Tragic Love Short Stories & Mistress Cheating Novels

Conned by Francis Slade, I sold my kidney to raise funds for his failed investment. And the house was bought with all my savings. But now, it had become their love nest. "Ms. Lane, you look like you were rolling around in a mud pit. What happened to you?" Whitney Jones smiled smugly. My already injured body trembled with anger when I saw her smug expression. Forcing myself to remain calm, I answered, "This is my home. What are you doing here?" In response, Francis glared at me angrily. "Whitney caught a cold, so I invited her over to take a hot shower. Can't you even tolerate such small acts of kindness?" Whitney had accidentally stepped on blood that was flowing from my leg. She instinctively grabbed Francis out of fear. With a trembling voice, she told him, "Francis, I think she's injured." I knew Francis thought I was just trying to gain his sympathy again. "Alright now, Whitney will be sleeping in your room tonight. Once you're done with the act, go clean yourself up and set up a bed for her." If she was after my room, she could have it. If she was after the man who never loved me, she could have him.

When my family fell into bankruptcy, I sold myself off for 500 million to pay off our debts and became the wife of Zack Landton—a man twelve years older than me. Everyone knew Zack as a lifelong celibate. They called him a pervert who could not get it up. I had already resigned myself to a sexless marriage, but he showed me a world beyond my wildest imagination. He went at it nearly ten times every night, and I cried and begged for him to spare me because it was too much. He spoiled me rotten but had two terms of his own. He forbade me from calling myself his wife, and he prohibited me from going to the monastery he visited every month. He explained, "I want to keep this a secret to protect you. The monastery is a boring place for a girl like you." I believed him, until I secretly followed him to the monastery this year. I wanted to write down the scriptures with my own hands and give them to him on his birthday. Instead, I saw him kneeling in front of another woman. She looked eerily similar to me. In his hand was the Diamond Star, the very same ring I had been wearing for years. "It's been five years, Eve, and my addiction is cured. I swear I'll never hurt you. You promised you'd marry me. Let's go to the city hall now." Eve. That was the same thing he called me. Tears spilled. Then again, five years had passed. And whatever promise had once held this ridiculous marriage together had clearly expired along with them. It was time for this mockery of a relationship to take its final bow.

Hallie Shaw lived her life judging everyone with a rigid scorecard. When we were dating, she used to say that any person or event scoring below ninety points wasn't worth a second of her time. After marriage, every single thing I did was evaluated. On our wedding anniversary, I prepared a full spread of her favorite dishes. She took one bite and said, "Eighty-nine points." Then she set down her utensils and left to share a meal with Miles, who allegedly had a poor appetite. For the company's anniversary party, I tried on twenty-seven suits, only for her to glance at me and say, "Eighty-eight points. Not suitable to bring along." That very night, she walked into the celebration with Miles, who was wearing nothing more than a simple white shirt. To earn that perfect score, I quit my dream job, earned seven professional certifications, and learned four foreign languages. Yet no matter how hard I tried, my score remained forever stuck at eighty-nine. Meanwhile, Miles didn't have to lift a finger. Just by standing there, he was automatically a perfect hundred. I asked her once, "What does it actually take to get a ninety?" She glanced over at Miles and offered no answer. In that moment, a sudden, bitter laugh escaped my lips. Her scoring criteria had only ever had one rule from start to finish, and it wasn't me. I pulled off my wedding ring and dropped it straight into the wine glass in front of her. "Hallie, this time, I'm the one giving out the scores. Your loyalty: zero points. Your marriage: zero points. And as a person, you fail."

The day before Thanksgiving, I walked into a bakery and found Talia Rademacher, the wife I'd been secretly married to for seven years. She wore a dress that looked completely out of place in the shop, and she was patiently helping the owner arrange the shelves. The owner, Bastien Delorme, greeted me warmly and asked what I needed. When he noticed me watching Talia, he smiled and introduced her. "That's my girlfriend. She got off work early today and came to help out." I remembered the text Talia had sent me half an hour earlier: [Working late tonight. Won't be home for dinner.] I looked down, smiled humorlessly, and said nothing. Sensing something was off, Talia looked up. Panic flickered in her eyes the moment she saw me, but she recovered almost at once. "Hello. What can I get for you?" she asked politely. She played the part well, as if I were just another customer. I played along. "I'm here to pick up my order." Bastien pulled it up right away. "Mr. Ashcombe, you ordered our Thanksgiving pie box for two." He grinned. "Spending the holiday with your wife? You two must be really close." I looked at the box on the counter. A couples' theme. Then I glanced at Talia, standing so close beside him that they looked like they belonged together, and the irony hit me. "No. My wife and I are about to get divorced."

