Melodramatic Short Stories & Mistress Face Slapping Novels

Mom has terminal cancer, and her dying wish is to see me in a wedding dress. After I beg my boyfriend and my best friend 88 times, they finally agree to help me stage a wedding so I can make her wish come true. But on the wedding day, Mom holds on with the last of her strength, waiting until her eyes can barely focus. The groom never shows up. Neither does my bridesmaid. Then my best friend, Jolene Cohen, posts a photo. Isaac is in his tux, and Jolene is still in her bridesmaid dress. They're posing with a cake, both grinning at the camera. "My bestie was so nervous about her wedding that her groom came halfway across town with me just to pick up a cake. She's seriously lucky to have a guy like him." The location tag is a popular cake shop across town. I call Isaac and confront him, but he sounds completely unconcerned. "Isn't this whole thing supposed to be about fulfilling your mom's last wish? I'm just helping Jolene loosen up so she'll seem more natural when we do this later." Jolene laughs from somewhere beside him and chimes in. "Come on, Lily. We're just messing with you. We'll be back in a bit. Tell Ms. Page to wait a little longer." That's when I realize that all my desperate pleading and even Mom's dying wish mean absolutely nothing to them. I watch the line on the monitor go flat as tears blur my vision. I end this whole charade on my own and walk away from them for good.

At a dinner party, my genius painter of a husband, Henry Shepherd, used his hands, hands insured for millions, to shell crabs for his young assistant, Tamara Lee. This was all to coax her into eating a few bites when she claimed she had no appetite. Meanwhile, I drank myself into a bloody mess, trying to secure investments for him. When I asked him to hand me some antacids, he refused without even looking up. “These hands are for painting. Use your own.” For ten years, he couldn’t even be bothered to change the way he treated me. That night, as I sobered up in the cold wind, I asked my lawyer to draft a divorce agreement. "Henry, in this vast, chaotic world, our paths end here," I said inwardly

As soon as I leave the hospital after my abortion, I send my husband, Rykel Heffer, a message. "I terminated the pregnancy." I get an instant reply. "Okay." I stare at that single word and suddenly find it almost funny. For years, whenever I gave him a heads-up before heading into a high-risk assignment, the only reply I got was "okay". And whenever I reminded him that if he was unable to reach me for 24 hours, he should come looking for me, I also got a simple "okay". When I was trapped under the rubble after a building collapsed and lost contact for 72 hours, I sent Rykel 309 desperate messages, consumed by fear. He replied with 309 "okay"s. Only now do I realize that every reply I have ever received has been an automated response. Since Rykel never reads my messages, naturally, he has no idea that half a month ago, I told him I would be taking an overseas assignment and terminating the pregnancy today. His attention and affection have always belonged to the woman who fills his social media feed—Joey Mugbrey. "It's our thousand-day anniversary, and it's Joey's birthday too!" The post is accompanied by a screenshot of their chat history. Above the countless messages is a 1,000-day streak, celebrating their thousand days together. I tap "Like" on his post and leave a comment. "A wonderful day indeed." Today marks the anniversary of the day I narrowly escaped death in that collapse years ago. More importantly, it is the day I decide to leave Rykel for good.

On my first day at a new hospital, I treated a pregnant woman in critical condition. With the nurses’ help, we stabilized her condition and safely delivered her baby. As soon as she could speak, she reached for her phone. Her voice was filled with pride as she said, “Honey, I gave birth to a son!” The voice that came through the speaker made me freeze. “Baby, you’re amazing!” Those few words were enough to send me spiraling into despair. I had known that voice for ten years. It belonged to my husband, Liam Stretton.

My sister, Lily, was torn to pieces by Rogues. I sobbed, begging my Fated Mate, Alpha Ethan, to find her killers. He never did. A year later, on the anniversary of her death. I went to find Ethan, ready to tell him I was pregnant. Instead, I found him holding another omega, Bella, in his arms. “Don’t worry,” he soothed her. “No one will find out you dropped the pack's mental shield and got Lily killed. Once Harper gives up her title as Luna at the ceremony, you will be my one and only.” My heart shattered. So that was it. He never marked me, never rejected me… he wanted me to step down on my own. He was protecting my sister’s murderer. He wanted to make her Luna. I stormed in, screaming, but Bella suddenly coughed up blood and collapsed. Wolfsbane poisoning, she claimed. "She was poisoned saving me! Give me your heart's blood! It's the only thing that can save her!" Ethan looked at me with more disgust than if I were trash. “I’m pregnant! It’ll kill the baby!” I pleaded. But his Alpha Command crashed down. My body was no longer my own. I could only watch as the thick needle pierced my chest, right over my heart. Golden blood flowed out. A sharp, tearing pain ripped through my stomach… He had killed my baby. My wolf shattered inside me. I closed my eyes, reaching for a forbidden connection in the werewolf world. "Lycan King Rogan. Tomorrow, I need you to help me destroy everything in the Blackwood Pack. Including Alpha Ethan."

