped sharply. She called out my wife's name. It was her last breath. While I sat drowning in grief, Scarlett's male best friend Chase Morrison posted a video update, geotagged at a couples' hotel. In the video, their fingers were laced together. The woman's arm bore a distinctive black mole I recognized instantly. The caption read: "When two hearts become one, why care what anyone else thinks?" In that moment, my heart turned to ash. I gritted my teeth and left a comment. "Let's file for divorce tomorrow. Then you two can be together openly and legally. You'll even save on the hotel fees. Win-win, right?"

On the day of the World Racing Championship, my race car spins out of control and plunges off a cliff. I use every ounce of my strength to call my wife, Giselle Stewart, for help, but she chooses to ignore me. All I hear through my headset is her icy voice. "I told you that you'd regret this, Craig Dorsey." She then turns her back to me, walking away to celebrate her "nephew", Dennis Turner, who wins the championship in the end. Meanwhile, I plummet down the cliff, shatter my spine, and am left paralyzed from the waist down. I'm then reduced to a wretched existence in a wheelchair. Six years later, Giselle finds me just as debt collectors are pinning me to the ground and beating me into a pulp. Her eyes well up with tears. "I spent six years searching for you everywhere! Why didn't you come home if you were alive?" I don't answer her. The truth is that every last bit of love I had for her vanishes completely on that day.

My whole family was sent to prison. I was forced to marry into the household of the regent princess in order to keep them safe. On our wedding night, she pinned me on the bed and twirled herself all around me like we were deeply in love. When morning came, I thought I had protected my family. But then the royal decree arrived. My entire family had been sentenced to execution. I kneeled outside the princess' residence and begged for mercy. I groveled until my forehead bled, but still, I refused to stop. The princess looked down at me and sneered. "Michael Shaw, if your father hadn't leaked the secret, I would never have ended up in that deadly situation. My leg would never have been broken."

Six weeks before their wedding, Marielle Rousseau tells Dorian Halberg she wants to have another man's baby. When he refuses, she brings it up day after day. Fifteen days before the ceremony, Dorian finds her pregnancy report. She's already nearly a month along. She never intended to wait for his consent. In that moment, the love he's carried for years begins to disappear. Dorian cancels the wedding, destroys the keepsakes of their relationship, and on what should have been his wedding day, walks into a high-security research facility that cuts him off from the outside world. From then on, Marielle has no place in his life.

As I casually opened the online forum, a trending post at the top caught my eye. [Share the wildest thing you’ve ever done.] I clicked on the second comment, which seemed to contain just one line. [Without a doubt, it was the night before my buddy’s wedding when I had his wife come over for a “quality check.”] However, the poster kept adding to the thread. [That night, the woman tricked that idiot into thinking it was a bachelorette party, but she actually spent the whole night at my place. [She said she didn’t want to sleep with just one man forever and needed one last wild night before tying the knot. [By the end of the night, her throat was nearly raw from all the screaming. [We kept going until sunrise, right there in the wedding car her husband was supposed to pick her up later that day.] [Not only that, but even after they got married, this fool kept bringing his wife over to my place for dinner. [He’d help me in the kitchen while I pinned his wife against the fridge and kissed her. [He’d be glued to the game in the living room while his wife knelt in the bathroom and took care of me. [One time, when he passed out drunk on my couch, his wife and I had our own fun on the carpet beside him. [Every time he rolled over, we’d both jump. It was the thrill of knowing we could get caught at any moment.] The image loaded, revealing the familiar interior of the wedding car. The lucky charm I had given my wife dangled from the rearview mirror. My fingers momentarily stiffened, and I nearly dropped my phone. A wave of nausea rolled in my stomach as a chill crept up my spine. Just then, a hand appeared in my field of vision, waving in front of me. “Calvin, what are you zoning out for? You’re at my place, and you’re still on your phone. Come on. Dig in while it’s hot.” Wyatt Preston, my friend, grinned at me. Yet, his eyes kept straying toward my wife, Queenie Jennings, who was sitting beside me.

I went to the bank to report a lost debit card. The teller casually asked, "Sir, there's a recurring patent royalty payment under your name. Would you like to link it to your new card?" Stunned, I froze. "What patent royalties?" The screen revealed that one of the accounts showed a quarterly deposit of $300 thousand in patent royalties. My mind went blank for a full three seconds. Then I remembered that, five years ago, my wife, Danica Pearson, had handed me a stack of documents, saying it was part of the company registration process. She said I "only understood technology, not business", effectively turning me into a figurehead consultant. I took a deep breath and told the teller, "Link it to the new card. From now on, transfer every payment directly to my personal account." That night, while Danica was overseas on a business trip, she booked the earliest flight home. At 2 a.m., she pounded on my bedroom door.