I traveled over a thousand eight hundred miles to find my wife. She was a professor at Harbor University. As soon as I arrived, I received a call. “Hi, Mr. Jaques. We’re just following up on the stroller your wife custom-ordered from us. Have you been happy with it? If so, would you mind leaving us a quick positive review?” I was stunned. We had lived apart for years and did not have a child together. Still, I remained calm and double-checked. “Are you sure I’m the one who ordered that stroller?” “Yes, sir, I can confirm that. Our system requires ID verification from both parents for all custom stroller orders. The mother on file is Shiloh Zoeller. Mr. Jaques, you are listed as the child’s father.” The customer service agent sent me a screenshot of the child’s information as proof. It indeed showed that I had a child around one month old. The more I thought about it, the more confused I became. I went to the address listed on the order. Downstairs, a young man was chatting with a group of people. “As of today, I’m no longer your classmate. I’m now the professor’s husband!” A male classmate laughed and teased him. “What a show off. But come on, the kid’s already a month old. When are you and Ms. Zoeller finally tying the knot? We’re still waiting to toast you!” Just then, a very familiar female voice spoke. “What’s taking you so long? Get up here. Our little boy is getting impatient.” I followed the sound of the voice and saw Shiloh holding a swaddled baby. She leaned against that man’s chest as if she had done it countless times.

I got back from a six month work trip and found my pet hamster dead. I couldn't just bury it. I wanted to preserve it, keep it whole. But when I carefully opened it up, I went still. Its lungs were pitch black. That kind of damage couldn't happen fast. It meant months of breathing toxic smoke. But my husband and I never smoked. So who'd been living in my house while I was gone?

I had always been terrible with directions. The moment I stepped outside my familiar neighborhood, I could lose my bearings completely. My fiancé insisted that after we got married, we'd move to the suburbs, so I needed to learn how to find my way around on my own. For six months, he repeatedly dropped me off in unfamiliar places and watched me break down in tears as I wandered in circles. Tonight, as a torrential storm battered the city and the old waterfront industrial district prepared to close for construction, he left me at its entrance with a map marked with incorrect exits. "Find your way to the parking garage, and I'll consider your training complete." I followed the street signs for more than ten minutes before realizing I'd wandered into an abandoned rail yard. Floodwater surged past my ankles, and my phone signal dropped to a single bar. I called Maurice Rivas in tears and begged him to tell me which way to go, but he only sneered. "After all this time, you still haven't learned? Stop using your terrible sense of direction to fish for sympathy." The call remained connected, and I heard my brother and my best friend laughing in the background. "Watching Josefin wander around in the storm finally got Carla to take her medicine," Hakon Tanner chuckled. Carla Hickman giggled. "This is so much fun! Can we let her wander around a little longer? I want to keep watching." Maurice answered gently, "Of course. She got you fired, so it's only fair that she learns her lesson." I looked up and saw warning lights flashing ahead. Beneath my feet, the drainage gates were slowly rising. That was when I finally understood. In the past six months, Maurice had never tried to teach me how to find my way. He had simply been using my helplessness to entertain someone else.

The day after Lisa Goodner and I got our marriage license, I, Brad Dempsey, stood at the airport with two plane tickets in hand, waiting for my new wife. She showed up, but her childhood friend, Drew Fenton, was trailing right behind her. "Babe, Drew just went through a breakup, so I'm bringing him along to help him clear his head," Lisa explained carefully. Drew was wearing the exact same T-shirt as me. He gave me an apologetic smile. "Brad, I won't be in your way, will I? I just want to soak up a little of your newlywed happiness." I looked at the third ticket in Lisa's hand, the extra one seated right next to mine. Seat 16B. Mine was 16A. Lisa's was 16C. She had put Drew right between us. I stood rooted to the spot as rage shot from the soles of my feet straight to the top of my head. I yanked Lisa aside and lowered my voice. "Either he leaves, or I do." Lisa looked torn and a little exasperated. "Babe, don't be so unreasonable, okay? "Drew told me he's scared being home alone. He just wants to tag along and have some company. "Besides, I've known him since we were kids. What's the harm in him coming with us..." I cut her off. "If you don't send him away, we're filing for divorce right now."