When I came home from a mission, I found that my wife had accidentally taken my military-grade truth serum. The supplements I had bought for her were still sitting untouched nearby. A thought crossed my mind. I bent down and gently hugged her. "How do you want to spend your birthday this year?" My wife answered without any hesitation, "I want to spend the whole day with Randy. I hope you disappear!" I slowly straightened up and stared at her in disbelief. "What... Do you mean?" Randy was my best friend. Whenever I was busy, I often asked him to look after things at home. My wife smiled sweetly. "Every time you go back to base, we spend the whole day in the master bedroom. It would be even better if you died on a mission. That way, I could take your death benefits and be with him." After that, she passed out. The next morning, my wife hugged me affectionately. "Honey, what kind of supplements did you buy me? I fell asleep right after drinking them, as if I blacked out or something." I calmly pushed her away. "Maybe they help with sleep. By the way, how do you want to spend your birthday this year?"

I finish my studies and return to the company, only to find my wife, Sophia Cooper, holding a wedding ceremony with her assistant, Robert Miller. Sophia asks me to give them a wedding gift. "It's our big day, so don't be a cheapskate. Give us at least ten grand." I stand rooted to the spot. If memory serves, it's actually our fifth wedding anniversary today. "Is this some kind of joke? Cut it out—" I force myself to come up with an excuse for them. Robert cuts me off contemptuously. "Ms. Cooper promised me that if I could provide the company with a new miracle drug, she'd put on a wedding gown and marry me. Now, place your wedding gift on the left, and help yourself to the divorce agreement on the right!" "By the way," Sophia calls after me. "Be sure to process your resignation, too. I'm replacing my husband, so it's only natural to replace the Deputy CEO as well." I stare long and hard at the miracle drug, turn around, and call a friend at the patent office. "Can the exact same drug be patented twice?"

My family was the wealthiest in River City, with assets worth trillions. On my eighteenth birthday, my brother, Calvin Chester, gifted me an entire jewelry production line while my parents built a private museum and named it after me. The greatest hardship I’d ever faced? Learning how to spend my inheritance. Then I met Dario Darwin. For him, I cut ties with my family and helped him build his empire from scratch. But when I was three months pregnant, he demanded I drink on behalf of his assistant, Fran Fallon, a woman “slumming it” as an intern while secretly being the heiress to another fortune. “Stop pretending,” he sneered. “You’re not like Fran, raised in pampered luxury. You’re older, so act like it and take care of your juniors!” Then, to the clients leering around the table, “My wife’s just being dramatic. She can hold her liquor. Don’t hold back—pour her another!” Amid their jeers, he left with Fran, abandoning me to a room of drunken men. Years of sacrifice, only to be humiliated. I scheduled an abortion and called him. “We’re done.” Through the phone, Fran’s simpering voice chimed in, “It’s my fault that Clea is upset… I should quit and go home to my family’s billions.” “Ignore her. She’s faking it,” Dario cooed back. On the day Dario signed the divorce papers, my parents and Calvin came to take me home. Our marriage came to an end, but his tragedy was about to begin.

After five years of washing dishes overseas, I finally paid off every debt my husband owed and brought my child home, ready to surprise him. But when we reached the rental apartment, it was dusty and locked. A passing neighbor looked stunned. "Didn't you and Mr. Guilfoyle break up? Why are you back?" I went straight to my husband's office, only to be stopped by the receptionist. "Looking for Mr. Guilfoyle? He isn't at the office today. He's at his baby's one-month celebration." My phone lit up with a news alert. "Guilfoyle Group president Adrian Guilfoyle spends millions on lavish one-month celebration; couple appears deeply in love." At the same time, a voice message from Adrian came in. "Honey, I found a few baby clothes online for our son. They were only a few dollars. Remember to pick up the package." In the background, a woman laughed softly and teased him. "The bet's over. How much longer are you going to keep using that fake marriage license to fool Maya Liddell? Aren't you tired of pretending to be poor after all these years?" So I was the only one who had ever been truly poor. After going in circles for years, I had somehow become the real other woman.