At my father's wake, my wife came in carrying her son. The boy was less than two years old. He was not mine. In front of me, in front of every person there to mourn my father, she opened the urn and held the boy over it. I screamed and lunged for the urn. The Vance security team was on me before I cleared the aisle. They held me on the floor. My father's ashes, mixed with the boy's urine, smeared across my face and into my mouth. I could not stop crying. Stella Vance straightened her skirt. "Zane has been crying every night. Our adviser said the ash of an honored elder will calm a child like that. Good for his health." The taste of metal came up the back of my throat. Before I could move, she was already at the door. "Have his ashes dried out by morning. Zane will need it again tomorrow night." By the time I came back to myself, she was gone. I held the rage in. I sent her one message. "You think you're going to do this to my father. You're insane. The divorce papers are coming." After that, every message I sent was blocked. I turned to the woman next to me, the woman who had stood beside me my whole life. And I said, "I will sign the company over to you. Help me bury Vance Group." Cassia Wynn looked at me a long time. "I don't want the company. I want you." I went still. Then I said, "Yes."

"Mr. Rogers, are you sure you want to do this? Noelle is only five—" I cut the lawyer off and signed my name on the authorization form. "I am." Outside the window, rain poured down in sheets. I looked up at the office building across the street. Behind the floor-to-ceiling windows on the thirty-seventh floor, Rachel Lloyd, the president of Lloyd Group, was in a meeting. She wore a perfectly tailored white suit, her expression icy and composed. Every gesture carried the commanding presence of the queen of the business world. No one knew that this woman was my wife, at least in the eyes of the law. Even fewer people knew that we had a five-year-old daughter. It had been three years. For all three of those years, I had worked as an ordinary driver for her company, driving her to and from work every day. "Mr. Rogers, turn left. Mr. Rogers, stop here." That was all I ever heard from her. She never gave me so much as a second glance when other people were around, as if we truly were nothing more than an employer and her driver. Noelle had learned to call me ‘Dad’ when she was two, but she had never dared call Rachel ‘Mom’. Rachel had made one thing very clear. "Don't let me hear you calling me that in public." Noelle had been a good girl. She never called her Mom again. However, I knew what happened every night. She would curl up in bed, clutching the one stuffed doll Rachel had ever bought for her, and whisper into the darkness, "Goodnight, Mommy. You looked so pretty today. Will you come see me tomorrow?" Rachel had bought that doll three years ago at a convenience store on a whim. It had cost her only $29.90. To Noelle, however, it was priceless. She had held on to it like a treasure for three long years.

Yvonne Foster, my wife from an arranged marriage, is a control freak who loves me to her core. From business operations to the smallest details of daily life, she takes charge of everything herself. If someone dares to target me in business, their company is shut down for investigation the very next day. Women who set their sights on me always disappear without a trace. Yvonne always acts as if she can't stand me, but I know she is the kind of person who acts tough on the outside but cares deeply on the inside. This goes on until my parents find their true biological son, and I turn out to be the fake heir. The real heir, Fabian Madden, has spent his whole life in the countryside. I hear that he has an honest, simple personality. But when every bone in my body is shattered, and I'm thrown into an abandoned factory with my mouth stuffed full of blood-soaked dirt, he stares down at me haughtily. "You darn parasite living off a woman! You stole more than 20 years of wealth and privilege that should have been mine. Die! Just die already!" He buries my body in the garden and uses it to nourish a vast bed of roses as a birthday gift for Yvonne. Pointing at the sea of roses, he says ingratiatingly, "Yvonne, do you like this field of roses?"

Penelope Rivera's little boy toy, Theodore Schneider, is throwing another tantrum. She slides the divorce papers across the table toward me. "Just sign them for show. It's to keep Teddy happy." I clench the cuff of my suit and nod in silence. I sign my name in one swift stroke. As I'm walking out, I hear one of her girlfriends teasing, "Samuel's way too easygoing. Does he actually do everything you say?" Penelope takes a graceful sip of red wine and smirks. "Wanna bet?" They bet that I will quietly go through with the divorce at the courthouse, even if my eyes are red with tears. Listening their laughter, I rub my thumb over my phone screen and reply to the message I've just received. "Will you marry me?" it says. "I will."