It's the third year since my wife, Joyce Sinclair, cheated on me. I spread her intimate photos with her male assistant, Bryan Long, on the internet. Then, I doused myself in gasoline and threatened to drag everyone down to hell with me. Bryan's so scared that he flees the city that very night. I think I've won. However, to settle my lawsuit and cover the damages, my older sister, Rachel Lovett, sells her house and takes out high-interest loans. In the end, the burden becomes too much for her, and she jumps from a high-rise building. Her voice is hoarse in the recording she leaves me. "That's enough, Ray. We've lost everything. Mom and Dad have aged overnight, and I can't take it anymore..." Mom clutches Rachel's belongings and cries until she passes out. Dad's emaciated hands clamp around my neck as he demands at the top of his lungs, "How many more lives do you have to destroy before you're satisfied?" Tears silently trail down my cheeks, and I finally come to my senses. I no longer neurotically look into every single man around Joyce, and I stop badgering her with questions about the scent of men's cologne on her. Even when I walk in on her staring at a photo of her and Bryan and reminiscing about the past, I take the initiative to bring him back. It all comes to a head when Bryan wishes to become Joyce's lawfully wedded husband on his birthday. Without the slightest hesitation, I print out the divorce agreement, sign and seal it, and deliver it to him. To my surprise, Joyce rips the agreement to shreds. She grips my chin and demands hysterically, "Raymond Lovett, what happened to the stubborn man who'd rather die than divorce me? Where is he now?"

The day before my period, I found a note on my fiancé's phone. [Her period starts tomorrow. I already packed pads and painkillers in her bag.] I smiled. It was such a small thing, but it felt thoughtful. The next day, a dull ache twisted in my lower stomach. Pale and uncomfortable, I dug through my crossbody bag. Nothing. Dark red blood stained my pants. Students pointed behind me and whispered with awkward laughs. I figured he'd just forgotten at the last minute. Then the new intern teacher posted on social media. [Just started working, and my supervising teacher is literally the sweetest! He even got me pads and painkillers. This period has been pain-free!] The photo showed a pack of pads, an ibuprofen tablet, and a mug of ginger tea. The painkillers were mine—the ones I'd kept stocked at home for years because of my cramps. The pads were the only brand my skin could tolerate. I turned off my phone and stared at the engagement ring on my finger for a long time. Then I stood up and headed to the principal's office to apply for the overseas teacher exchange program. Seven years. He still couldn't remember my cycle. And now, he never would have to.

I loved Cassidy more than anything. Although she had been involved with countless men, and she had even cheated on me with Henry, the fake heir, I still couldn't bring myself to let her go. I worked out, took medication, and did everything I could because I wanted to have a child with her. When the doctor finally told me today that I met the required fertility criteria, I grabbed the test results and rushed straight to her office. "Cassidy, I–" My voice came to an abrupt halt. Cassidy was passionately kissing her new male secretary with her arms wrapped around him. She glanced at me impatiently. "Get out!" I suddenly came to my senses. I could accept having a wife like her, but could our future child accept having a mother like her?

