Mistress Melodramatic 단편 소설 & 소설

The hospital suddenly called to inform me that the kidney I had been scheduled to receive had been transferred—by my husband—to his first love. I confronted him. He replied casually, "It's just one kidney. Are you really in such a hurry? Daphne needs it more, so let her have it first. You're not going to die anytime soon anyway!" I stood there holding the medical report proving he had uremia, and in that moment, my three-year marriage felt like a joke. Fine. He was right. I wasn't the one who was sick—so what was I rushing for?

When the Carter family went bankrupt, Zoe Carter sold herself to the Tanners to save her mother. She became the bride of Yale Tanner, the man everyone in Gerton feared and avoided like the devil himself. Their marriage was supposed to bring him good fortune and save his life. Three days after the wedding, Yale, who had been on the brink of death from a gunshot wound, made a miraculous recovery. From then on, he treated Zoe like the most precious thing in his world. Now, however, Zoe sat bound at the wrists and ankles with coarse hemp rope, less than two feet from the open door of a helicopter. Freezing water jolted her awake. At thirty-three thousand feet, the icy wind rushing through the open doorway chilled her to the bone. She struggled instinctively, but the ropes only tightened, digging into her flesh until blood began to seep from her wrists and ankles. "Don't be scared, Zoe. Look at your mother! She's putting on quite the kite show!" Yale seized her trembling head and forced her to look at the screen beside her. There, suspended from a rope outside the helicopter, her mother dangled helplessly in the wind, her eyes vacant as she swayed like a kite. "Mom! Mom!" Her fear for her mother overwhelmed her own terror. Frantically, Zoe tried to crawl toward the screen, struggling forward on her bound hands and feet. Yale caught her by the back of her neck and held her firmly in place. His warm breath brushed her ear as he spoke, his voice cold and menacing. "Have you learned to behave yourself yet, Zoe? Now tell me, who do the data and research papers on precision-targeted therapies and antibody-drug conjugates really belong to?"

On the last day of the year, my music player app pushed out my 2025 listening report. My keyword was 'Resonance.' I had not actually spent much time listening to music that year. My account had mostly been used by my boyfriend, Jeremy Steward. A small line of text appeared underneath. [At 4:00 A.M. on December 1st, you were still sharing the same song with someone. So this is what love looks like, staying awake through the night.] My breath caught. December 1st was my birthday. However, that night, I had gone to bed early. Jeremy had rushed off right after cutting the cake, saying he needed to go back to the office for overtime. Almost as if possessed, I tapped my trembling hands on the unfamiliar profile that showed up as my most frequent interaction. Their keyword for the year was 'Exclusively Yours.' My heart skipped. I opened the details. [This year, you and this user listened to songs together late at night 688 times. Every time is a private whisper between souls.] Right then, a message from Jeremy popped up on my phone. [Babe, I have to work late again tonight. Don't wait up for me. Sleep early, okay?] At the same moment, that unfamiliar account posted a new update. A photo of two hands intertwined inside a car, fingers tightly laced together. [I love working late with him the most. We'll listen to music together for a lifetime.]

Among the world's female models, Julian Vance once again ranked first as the photographer they most wanted to spend a night with. And yet he had never taken a single photograph of me. When reporters asked about it, he could never hide the fondness in his eyes. "My wife is for my eyes only. No one else gets that privilege." On my birthday, I happily changed into a lace nightdress and, for the first time, asked him to record me with his camera. Several minutes passed. The shutter never sounded. Behind the camera, Julian's expression had gone stiff. "Forget it," he said. My joy collapsed into confusion. "What's wrong?" "It's just..." He laughed dryly. "Photography is work. I don't want to mix you up with work." Then he put the camera back, turned around, and went into the bathroom. The door to the darkroom where he developed his photos was half open, red light spilling through the crack. I walked inside and saw an album on the worktable titled Vivian Blair's Private Diary. I opened it. Inside were photos in every degree of intimacy and every kind of pose.

