Feel-Good Story Regret Short Stories & Novels

After I found my husband in bed with my best friend, I was ready to set the house on fire and take them both with me. Just as I picked up the lighter, I received a video call from my future self. My future self's eyes were bloodshot. She pointed at the grotesque, disfigured right side of her face and screamed. "Sophie, stop! If you do this, you'll end up exactly like me!" "They both survived. Then they had you convicted of attempted murder, divorced you while you were in prison, stripped every asset from your name, and patented the breakthrough drug you'd just developed!" "That... that drug will be the only effective leukemia treatment anyone develops for the next twelve years. They'll make tens of millions of dollars from it." "And you'll pay for it. Twelve years from now, you'll walk out of prison looking like me, treated like a monster and too terrified to show your face outside..." A shudder tore through me. I hurled the lighter into the trash. Only then did my future self let out a relieved breath, though her eyes quickly filled with urgency again. "Remember, get the divorce as soon as possible!" "Then go straight to the Ashton Biomedical Research Center and find Vincent Hale, the rival you could never stand. He'll help you..." The screen went black. I stared at my own reflection in the dark display. I took a deep breath and opened the kitchen door. "Let's get a divorce. I'm done."

Three years into my arranged marriage with the Valachi family heir, the one that got away came back. He left me for Julia eight times. The ninth time, he left me bleeding on the side of the road with a gunshot wound to go running to Julia, who’d called him because she felt a little dizzy. "She needs me. You get that, right, Leona?" This time, I didn't fight for him. He didn't know about the bet I’d made with Julia. The ninth time he abandoned me, I would be the one to leave for good. So on his birthday, I left a set of signed divorce papers on his desk and got on a plane.

Within 30 days, Niccolò Romano and I registered for divorce 18 times. The first time, Niccolò's adopted sister stole my research results, but he hired a lawyer to fight for her. Afterwards, he held me and coaxed, "If something happens to Lia, no one will dare to hire her in the future. I'm just helping her." The second time, while my plane was in distress, he was traveling around the world with Lia. His tone was helpless: "Lia has depended on me since she was little. I only look after her like a younger sister." The last time, Lia was pregnant with a child no one would claim, and he took responsibility for it. Faced with my accusation, he just sighed, a bit tired: "Lia's career is just starting to take off. If someone blackmails her with the child, her life will be ruined." "You're a woman too. Can't you understand?" This time, I didn't cry or make a scene. Instead, I calmly signed my name on the divorce agreement that he had signed in a fit of pique some time ago. Then I called my professor: "I've thought it over. I'm willing to go with you to Iceland to do research."

Just before closing, the restaurant had one last serving of spaghetti with meat sauce left. I’d spent three years paying off my boyfriend’s debts to loan sharks. I hadn’t eaten all day and was finally about to dig in. But Jax Carter snatched the bowl away from me and carried it over to Camilla Price, the recently divorced owner of the flower shop next door. “Camilla’s got it tough raising a kid on her own. Skipping one meal won’t kill you.” The neighborhood lowlifes at the other tables whistled and hooted. “Jax and Camilla are a match made in heaven. They’ve both had it rough. Hurry up and shack up already!” “What a good guy Jax is, looking out for Camilla like that! It’s nice to see young people still care.” That night, a debt collector’s thug smashed a bottle over my head, and blood ran into my eyes. Jax didn’t even look at me. He was busy helping Camilla pick up the flowers that had been knocked over. I wiped the blood from my face. That was when it hit me: I’d wasted three years on a relationship worth less than a bowl of spaghetti. It was long past time to walk away.

On the day of my divorce, my ex-mother-in-law updates her social media with a photo. It's my husband's mistress' ultrasound—she's pregnant. Their friends and family congratulate her. Meanwhile, I share a premarital medical report. It belongs to her son, Owen Wade. It also clearly indicates he has congenital necrospermia. There's no way I'll want a man who can't have kids!