There were only three of us in the group chat, yet somehow, I was always the one left out. At first, I didn't think much of it. Life was busy at times, right? Besides, Kendra Thatcher had been my girlfriend for seven years, and Josiah Lehmann had been my best friend for eighteen. The thought of either of them deliberately ignoring me had never even crossed my mind. Or at least, that was what I kept telling myself. That morning, I messaged our group chat. "Hey, how about we take a trip to Cedarvale?" Neither of them replied. Hours passed, and my message just sat there, unanswered. … That evening, Josiah suddenly shared a video of some delicious-looking food in Cedarvale. "Gosh, it looks divine!" he wrote. Kendra replied almost immediately. Just like that, they started chatting away as though my earlier message never existed. Before long, they'd exchanged over ninety-nine messages. Seeing them so excited, I figured I'd try asking again. "So, are we going to Cedarvale or what?" The chat went quiet, and neither of them replied. Something about that bothered me more than usual, so I started scrolling through our old messages. The further back I went, the more I realized this wasn't anything new. Just yesterday, I'd mentioned that I was thinking about quitting my job because I was completely burned out. Neither of them had said a word. But the day before that, Josiah had posted a shirtless gym selfie, complaining that all his hard work wasn't paying off. "Oh, shut up. Those abs are ridiculously hot," Kendra had replied. They went back and forth until midnight, yet the moment I suggested we all grab dinner the next day, the conversation stopped. The funny thing was, I actually ran into them at a restaurant the following evening. They were having dinner together. Then, there was the movie Kendra had mentioned last week. She'd shared the trailer in the group, and Josiah immediately said he wanted to watch it. I chimed in, telling them I'd love to go too. Again, neither of them responded. … A few days later, I casually asked Kendra about the movie. "Oh, Josiah and I already watched it," she replied, acting like it was no big deal. Looking back through our conversations, I couldn't believe how many times I'd made excuses for them. I'd told myself they were busy, that they'd forgotten to reply, and that I was probably overthinking things. But now, it was painfully obvious. They weren't too busy to reply. They just didn't want to respond to my texts. I stared at the screen for a long moment before muting the group chat. I didn't leave, confront them, or send a long message demanding to know what I'd done wrong. I was simply exhausted from always being the one trying to hold everything together. … A few days later, I finally quit my job. That same day, my phone lit up with a notification from the group chat. For once, someone was actually talking to me. It was Kendra. "Xavier, my mom keeps asking when we're getting married. Josiah's worried about you, too. Why aren't you answering?" By the time I saw her message, my plane had already landed in Dunridge. I opened the group chat and typed, "You two seem to have plenty to talk about. I shan't interrupt." Then, I sent another text. "Cheers to being single!"

Four years into my wife Anna Keating's out-of-town work assignment, she showed up at the preschool where I taught. She and a man were enrolling a three-year-old boy. The man smiled and handed me the forms. "Mr. Reinhardt, if anything comes up, just call me or his mom." He nudged Anna toward me. She froze when she saw my face, then quickly recovered and offered her hand. "Mr. Reinhardt, Milo's still so young. Please take good care of him." I ignored her hand and looked down at the mother's name on the form: [Anna Keating] Her handwriting was neat. I knew the phone number by heart. Just last night, she'd texted: [My assignment's over. I'll be home the day after tomorrow.] 'So her assignment wasn't over. 'Her kid with her other family was finally old enough for her to spare me some time.' The man kept chatting, oblivious to her outstretched hand. "Mr. Reinhardt, you're a good-looking guy. Got a girlfriend? I could set you up." I looked up from the form. "Sure. Once my divorce is final."

Ian Ludwig and I have grown more in sync in the eight years we have been married. I believe him when he lies to me that he's on a business trip, when in reality he's buying a villa for Francesca Yarrington, his childhood friend. He also believes me when I hand him a divorce agreement, saying that it is a property transfer agreement. There's still one month left in the cooling-off period before our divorce is finalized. That gives me just enough time to clear out everything from our eight years of marriage.

The night my husband, William Costello, was assassinated by his enemies was supposed to be a celebration—our wedding anniversary. I was dressed in his favorite red dress, waiting for him, when the phone rang. "Mr. Costello was shot at the harbor. The bullet went through the back of his head. He died on the spot." I collapsed to the floor. I clung to his belongings, mourning for a week straight. We even lost our unborn child during this time. Everyone said William and I were true love. Even the Don himself came to the funeral, resting a heavy hand on my shoulder with a sigh. He said, "All of Blackhaven knows you were the only woman he ever loved." Grief nearly destroyed me. I stood at the river's edge, ready to follow William into the afterlife. However, I overheard my sister-in-law, Emily Hawkins, leaning into my brother-in-law, Jones Costello, her voice dripping with a twisted affection. She purred, "William, I love you so much. Between Nina and me, who do you think is sexier?" "Of course it's you, babe!" came the husky reply. I stood frozen, my eyes wide and my body trembling. Why was Emily calling my brother-in-law by my husband's name?

