Mistress Face Slapping Short Stories & Novels

My husband, Michael Grant's mistress, Lucy Lovelace, is demanding a break-up with him once again. Heartbroken, he drowns his sorrows with alcohol to the point that he has to get hospitalized due to stomach bleeding. Still, Michael keeps mumbling, "She's the only one who has the guts to treat me like this." Then, he grabs my hand and says, "Darling, you're a woman too. Tell me, how should I appease Lucy this time?" Well, Michael has cheated on me so many times. Lucy is the only one he's ever fallen for so far. My phone buzzes at that moment. It's a text from Lucy. "Mrs. Grant, please keep your husband in check! Don't you have any pride as a woman? Tell him to stop bothering me already!" I just smile mockingly. As always, I don't bother responding to Lucy. On the fifth day of Michael's hospitalization, he spams my phone with countless calls. When the latest call goes through, he questions me emotionally, "I'm hospitalized, you know! Why haven't you shown up at all? Do you even care about me as your husband?" I reply calmly, "I'm worried that if I do show up, you'll fall in love with me again."

My flower stall that's stationed outside the university entrance gets thrashed by the hooligans hired by my husband, Anthony Rivera. So, I show up at Sienna Wright, the low-income student's graduation ceremony with a bouquet of roses. Anthony, who's a university professor, is in the middle of turning Sienna's tassel for her. When they are taking a photo together with smiles on their faces, I turn on my megaphone right away. "My husband longs to have two wives. One is the student he's sleeping with. To celebrate their affair, all roses are now 3 dollars each." Everyone just stares at Anthony, clearly dumbfounded. Meanwhile, Anthony, who prides himself on being cool and composed, finds himself panicking once again.

On Valentine's Day, I suggest going to a restaurant to celebrate, but my boyfriend, Michael Nelson, refuses. He says impatiently, "Why should we celebrate some lousy holiday? I don't want to waste good money on it." He turns around and happily chats away on his phone, completely absorbed in the conversation. Then, I hear the system's notification going off in my head. "Congratulations. You have received 2,860 dollars." This means that Michael just transferred 1,430 dollars to his side chick. He doesn't know it yet, but I have a system. It's called the Infidelity Cashback System. Every time he spends money on his other woman, I get double the cashback in my bank account.

After Lily turned six, I dragged her through ninety-nine DNA tests. I even pulled her out of school. Quit my job too. Every day, another hospital, another test. The house? Total chaos. And every single report said the same thing—biologically related. By the hundredth test, Wesley snapped. He yanked Lily behind him. "Lily came out of you. How could she not be yours? If you keep this up, we're done." He pulled out the divorce papers. Lily's face crumpled. She sobbed so hard she could barely breathe. "Mom, you said I was your most precious baby. Don't you want me anymore?" "You were under a lot of stress after giving birth. It turned into depression. Let's see a doctor," Wesley's mom said, wiping her eyes. I didn't say a word. I ripped the papers to shreds, yanked Lily out from behind him. "One more test. Once we get the report, you can divorce me if you still want to." The report came back. No one said a word.

Eight years ago, my first love, Zyla Garcia, dumped me. Right in front of me, she threw herself into the arms of a rich scion named Brett Salway. She said condescendingly, "Kieran, you asked me to wait for you for three years. But how many three years does a woman have?" I begged her desperately, but she remained unmoved. Brett even ordered someone to pin me to the ground and force me to finish a bottle of red wine before letting me leave. "You should thank me, Kieran. Otherwise, you would never have the chance to drink such expensive wine in your life!" Brett sneers. I watched as they got into a luxury car and drove off. Eight years later, I am one of the most powerful figures in this city—and I run into them again.

My boyfriend of six years, Liam Sherman, proposes to his long-time crush, Vivi Johansen, on my birthday. With that, the passionate love between us is a thing of the past. I come to my senses and distance myself from him, choosing to put our relationship behind us. As such, I decided to go along with the arranged marriage my family has planned.