The day the nationwide serial killer, Landis Grant, was executed, I was the one who escorted him to the death chamber. Right before the lethal injection, he turned his head and looked at me with strange, sudden pity. "You know, I only actually killed seventeen people," he whispered, his raspy voice cutting through the silent room. "I deserve to die, no question. But your hotshot lawyer wife? Her death isn't on my tab." Hearing him mention my wife, Valerie Foster, made a hot surge of rage claw up my throat. Three years ago, she was stabbed dozens of times by Landis while protecting crucial evidence. I drove through the night from out of state, only to find her body completely unrecognizable at the morgue. Grief tore through me so violently that I collapsed, coughing up blood, and spent an entire month confined to a hospital bed. For three years, I chased Landis to the absolute edge of hell, risking everything just to drag him in and avenge her. Following the address Landis had left behind, I made my way to a quiet suburban house. The second I set foot in the yard, I froze completely. Valerie was right there, wrapping her arms around her former mentor, Dylan Reed, kissing him with a tenderness that shattered my heart. A toddler, around two or three years old, was swinging back and forth on a wooden swing right beside them. My head throbbed, white noise roaring in my ears. I took a step forward, but someone grabbed my shoulder from behind. It was my chief, Noah Morgan, the man I respected more than anyone on the force. "Valerie is happy now, son," he said quietly, "Do yourself a favor and just walk away. Let it go." I shoved his hand off my shoulder. Unholstering my service weapon, I aimed into the open air and fired three warning shots. "Valerie Foster, you're under arrest for bigamy," I said, my voice dead and completely cold, "Come to the station with me."

On the day my dad gets kidnapped, I call my wife, Eliza Wood, who has a net worth of 100 million dollars, for help while sobbing. After she hears me out, she lets out a chuckle. "I've transferred three million dollars to you. This time, be a good boy and don't bother Leon." I quickly agree to Eliza's condition. After that, I transfer the money into the kidnapper's bank account. But when Dad is about to get released, Eliza pulls off some tricks to retrieve the ransom money and freeze the kidnapper's bank account. Thinking that I've tricked him, the furious kidnapper decides to kill Dad. But first, he torments Dad for three long hours before finally ending his life. When I'm on the way to pick up Dad's ashes, I notice photos of Eliza and her newly-hired assistant, Leon Turner, taking over every billboard and monitor in the city. After dealing with Dad's ashes at home, I call Eliza on the phone. "Let's get a divorce." Eliza and Leon's laughter can be heard drifting over the speaker. "This again? Leon told me that you're spending too much money, so he convinced me to give you a light punishment. Don't tell me you got mad at me because of that."

Everyone knew I was the man the richest woman in Tova City adored most. She spoiled me constantly, giving me everything I wanted and following my every lead. One day, after waking up from a nap, I found myself tied up at an auction house. On the stage sat my wife, surrounded by her group of friends. One of them laughed and asked, "Sora, how did you find time to bring Damien out today? Everyone says you're so obsessed with your husband Cleo now that you don't have time for Damien anymore." Sora looked at the man next to her before expressing wryly, "Cleo hasn't been feeling well lately, so I've been home taking care of him. Damien's been throwing a fit about it, so I figured I'd make time to bring him out today." I squirmed desperately, trying to get Sora's attention so she would help me. She finally noticed me, but all she did was slowly raise her bidding sign. "Number nine won't stop squirming. He looks like a real handful. One million dollars! I'm picking him."

On the first day of New Year's, my good buddy, Vincent Wales, sent me a video. “Leon, take a look. Does this woman look like your wife? It’s all over.” In the video, a man and a woman were making out passionately. As the car rocked violently, the woman’s face came into view. It was unmistakably my wife. My blood rushed straight to my head. My hands shook as I dialed her number. “Hello, honey… What’s the matter?” Her breathing was uneven, like she had just been doing something intense. I was about to speak when she suddenly let out a few loud cries. “A-Ah… It’s nothing. I’ll hang up now. I’m just playing cards with friends." With that, all I heard was the dial tone. Playing cards? She had clearly told me she was working overtime!

On the first day of summer break, my daughter, Mia Leighton, is scheduled to perform a solo at the closing ceremony of her youth arts camp. It's her final audition for a televised performance, but there's one requirement— both parents have to be present to sign off on her participation. Mia had practiced every single day for this opportunity, pushing her voice until her throat was nearly raw. My wife, Thea Sawyer, had promised her too. "I will definitely be there. I won't let anything get in the way of your dream." But on the day of the performance, Mia sings the entire song while staring at an empty seat in the front row. When the TV station's staff asks about the missing signature, I hold my daughter's hand and plead with them repeatedly to make an exception. But they refuse. They tell me that these are the rules, and they're not allowed to make an exception unless I can present them with divorce papers. After the performance, we run into Thea as she comes out of a class next door. Walking beside her is the son of Clark Judson, her first love. The boy, Ian Judson, is clutching a guitar. It was only an ordinary rehearsal, yet Thea stayed by his side the entire time. Thea averts her eyes awkwardly, stammering as she explains, "Darling, Ian is shy and doesn't dare to play unless someone stays with him. Mia will have other opportunities. Besides, she has you there to support her." Instead of running into Thea's arms, Mia just clutches her songbook tightly. Then, she looks up at me and asks, "Daddy, did Mommy not come because I'm too much trouble?" I scoop my daughter into my arms. The staff member's words about divorce suddenly echo in my head. If Thea wants to play mother to someone else, I won't stop her anymore.