Thanks to the paparazzi sneakily taking a photo of Caitlin Randall in her swimwear, she's been rated as the most perfect woman in Lunbury for seven years in a row. Countless men who wish to bed her can line up to the moon and back. The thing is, everyone knows that Caitlin only favors me, the deaf man who stays by her side all the time. When I was 18, I blew out my eardrums when I was saving Caitlin from danger. Since then, I can no longer hear the sounds and voices coming from the external world. Whenever we're passionately entangled with each other in bed, Caitlin will always kiss my ears with red-rimmed eyes. But I can never hear what she tells me every time. That is, until the night of Caitlin's birthday, when she blindfolds me and tells me that she wants to play a game. That's when I can finally hear her voice. "Let's play something spicy, Terry." Caitlin ties me up and convinces me to drink some alcohol. When the lashing heat pooling in my gut threatens to break me down, I'm so close to telling the truth to Caitlin—that my hearing is restored. "Ms. Randall, the people and the tools are ready. Are you sure you want to do this to Mr. Boyer?" When I hear the robotic voice coming from Caitlin's earpiece, I freeze up immediately. But at that moment, she has already injected me with a dose of sedatives. "Be a good boy, Terry. Everything will still be fine when you're asleep."

On my wedding anniversary, I go to Anthony Scroll's company in an attempt to surprise him. No one at the front desk stops me from entering. But what stops me in my tracks is the fact that a photo of me is printed on the welcome mat outside the CEO's office. There's also a sentence printed on the mat that says, "You'll be bestowed with wealth if you step on her face." My hands start trembling out of rage. As soon as I open the door to the office and try to bring up the topic in front of Anthony, Alexis Timmer, a shareholder, as well as one of Anthony's "boys", throws a stack of useless documents at my face instantly. The sharp edges of the papers leave papercuts on my cheek, sending white-hot pain flaring through my senses. Alexis has one leg crossed over the other as she chews on a piece of gum innocently. "Oh, hey Kimberly! Sorry about that. The papers came flying out of my hand for no reason. You see, the programmers are extremely stressed, so the mat is meant for them to vent their stress. "Anthony has agreed to the usage of your photo, by the way. After all, it makes things even livelier for the company. A housewife like you will never understand our niche humor." Anthony takes off his earphones before shooting me a berating glance. Then, he passes a bottle of water to Alexis. "Alex is just like one of the boys. Stop using your own rules to restrict her." As Alexis twists open the bottle cap, she tilts her chin in my direction smugly. "Also, Anthony hates it whenever you show up at the company with your stupid surprises, Kimberly. The food that you bring him always ends up getting eaten by us as a form of punishment."

I go deaf in an attempt to save James Duncan. He falls to his knees before my parents and begs them to let me marry him. He says he'll care for me for life. He finally passes his five-year test, but he sleeps with his lover before our wedding. He does it before my very eyes. He clamps a hand over her mouth and says, "Be quiet. Don't wake Layla up." His lover giggles and nibbles on his palm. "What's there to be afraid of? She's deaf; she can't hear us." James doesn't know that I've already regained my hearing. He and his lover are also unaware that their behavior is being livestreamed.

I jump off the seventh floor on my wedding day. Why? Because everyone has abandoned me to pick up a fake heiress from the airport, my fiancé included. I expect to see them riddled with heartbreak and regret after my death. However, my father merely shakes his head stoically and looks at my body while saying I was too willful. My mother bites her lip and sighs in relief. My fiancé, Magnus Gilmore, shields the fake heiress. He's afraid she'll see the horrible state of my body. The fake heiress is scared to tears at this, and everyone crowds around her to console her. No one cares whether I'm still breathing while lying in a pool of blood. I'm stunned when I see this, but I soon laugh self-deprecatingly. When I open my eyes again, I've been brought back seven years in the past. It's the day I've just stepped foot at home.