I had been begging my wife for weeks, and she finally agreed to come to the movie theater with our son and me to catch the latest blockbuster. My plan was to wait until the credits rolled, then hit her with the big news: I’d just been promoted to general manager of the entire multiplex. Then, right in the middle of the movie, my phone buzzed with a wave of notifications from the work group chat. [Holy crap! Hall 3 is wild right now, 4K quality!] [Are people for real right now? Doing it in a movie theater like they’re glued together?] [Seriously though, ping janitorial ASAP. That row is gonna need a deep clean.] My mind went blank. Hall 3? That was the exact theater we were sitting in. Curiosity got the better of me, and I tapped on the video file. The second the screen lit up, my whole body froze. The couple in the video was sitting right in our row. It was my wife, sitting just past our son, locked together with the guy next to her. I spun my head toward her. Her cheeks were flushed, her breathing heavy. "What the hell are you doing?!" I snapped.

On my 28th birthday, Carl Thorne asked me to meet him at the Moon Goddess statue. He specifically told me to wear a wedding dress and said he was finally going to keep his promise and mark me. But when I arrived in my wedding dress, its train trailing behind me, he turned to the crowd and laughed. "See? I don't even have to mark her. One word from me, and she'll come running. I win. The hunting grounds are mine." Then he raised an eyebrow at me. "Vera, I was only joking. The pack still sees you as their Luna, mark or no mark." When I remained silent, Carl grinned. "If you're so desperate to be marked, why not pick someone here?" The crowd burst out laughing. Everyone knew I was Carl's fated mate, that I was hopelessly in love with him and would never choose another. But when I took my new husband's hand and completed the marking ceremony, Carl went white and froze where he stood.

Chris Shaw promised that we would finally get our marriage licence next month. He told me he had secured the first appointment slot in the coming month. It was the third time he had brought up marriage. The first was during Valentine's. Chris called to say that city hall had unexpectedly opened a few last-minute slots and told me to hurry over and wait in line. It was pouring with rain. I waited the whole day and only received a video from his best friend. Chris was playing snooker as he mocked, "Told you she'd do everything I told her to. Just like a dog." The second time was on Labor Day. Chris sent me an address for another city hall, dozens of miles away in the middle of nowhere. I spent two hours rushing over, but there was no one there. It was just a construction site. My best friend sent me snapshots of a bet they made, and she guffawed. "I bet she would actually go, and I won a thousand." And this time, everyone looked at me with mockery in their eyes. I dressed up for the occasion. "You actually showed up. How gullible are you?" I clenched my papers and said nothing. The car door opened, and out came Chris, his arm around Yvonne Gray, his true love. It had been a month since we met, yet he was still cavalier, and he casually waved the marriage application in his hand. "Yvonne's family is rushing her into a marriage, so we'll get a license to shut them up. Do as I say, and I'll consider getting one with you." I stared at him. Ten years of love, patience, and waiting. And suddenly, whatever I had once felt for him withered away like a plant that had gone too long without water. So I took out my phone and called someone else. "I got the slot. What's your ETA?"

It was near the end of May when I got off my night shift and got a call from my younger self, right before the SAT. "Eight years from now, am I happy? Am I living abroad, or working at Collins Corporation? "Charlotte said I don't need the SAT. She's taking me overseas." He sounded excited, already planning to spend the next few days doing whatever he wanted. I looked down at the grease on my uniform. Behind me was a cramped factory dorm, a cramped room packed with 12 beds. "Charlotte's getting married today," I said. "But you're not the groom." He sucked in a breath. "That's impossible. She said she'd marry me." Last night, Charlotte Collins texted me. [Don't come tomorrow. You work at a factory. You'll embarrass me.] His voice caught. "Who is it? Do I know him?" I said calmly, "Open the math worksheet in your bag. Finish it, and I'll tell you who she's marrying."