When we try to get our marriage registered for the 18th time, Derek Hubbard has forgotten to bring his ID again. The thing is, I reminded him to bring his ID three times last night. He told me, "Got it. This time, I'm definitely marrying you. There won't be a problem throughout the registration." But as soon as we arrive at the city hall, Derek searches through his pockets. In the end, he calls Lessie Davenport with a frown. "Lessie, did I leave my ID with you?" As I sit in the waiting area, I suddenly let out a soft chuckle. Half an hour later, Lessie arrives at the city hall. She hands the ID over to Derek with red-rimmed eyes. "My stomach hurts a lot, Derek…" Derek's expression changes drastically. He quickly supports her and steers her toward the exit. "Wait for me here, Celine. I'll be back soon." I nod in response while watching Derek walk away from me, just like how he did for the past 17 times. When Derek's silhouette disappears, I dig out my phone and send a text message to someone else. "Are you here yet?" Three minutes later, a man walks into the city hall. He hands both of our IDs through the hole in the counter. "Hi, we're here to register our marriage."

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.

When my husband, Hugo Clarkson, is rubbing lotion onto my belly, I come across a post online. "My wife's in the late stages of pregnancy and needs me around constantly, but my girlfriend's getting increasingly demanding. What should I do?" The comments are flooded with people tearing the original poster apart. A few, however, offer some rather helpful advice. "Just tell your wife you're going to work out." "Go see your mistress at eight, then come home at ten and carry on playing the perfect husband." "Women become dumb as rocks when they're pregnant. She'll never figure it out." I can't help feeling sorry for the man's wife. Pregnancy already leaves women physically and emotionally vulnerable enough. To be betrayed by their husbands on top of everything else is just cruel. I'm about to complain to Hugo about the post when he suddenly appears in a change of workout clothes. "Honey, I'm going to start going for a run every evening from now on."

When my wife's first love was injured in a car accident and urgently needed a kidney transplant, she gave me an ultimatum. If I refused to donate my kidney, she said she would take our daughter and die alongside him the very next day. Crying, she begged. "Can you stop being so selfish? It's only one kidney. "It's not like you'll die! Are you really going to force me and your daughter to our deaths?" With a bitter smile, I agreed. What she didn't know was that our daughter had already died in the very same car accident that injured her beloved first love. And I was suffering from end-stage kidney failure. Once I went through with the surgery, I wouldn't be far behind from death either. Since she was willing to sacrifice everything for the man she loved, then I would give her exactly what she wanted. I would make her the person responsible for both my death and our daughter's so she would have to live with that regret for the rest of her life.

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.

I'm a talker, while my boyfriend's a workaholic. He tells me I'm annoying, deletes me from his contacts, and blocks my number. If I want to reach him, I have to submit a request three hours in advance, and once it's approved, I get five minutes of his time. This is my 99th request to go see the Northern Lights. I'm just waiting for him to reject it so I can finally let this relationship go. But instead, the approval comes through. I spend an entire week putting together an itinerary and only ask him to book our flights. When I get to the airport, I receive a notification telling me to book my own ticket. I make excuses for him, tell myself he's busy with work. But after I land, I find him sitting with my best friend Becca Holloway, posing for one of those couple's portraits that takes a full hour to finish. He sees me and frowns. "So I didn't get your ticket. What's the big deal? "There were only two first-class seats left, and Becca has a bad back. She had to sit there." He says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world, then pushes the luggage beside him toward me. "Grab these, will you? Becca hurt her wrist, so she can't lift anything." The moment he finishes talking, he reaches up and takes out his hearing aid with practiced ease, cutting me off before I can say a word. Something in me just gives out. I take the sticky notes from my pocket and toss them in the trash. I plan to write down everything I want to say on them, so I won't waste his time. Now I don't need them anymore.

I see an anonymous poll online after Aidan Spencer returns to me and our family. "Does a man feel guiltier to his wife or mistress after cheating?" 99% of the voters chose "mistress". I turn to Aidan. "Do you agree with this?" He puts down his book, a hint of indescribable fatigue in his cool gaze. "I'm already back with you, Lily. What else do you want from me?"

Two days before my wedding, I was sorting through some old belongings when I suddenly remembered the time capsules Ethan Shaw and I buried ten years ago. His expression froze the moment he heard it. He tried to talk me out of going. “It’s been so long. Someone must’ve dug them up already.” I didn’t think much of it and went back to our old school on my own. But at the spot where we buried it, I unearthed five metal boxes of different sizes. Two of them were the ones Ethan and I buried a decade ago, now rusted all over. The other three didn’t belong there—one was just as rusty, while the remaining two looked brand-new. The old box had Rose Quinn’s name carved on it. On top were the words: “My secret crush was a war of myself. Ethan, I wish you happiness.” I remembered her then—an unremarkable girl who used to sit behind us. And the two new boxes were engraved with the names Ethan Shaw and Rose Quinn. The date marked on them was today. On Ethan’s box, it read: “My greatest regret in life is that I can’t give you a wedding.” On Rose’s box, it read: “My greatest regret in life is that I can’t openly wish you a happy wedding day.”