Marcus Dawson put a price on everything. If he decided something wasn't worth the money, he refused to pay for it. I had broken my right leg saving his life. Even then, he refused to buy me the custom orthopedic brace that would protect my healing leg. "You won't need a brace for that long. It's such a waste of money." "Be reasonable, Ren. I'll get you the best crutches instead. Walking more will help you recover, and they won't cost nearly as much." I was quiet for a long moment. Then I whispered, "Okay." But minutes earlier, I'd seen a new Facebook post from my best friend, Jessica Vance: a five-thousand-dollar designer handbag with one breezy word in the caption. "Surprise." The hand holding the bag was blurred, but I would have known the fresh scar on that forearm anywhere. Marcus had gotten it in a car accident only weeks ago. It was Marcus. A five-thousand-dollar brace was a waste. A five-thousand-dollar bag was a surprise. The same number was excessive when it was spent on me and romantic when it was spent on her. I'd always assumed he was just being frugal. Now I realized he'd done the math a long time ago. My leg wasn't worth five thousand dollars. And neither was I. I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I hadn't called in a long time. "Nathan, I want to come home."

To repay Victor for saving my life, I gave up a brilliant career as one of America's finest neurosurgeons and willingly became his trophy wife. For seven years, Victor lavished money on me and treated me with bone-deep tenderness. Yet his obsessive rules suffocated me. Every other week, I had to subject my scalp to agonizing bleach treatments to keep my hair icy platinum. I had to bathe in a discontinued Venetian white iris perfume. And I had to wear a fake beauty mark at the corner of my right eye. I once mistook it all for the obsessive devotion of a Mafia Don. Then, on the eve of our wedding of the century, I found a wall covered with portraits of another woman. The measurements of my gown, the carat weight of my ring, even the beauty mark Victor had tattooed beside my eye, all came from a dead woman's final wishes. After seven years of consuming passion, I was never his salvation. I was a living specimen, crafted to harbor the ghost of a dead woman.

Everyone knew Lorenzo Moretti, the undisputed ruler of the estate, was hopelessly in love with me. To prove it, he bought a private paradise and christened it Lucy Island. The rule was simple: once a year, members of the Moretti Empire would spin a grand wheel for a chance to spend a night on the island. Lorenzo swore we would only wed there, throwing a feast for the ages. Yet for seven excruciating years, every time I spun the wheel, it delivered the same mocking verdict: Better Luck Next Year. I became the only woman in the empire forbidden from stepping foot on the island built in my name. Our wedding remained frozen in time. “Rules are rules, Lucy,” Lorenzo would insist. “A Moretti never breaks his word.” Exhausted by the endless waiting, I sneaked into the hall the night before the event, magnet in hand, determined to rig the wheel in my favor. Then I heard his voice, sharp and calculating. “Set the same mechanism. Lucy’s wheel cannot stop on my name.” I froze. “You’ve made her spin a rigged wheel for seven years,” his assistant, Mark, ventured carefully. “Aren't you afraid she’ll leave?” Lorenzo’s cold smirk echoed through the dark room. “Who would dare touch what belongs to me?” “Do you feel nothing for her?” Mark pressed. “Rosaline needs only one more year to recover,” Lorenzo replied smoothly. “Next year, I’ll marry Lucy as promised.” Rosaline. His childhood friend. The woman who mysteriously landed on Lorenzo’s name every single year, spending the night on my island, in my bed, while Lorenzo claimed it was just bad luck. When I argued with him, he would casually say, “One night of love can't erase the passion I have for you, Lucy. You are my fiancée. That will never change.” Standing in the shadows with a magnet in my palm, I finally saw the truth. I wasn’t his grand love—I was his grand illusion.