Jason Gibson was trending online as the internet's textbook "devoted husband". It all started when a behind-the-scenes camera caught him during a meeting break, casually transferring tens of thousands of dollars to my account alongside a photo reporting his whereabouts. The comments worshipped him. [This is a real man's mindset. Where his money goes, his heart follows.] From building our company from scratch to taking it public, we had walked side-by-side for ten whole years. During our broke days, I survived by collecting plastic bottles off the streets just to scrape together five bucks for our meals. Back then, he held me and swore, "Once I build this company, I'll never let you live another poor day in your life." So even as he grew busier over the years, I believed those on-time bank transfers were proof we were still deeply in love. That was until my training workshop wrapped up early, and wanting to give him a sweet surprise, I snuck back home unannounced. The master bedroom door stood slightly ajar as a woman's breathless, ragged pants drifted out. "Ten grand for a kiss, fifty grand for sex, plus another thirty grand if you don't use a condom. You went way more than once last night, Mr. Gibson. How much hush money are you planning to send your wife this time?" Jason let out a low grunt. "Shut up." Standing in the hallway, I gripped my phone tightly. My screen was showing last night's transfer notification of three thousand and eighty thousand dollars. That meant seven times without protection. At the time, I had even joked that I was only away for a few days of training and didn't need that much cash. Only now did I finally get it. What he was sending me was never peace of mind. It was nothing more than an indulgence ticket, a price tag to blind my eyes to his betrayal.

After I handed my husband my pregnancy report, he froze. That night, I heard him get up and head to his study. I quietly followed him. He was on a video call with his adopted sister, Penelope. "Is she really pregnant, Harrison? What are we going to do? Are you going to leave me?" "You silly girl. How could I ever leave you? I only married her to appease my dad and secure my inheritance of Westbrook Group. Once I have full control of the company, I'll divorce her at once." I quietly pulled out my phone and started recording. I finally had the proof I needed. It was a marriage of convenience. I was exhausted by it.

My husband, Harry Forger, who couldn’t have kids, got a college girl pregnant. He was thrilled and planned to keep it a secret until the baby was born, but I caught him red-handed at the hospital. I completely lost it and demanded to know how he could betray me after all I had done to land 10-billion-dollar deals for him. He just handed me divorce papers and said coldly, “You can’t give me a child, but Claire is already pregnant and needs someone to take care of her. I’m going to marry her and give her a real family. “Sign the papers. If we end things peacefully, you can still have a spot in the company.” I refused, and that’s when his revenge started. He had me thrown in prison and froze all my assets. In the end, he even tied my parents, who both had heart problems, to a drop tower ride. “Sign the divorce papers, and I’ll let them go. If you don’t sign, then watch them die up there.”

To get me to agree to a divorce, my husband lied and told me he had stomach cancer. I glanced at the medical report in my bag and said nothing. Instead, I broke down right then and there, sobbing like my heart was being ripped apart, absolutely refusing to divorce him. Because what he didn't know… was that he actually had cancer. Just not stomach cancer—liver cancer. And with his funeral coming up soon, if we divorced now, who would inherit all his assets? No way. I couldn't let this divorce happen!

After eight years of loving him in vain, my boyfriend, Gilbert Hughes, finally proposed. The wedding is set for a week from now. However, just as I'm happily preparing for it, I accidentally overhear a conversation between him and his friends. "I have to give it to Gilbert. The moment he proposes, his first love, Cheryl, gets restless." "But now that Cheryl's back, what are you going to do with your girlfriend?" Gilbert pauses for a moment, then replies casually, "It's fine. I'm not actually going to register my marriage with Jennifer. At worst, I'll just hold a wedding and play along." At the party the next day, he wraps his arm around me dotingly and socializes with our guests. Yet, the moment Cheryl Manning runs out in tears, he instantly lets go of me and chases after her in a panic. I follow quietly and watch them embrace tightly in the dark, kissing each other deeply. With my heart completely shattered, I turn away and dial a number. "Want to get married? I need a groom."

My fiancee, Ruby Gordon, is the richest person in Glenridge. Yet on day one, she demands we split everything 50-50. "It's the only way I'll know you actually love me and aren't just after my money," she says. I really do love her, so I agree. Five years pass like this. We split the cost of the leather shoes she buys me. We split the pre-marital health checkup. We even split our 5000-dollar rent. Then, one week before our wedding, Mom ends up in the hospital after a car crash. Two bills hit my phone at the same time. One is a 12,000-dollar surgery fee for Mom. The other is my 1,000-dollar share for the wedding suit. Looking at my bank balance, which contains less than 1,000 dollars, I text Ruby, asking if she can cover the surgery for now. Her reply comes half an hour later. "So, now that we're about to get married, you're dropping the act? Lennon Stein, you're worse than my ex. At least he was upfront about loving money." I try to explain. She snaps back, "Isn't it a little too convenient? The moment we're about to marry, your mom suddenly gets hit by a car? Maybe our signs just clash." I think she's right. So I return the suit and walk out of Ruby's life for good.