I am an infamous pilot in Gradenburg whom everyone calls a jinx. In the past six years of my career, every time I had to fly a plane, it either started raining heavily or became terribly foggy. Eventually, passengers started avoiding my flights when booking their tickets, and the airline company pulled me off its flagship route. Nonetheless, I refuse to believe that I'm that cursed. It isn't until the 99th time that my flight is delayed that I overhear some people talking in the break room. "Mrs. Zayner can't fly again today?" Another person lets out a mocking laugh. "She seriously still thinks that she just has rotten luck. Little does she know, all the extreme weather she's experienced is actually interference by Mr. Zayner as he pleases his mistress. "She wants rain? He'll call for a rainstorm. She wants to see dark clouds? He'll do it for her. His mistress' happiness is certainly more important than whether his wife can actually fly!" Amid the scornful laughter that rings out, I clutch the 99th disciplinary notice I've received for flight delays so far, feeling my entire body go cold. Just last night, Samuel Zayner was tending to the injury on my wrist I got when a passenger threw their luggage at me. In a low voice, he comforted me, saying, "The weather isn't something anyone can control. Don't blame yourself for it." However, right now, I check through my flight records from the past six years. Every single delay coincides with a social media post from the same woman. "I suddenly feel like admiring a rainstorm." "The summer sun is just too glaring. How I wish black clouds would darken the skies over Gradenburg." Without fail, Samuel has liked every post. As it turns out, the bad weather that has kept me trapped for the past few years is nothing more than a little flirting game played between him and another woman. I stare at the flight assignment roster for three days later and let out a soft laugh. Then, I submit a route transfer request. From now on, whether it's rainy or sunny in Gradenburg has nothing to do with me anymore.

In the seventh year of our marriage, Jenna Birch is finally accepted by the powerful Birch family as their long-lost, illegitimate daughter. But inheriting the family fortune comes with one condition—she must carry a child for her late sister's widower, Zach Corey, to continue both family bloodlines. Jenna swears she will never forget the humiliation Zach once inflicted on her. She insists she'll only stay by his side long enough to make him suffer before casting him out of the Birch family for good. Instead, she drifts farther away from us. She comes home later each night, and Annie and I are no longer a priority. Then, six months later, she announces her marriage to Zach without ever telling us. Looking at the wedding photos, Annie asks innocently, "Why is Mommy lying in Mr. Corey's arms?" I wrap my arms around my little girl, my heart breaking for the child who has no idea what's happening. "Because she has a new family now. It's time for us to leave."

Mason Chapman has lost his memories. He has forgotten everything about me. His memories are stuck in the year he was most in love with his ex-wife, Tiffany Auburn. No matter how much the people around him try to talk sense into him, he remains convinced I'm the other woman who has come between him and Tiffany. The doctor says there's a chance he might recover his memories, so I cling to that hope and refuse to let go. Within three years, we divorce and remarry many times. We become the biggest joke in the city's social circles. People even start placing bets on when I'll finally give up and when Mason will regain his memories. Then, news of our eighth divorce makes the trending searches again. Reporters storm into the law firm I work at with cameras on their shoulders. They shove microphones in my face, their questions dripping with provocation. "Ms. Gardner, as a divorce lawyer, what do you have to say about getting divorced eight times yourself?" Someone smashes the firm's sign. My personal award banner is trampled underfoot. Before I can even respond, my boss fires me for ruining the profession's reputation. "Take my advice, Isabel. Have some dignity, and stop chasing after Mr. Chapman." I clench my trembling hands and suddenly feel depleted. They're right. Maybe this time, I should just give up.

The night before my wedding, my best friend flew back from overseas to attend my bachelor party. We were just having a few drinks when his stomach started acting up, so I quickly reached into his bag for his medication. Instead of pills, I found a naughty remote control. I grinned mischievously and waved a hand toward him. “Didn’t know you were getting this wild overseas, man.” He smiled awkwardly and told me to just hand him the medicine and not to touch anything else. Alas, his reaction made me even more curious. So I purposely pressed on one of the buttons. The next second, my fiancee, who was sitting right next to us, shuddered.

I'm in the middle of my pediatric shift when an emergency call comes in. A three-year-old boy arrives, hemorrhaging and unconscious from a car crash, but there is no matching blood type in the bank. Then, it hits me that my husband, Ethan Stone, has the same blood type, so I ask him to donate blood right away. When he arrives and stands frozen to the spot, I can no longer hold back my rage. "What are you waiting for? Saving his life is the priority here!" That's when the boy's mother sprints over and screams, "No! Close family can't donate! He's the boy's father!"