My husband, Ethan Caldwell, has three mistresses who have no idea the others even exist. That is because I always make sure to plan his schedule. "On the 15th, you're going skiing with Lydia Bennett. On the 18th, you're taking Vivian Sinclair house hunting. On the 25th, you're flying to Derbin Isle with Jennifer Harrington to see the Northern Lights. I've already booked the tickets." After checking the three conversations he has pinned to the top of his phone, I recited his schedule to him as calmly as if I were discussing an ordinary business meeting. Without even looking up, Ethan says, "Add one more thing on the 20th. It's Vivi's dog's third birthday." I freeze for a moment but eventually add it to his schedule. The 20th is supposed to be the day he finally keeps his promise to give me the wedding we've never had. He has already postponed it 99 times, all for the sake of those three women. When I fall silent, Ethan pulls a silk scarf from one of the mountains of gift bags piled beside him and hands it to me. "Be good, Sienna. I promise this is the last time I'll postpone it." The scarf is actually part of Jennifer's gift package. I'm the one who goes to the boutique and places the order for him. I don't make a scene. I simply accept the scarf, then pull out the contract I've already reviewed and hand it to him to sign. Ethan seems pleased by my reaction. "You're finally starting to act like a proper wife from a wealthy family. Everyone in our circle envies me for having a fabulous wife like you. If you'd come to your senses two years ago, we wouldn't have had to keep postponing the wedding." I say nothing. I just watch as he signs his name. What he doesn't know is that I've slipped a divorce agreement into the stack of documents. The wedding I've been waiting for all these years is never going to happen. Someone else has already promised me the wedding I never get to have.

Before the Christmas holidays, the four of us besties from Kingsley City held a vote. We had one question on the table: should Mia Williams be allowed to join our tight-knit friend group? I thought my friends and my boyfriend would vote no, just like me. After all, Mia had ulterior motives. She had repeatedly mocked and provoked me, all while shamelessly flirting with my boyfriend. However, I could not have been more wrong. My childhood friend, Jason Miller, remained calm as he said, “I vote yes. Mia is great in every way. Jenna, your jealousy is getting out of hand.” My best friend, Lily Wilson, immediately backed him up. “Exactly! Jenna, you can’t be so selfish. You don’t get to decide who we’re allowed to be friends with.” I clenched my fists and turned to my boyfriend, Evan Taylor. He had already sent Mia an invitation to join our group chat. “Jenna, what’s one more person? Her joining isn't going to hurt you. Don’t be so difficult, okay?” That was when it hit me. The love and friendship I had always been so proud of had both betrayed me when it mattered most.

With a bag of vegetables gifted by the previous tenant in hand, I was on my way to collect rent from the third household when I unexpectedly ran into someone at the entrance of the community. The man frowned, his eyes fixed on the vegetables I carried, as though he couldn't fathom how I had ended up like this after leaving him. Following his gaze, I instinctively shifted the vegetables behind my back. My eyes dropped to the muddy water on the pavement, and I never would have imagined bumping into my ex-boyfriend—the one who had grown up with a silver spoon—in this aging neighborhood. He noticed my movement, and for a moment, something flickered in his expression: a mix of pity and recognition. "Since you've already learned your lesson," he said, "come back with me." At his words, I instinctively stepped back half a pace. "Who said I'm going back with you?" My rejection seemed to sting, darkening his face. "I know you're still blaming me for giving Rachel a child," he muttered, "but it's been three years. Isn't it time to stop? As long as you come back, we can be the same as before." Three years, huh? How quickly time had passed. Thinking of my little girl at home, still babbling her first words, I couldn't help but smile and shake my head. "Let's leave it at that. Go home and live your life with Rachel. My daughter's waiting for me to go back and make her food."

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.

My boyfriend of three years had a secret true love: my vicious best friend. For her, he swallowed my family business whole, froze every cent I had, and crushed my dignity into the dirt. When my father lay dying from a brain hemorrhage, I begged him for $50,000 to save his life. He refused cold-heartedly. At the exact moment my father died on the operating table, he was busy spending millions on rare jewelry for her. I didn't show up to our engagement party. Instead, I sent a "gift" that played on the big screen. That arrogant man went completely insane in front of the whole world.