At the company's annual party, my fiancée, the CEO, was chosen for a game called "opposite-gender squats." With the whole room cheering, she did not hesitate. She jumped onto a young male intern and wrapped her legs tightly around his waist. He held her by the hips as he lifted and lowered her again and again, while she laughed as if she did not have a care in the world. Then came the second round: blindfolded face recognition. When her hands reached the intern, her fingers lingered on his lips and traced them slowly. He suddenly licked her fingertips. Right there, in front of everyone, he smirked. "Miss Smith, your hands are really soft. The way you touched my lips just now… that felt amazing. This kind of perk beats any year-end bonus. You smell incredible, Andrea." Her face flushed red, but she did not deny it. She only smiled, shy and pleased. That was when I let out a cold laugh. "If you like it that much, I will assign you as the CEO's assistant. All business trips next year, you two can go together." Her expression changed instantly. "Daniel, what is with the attitude? Can't you handle a game? It's just for fun. Why are you making such a big deal out of it? Who is going to dare play with me after this?" "Fine. If you enjoy playing so much, then go play with him. Because that CEO seat is about to belong to someone else," I muttered.

A serial killer who had been on the run for five years kidnapped my son, Fraser Robertson. A time bomb was strapped to his body. With only ten minutes left, the kidnapper gave us a final warning. "Get your forensic pathologist husband here now, or I'll blow up your only son." My mother, Daphne Vanderbilt, used every connection she had to send the city's SWAT team to the scene, ready to storm the building. My husband's parents, Walter and Helen Robertson, offered up their entire fortune to negotiate with the kidnapper and buy Fraser's freedom. I desperately called my husband, Sebastian Robertson, over and over. It took more than a dozen calls before he finally answered. But after hearing what happened, he said seriously, "Fiona, someone broke into Nancy's house. I'll stay with her until the police arrive, then I'll come straight to you. Don't worry. The kidnapper wants me. They won't hurt Fraser." Then I heard Nancy Lightfoot's frightened voice through the phone. "Sebastian, I'm so scared..." The call ended. Time slowly passed. Now there were only ten seconds left. I stared at the countdown on the bomb in despair. Sebastian wasn't going to make it in time to save Fraser.

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 Sunday night, I had already changed into a dress and was about to take a wedding anniversary cake to my husband at the hospital. I had just picked up my car keys when several lines of text suddenly floated into view. [Don't go.] [The moment you step into Avermont Medical Center, tonight's surgery - the one where Elise Parker's patient dies - will be recorded with you as the primary surgeon.] [Grant Holloway will use your EHR e-signature credentials, alter the surgical schedule, and add false entries to the chart so you take the fall for her.] [Three days later, the patient's family will livestream outside the hospital demanding answers, and the internet will brand you a heartless doctor.] [In the end, the patient's brother will attack you with a knife.] I froze in the entryway. A second later, Grant called. "Jessica, are you at the hospital yet? Swing by Medical Affairs when you get here. I need you to sign off on something."

I've been caught in a relationship with a divorced man for eight years. We've broken up and reconciled too many times to count. In the end, I tallied ninety-four breakups and five divorces between us. One more would make it an even hundred, but I'm too exhausted to continue this cycle. The first breakup happened when I was giving him my virginity. Halfway through, his ex-wife called asking him to pick up some bread, and he simply left. The fifth breakup occurred when he abandoned me, newly pregnant, on the highway to comfort his ex-wife who was having complications with her own pregnancy. I ended up in a car accident and miscarried. He arrived at the hospital with his clothes disheveled. Despite all the pain he caused me, I could never bring myself to truly leave him. Our most recent divorce happened for an equally absurd reason. His ex-wife and their child were participating in a family reality TV show that required them to appear as a complete family unit. To protect his ex-wife's public image, he divorced me yet again. When filming wrapped, he called to discuss remarrying. This time I refused, because I'm going to marry someone else.

The night before the World Cup, Reid Callister made a post on social media. In the photo, he wore a Portugal jersey and was smiling at the woman beside him. He had written something sweet: [Officially done with Argentina. It's all Ronaldo from here.] Our mutual friends all went quiet. Everyone knew that the night Argentina won the championship four years ago, he had cried in my arms until dawn. That was also the night he slipped a ring onto my finger. He said, "Messi got his fairy tale. Let's go get ours." Someone in the comments section asked what happened to his Messi obsession. He replied, "I was young and stupid back then. Now, I know who's worth rooting for." I stared at the post for a long time. I did not comment. I just set down the divorce papers on the coffee table. Before I left for my flight, I tucked the ring into the pocket of his blue-and-white jersey. This time, I would not be watching the game with him.