As a star divorce attorney, I agreed when my husband asked me to represent a younger schoolmate of his, Melanie Pattison, in her divorce and her fight for custody of her child. But in court, opposing counsel presented several photos and claimed Melanie had been unfaithful. When I saw the photos clearly, my heart lurched. The man Melanie had cheated with was none other than my husband, Benjamin Rossel. In the first photo, the two of them were nestled together, kissing on a beach. In the second, they had taken a child to an amusement park and were riding the carousel together. The photos were verified as genuine. My face went ashen, but Melanie didn't show the slightest hint of panic. She took out two paternity test results and faced her husband. "Benjamin is the child's biological father, not you. If we're getting divorced, you have no right to the child." My mind went blank with a roar. So in my eight-year marriage to Benjamin, I was the only one who'd been living as a devoted wife. He'd had a child with someone else long ago. But back when he'd sweet-talked me into marrying him, he had signed a prenup. If we divorced, he, Melanie, and their love child would be left with nothing but the clothes on their backs.

At the Colonetti family banquet in New York, I stood in the center of the grand hall with more than a dozen girls from different families, all of us waiting to be chosen. Victor, the heir of the Colonetti family, was supposed to announce his fiancée tonight. Along with that announcement, he would present her with the family heirloom, a lily brooch. As an illegitimate daughter of the family, I understood that if I didn’t receive that brooch tonight, it meant I would be sent to Chicago for an arranged marriage. Victor, who had once promised to marry me, changed his mind without warning. With a smile, he pinned the lily brooch onto the chest of the woman standing beside me instead. Then, he leaned close to my ear and whispered, “Let your sister Emily have her moment today. She’s also an illegitimate daughter like you, and she’s also never been valued growing up. Don’t worry. With me here, no one will force you into an arranged marriage.” Even as I looked at him with pleading eyes, he reached out and let Emily take his arm. “Emily is kind and gracious,” he said. “She deserves the lily brooch.” Those words—kind and gracious—turned me into the joke of the entire evening. The next day, I boarded a flight to Chicago alone, but Victor panicked. He used every connection he had and managed to ground every flight heading to Chicago.

My grandfather, Marvin Vega, arranges a blind date for me. The guy, Hugo Crawford, comes from a well-respected scholarly family. Wanting to make a good impression on Hugo, I put extra effort into dressing up. But I have barely taken my seat when Hugo's self-proclaimed "gold-digger detector" childhood friend, Marlene Welch, comes charging over. She crosses her arms and sweeps a disdainful look over my outfit. "You're covered in designer brands from head to toe. How much are you planning to squeeze out of Hugo?" Hugo helplessly pulls her back and explains apologetically to me in a low voice, "She just went through a breakup, so she can't stand women who wear designer brands. Please don't take it personally." I smile and say nothing, figuring it's best not to make a scene at a first meeting. But Marlene starts criticizing me again, "You put on this whole pampered heiress act with the designer clothes and jewelry just so men will willingly bankroll you. "All this designer stuff must be from some ex-boyfriend you bled dry, right? Since I was little, I've seen plenty of fake socialites like you who'll stop at nothing to marry into money and bleed a man dry." I let out an exasperated laugh at hearing such vicious, prejudiced remarks. I then glance at the Patek Philippe on my wrist. Even in ten years, she still won't be able to afford what I'm wearing right now.

After a passionate night, my childhood sweetheart, Jack Jenner, thoughtfully prepared birth control pills for me. I held his wrist and pleaded coquettishly, "The pills are bitter. I don't want to take them. Let's just get married if I get pregnant." Jack patted my head and chuckled. "Don't be silly. Childbirth is much worse than taking pills. Besides, I'm getting engaged on Sunday. Whose child would it be if you gave birth?" I froze as he casually kissed my forehead, gently coaxing me, "My darling Ariana, pack up your things and take them with you. We can't fool around like this anymore. My fiancée asked me to be chaste." I numbly threw the things into the trash can and dialed my father's number. "I'll marry him."