At the Lowell family's autumn memorial gathering, the moment my unfavorable token hit the floor, Spencer's girl best friend, Keira Boone, burst out laughing. "Wow, Lena. You're carrying a Lowell baby and the tokens still say no?" The Lowells had a rule: if an engaged woman couldn't draw a favorable token in five years, the engagement was void. Year one, I drew a bad token, and the wedding was pushed back. Year two, my dad was dying. I begged Spencer through tears to take me to the hospital, but he held me back. "Lena, ten more minutes. Don't let your dad's illness break the rules." Now it was year five. Keira tossed a marriage certificate in front of me. "But don't worry. Spencer already has a wife." In the photo, she and Spencer sat shoulder to shoulder. The registration date was the day after my fourth failed draw last year. Yet the night before they signed, Spencer had held me and said, "This is the last year. I swear I'll marry you." I went cold all over, but Keira wasn't done. "And lately, whatever needs Lowell had, your bro here took care of them for you." My stomach turned. I spun around to confront Spencer. He just rubbed his temples. "You're pregnant. I didn't want to risk touching you. What's wrong with her helping out? "The certificate's just to keep my family happy. You'll still get the wedding next week. "I've gone this far for you. What more do you want?" I slid off my engagement ring and set it back on the altar. "I don't want it anymore. "And I don't want you either."

On the day of my wedding, the video I had painstakingly prepared was suddenly replaced with intimate photos of my fiancé and my foster sister, Lindsey Remmington. Within minutes, it hit the top of the trending list. Overnight, I, a celebrated actress, became the abandoned bride of a wealthy family and a public laughingstock. Just when I thought I'd reached rock bottom, Connor Presley, the heir of Elluel City's most powerful family and the boy I'd grown up with, returned from abroad. In front of flashing cameras, he knelt with a diamond ring and proposed, silencing every rumor and every sneer. After we married, we appeared inseparable, our affection the picture of perfection. The only flaw was his infertility—his condition made it nearly impossible for me to conceive. For three long years, I underwent countless rounds of IVF. At last, I became pregnant. Connor was overjoyed. To celebrate, he threw an extravagant party in honor of our long-awaited child. But in the middle of the revelry, one of his closest friends, drunk and unguarded, muttered in Russian, "Connor, you've gone too far. Just because Lindsey was afraid pregnancy would ruin her figure, you put the zygote into Rachel's body and let her carry the baby for you two? If she ever finds out the truth, you'll regret it for the rest of your life." Connor's expression didn't waver. "This was Lindsey's only wish. I had to grant it," he replied coolly. "Besides, having a child with Lindsey has always been my dream. Only her child deserves to be the heir of the Presley family. The days ahead are long—I'll make it up to Rachel, eventually." I stood frozen, my body trembling uncontrollably. That night, I made an appointment for an abortion. When Connor stormed into the hospital, raging like a madman, I looked up at him with chilling calm and said, "I understand Russian."

After we got engaged, my fiancee sent a child from abroad. She also sent an email along with it. [Noah, I was so bored overseas that I accidentally had a baby with Raivo Fallon. Since you’ve always been so eager to suck up to me, I’ll leave this child in your care. You can get some practice ahead of time so you’ll be ready to be our caregiver when I return home to Abrein.] Without a word, I handed the child over to the butler. Seven years later, all the CEOs stationed overseas returned to Abrein for their performance reviews. Laina Miller drove up in a Raypach, leading a large entourage that blocked me at the entrance to the Miller family residence. She held a cigarette between her lips, tilted her head, and took off her sunglasses. “Did you miss me that much? Did you wait here at the gate just for me? “Just so you know, for the sake of the child’s registration papers, Raivo and I got married overseas. From now on, you two will be brothers. You’ll share everything. “The Miller and Lewis families are now related by marriage. You don’t care about just a small piece of paper, do you?” After that, she blew several smoke rings in my direction. They choked me until tears streamed down my face. I wiped my tears away and hurriedly backed away. My child’s mother was the pettiest person I ever knew. She had warned me long ago to keep my distance from other younger female relatives. If she found out her niece was harassing her husband, the Miller family would be in an uproar.