I'm a good luck charm to my wife by nature. After marrying me, Heather Seymour, who's crippled because of a car crash, miraculously stands up on her own and gets to ditch the wheelchair. On top of that, her business is booming as well. In less than half a year, she successfully establishes her own company. After Heather's company goes public, she tells me with a smile that she wants to give me a huge gift at the celebration party. I'm filled with anticipation, thinking that Heather finally wants to fulfill her promise of having a child with me. But instead, Heather is seen lacing fingers with her subordinate, Lucas Mallard, at the celebration party. Not only does she announce her relationship with Lucas, but she also tosses me a divorce agreement. Her expression remains icy as she says, "Randall Grahm, if it wasn't for the fact that I got into an accident when Lucas was studying abroad, I wouldn't have married you, to begin with! "Now that my legs have recovered, my company is listed, and I'm pregnant with Lucas' baby, it's high time for you to return the position as the CEO's husband to him! Our family of three will finally be whole again!" It turns out that Heather married me just so I can take over the responsibilities of taking care of her back then. Everyone thinks that I'll go ballistic from rage, so they can't wait to see me humiliate myself. But I just agree with the divorce with a smile before dropping my signature on the paperwork. What Heather doesn't know is that I'm only a good luck charm to her simply because of the system I'm bound to. Once the divorce is official, the things that I've given to her—that are exchanged from the system—will be taken back one by one!

On the last day before my study-abroad application closed, I was about to give up my full scholarship offer. Then, out of nowhere, I got a call from my future self. "Don't give it up. Click confirm enrollment. Right now." "Harley locked in his own graduate placement three months ago. The only reason he wants you to stay is that Katy needs you to finish her senior thesis for her, and he needs your money every month to live on. "Two weeks after you turn down that offer, the two of them go public with their relationship. "That so-called best friend of yours, Katy? She already betrayed you. She's been sleeping with him." I froze, my finger hovering over the mouse. The voice kept going, speaking faster and faster. "Listen carefully. Once you confirm the offer, take the twenty thousand dollars left in your account and put every cent into the Eklund Growth Fund. It goes public next March. It'll grow eightfold within the year. "Once you're abroad, apply to your advisor's AI lab before your first semester ends. That project gets acquired by Coogle two years from now, and as a core team member, you'll get a share of the payout. "Twenty-two-year-old me, I'm begging you. Stop wasting yourself on people who don't deserve it." The voice cut off. I took a deep breath and moved the cursor to "Confirm Enrollment." The instant I clicked, my mind was made up. I wasn't going to bury my own future for anyone who wasn't worth it.

The night my girlfriend, Lesley Cohen—whom I've financially supported for years—officially announces her relationship with Archie Gould, the System determines that I have failed my mission and strips me of my "saint's heart". From that moment on, I stop caring about her future and focus entirely on my career, eventually landing a spot among the Fortune 500. However, once I withdraw all financial support, Lesley confronts me with tearful eyes. "You always said that loving someone means giving them everything they want or need without asking for anything in return!" I'm baffled. She is the one who finds my money filthy, so why is she suddenly being so calculating about it now?

While we're playing King's Game, Olivia Bennett's male best friend, Damien Hayes, has drawn the punishment lot that requires him to spill one of Olivia's secrets. He turns to look at me, a mysterious smile curling on his lips. "Olivia needs to get my permission whenever she wishes to sleep with Ethan." The atmosphere goes quiet immediately. As Damien licks his lips, he adds, "C'mon, there's no such thing as taboo when it comes to Olivia's birthday party! Why are you guys so quiet? I thought y'all are the type who's capable of taking jokes of any kind!"

At our company's annual team-building event, my team lost a game, and the group made my girlfriend pick someone to play a card-passing game with. It was the kind where you pass a piece of paper from mouth to mouth without using your hands. I stood up, trying not to look too eager. I thought this was finally my chance to make our secret relationship public. Instead, my girlfriend picked the new hire before I could even step forward. A gust of wind knocked the paper loose, and their lips met right there in front of everyone. The room erupted. "Look at Ms. Chase go. Ms. Untouchable really does have a thing for pretty young things." "I'll take a bite of that free relationship content, thank you very much." I sat there stunned until a coworker pushed a drink into my hand. "What are you spacing out for? Go toast Ms. Chase and her new boy toy." I stared at my girlfriend, unable to believe what I'd just seen. She turned away to shield her new hire from another round of shots, ignoring me completely again. With tears in my eyes, I downed the drink in one go. Then I accepted a job offer from our biggest competitor.