I had not asked my mother for money in three months. She thought I had finally learned to be a good, obedient son and, in a rare act of mercy, sent me a message. "I already had Calvin pay the registration fee. Learn to be more sensible from now on. Stop thinking about scamming money from the family. "I know your dad is having a hard time right now, but since you chose to stay with me, you need to be on the same side as me." When she said this, she did not yet know that I had already transferred my in-state residency out. No one believed that I, Miles Hart, who appeared on the surface to be the young master of a wealthy family, had a closet filled entirely with clothes bought before my parents’ divorce. For three full years, there was not a single new piece of clothing. Every dollar I spent privately had to be submitted through an internal approval system, with a written application and justification. Even fees for school activities required screenshots of official notices and formal quotations. All expenses had to pass the review of my stepfather, Calvin Pierce. Just because my mother constantly suspected I was siding with my father and was afraid I would secretly funnel money to him. A month ago, I needed $500 for a math competition registration fee. Calvin rejected the request again and again. "There isn't enough justification. "Why do you have to participate in this competition? "Wait until the end of the month for unified approval." By the time approval finally came through, the registration window had already closed. Mom did not know that I had endured these three years for only one reason: an in-state residency, which would make college admissions easier. Now, I was officially recommended for admission to a top university. This family was no longer a place I needed to stay in.

My five years of marriage to Elliot Kline turned out to be a cruel joke. "For tomorrow's monthly report meeting, I'd like Yvette to present your branding plan," Elliot said, not looking up from his desk. I put down the files I was organizing, certain I had misheard. "What?" "Yvette just joined the company. She needs a chance to prove herself. Your plan is perfect for that." He lifted his head, his tone brooking no argument. "But that's my entry for the Veriania Creative Competition," I protested. "You win awards every year. What's the harm in letting her have it this time?" He shrugged, adding, "We need to nurture new talent." I stared at the man with whom I had shared a bed for five years. His face suddenly felt so unfamiliar to me. "Do you know how many sleepless nights I poured into that plan? And you're giving it to a new intern?" "Don't be so petty. It's just a plan. My decision is made." My fists clenched, anger surging through me.

The day after my wife, Evie Sandoval, jumps into the river and commits suicide, her family, the Sandovals, hold a funeral for her. Upon hearing the news, I put on a bespoke suit and a red glittery tie, attending the funeral in full regalia. However, the moment I step inside, her parents begin hurling insults at me. "How dare you show your face, Michael Chandler! You murderer!" "If it hadn't been for you abusing her all these years, Evie would never have jumped into that river!" I simply smile at them and calmly pull out a Bluetooth speaker from my bag before blasting some disco music. "Come on, everyone! Shake your booty to the music with me!"

We were supposed to hand in our college applications. The ditzy school belle volunteered to hand in the whole class' applications and told them it could save them time. "Have fun, guys. I'll make sure all your applications are handed in." I was the class president, and I told her that the applications are important. "Their future is on the line. We can't have someone else hand in the applications on their behalf. They have to be there themselves. No exceptions." That made her cry, and she told everyone that I humiliated her. That very afternoon, she climbed up to the main building's roof and jumped off. My childhood friends lost their minds when the results were out. They stopped me from getting out of the classroom and yanked my hair as they dragged me to the rooftop. "She was only trying to help! Why'd you humiliate her?" "You killed her! You're not our class president!" "We're not letting you live! Not when she's dead!" They shoved me off the rooftop. I hit the ground hard, and blood seeped into the cracks between the tiles of the ground. When my eyes snapped open again, the first thing I saw was the school madonna asking for everyone's application. I snickered and handed her what she asked for. My childhood friends were surprised but also glad. I went into the headmaster's office and signed the papers that would secure me a spot in Harland University. There was only one of those here. This time around, I decided to stop helping those who didn't deserve it and take the highway to success. The boys would see their own future ruined as their applications were changed and sabotaged. As for me? Why, I couldn't care less.

Ethan Caldwell came back to our village for the Harvest Festival, bringing his fiancée from the city. Everyone in the village said he was born lucky. He'd been kidnapped as a child and later found by wealthy relatives, and now he was a man of standing. When he saw me under the old locust tree, he paused for just a second. "Nora? You're still not married?" His fiancée immediately tightened her grip on his arm, smiling sweetly. "Ethan, who's this?" Ethan answered coolly. "Just a neighbor from when I was a kid." I froze for a second and almost laughed out loud. Back then, the traffickers had dumped him in a ravine in the hills, and I followed the sound of his crying until I found him. To lead those men away, I rolled down a slope and broke my left leg. When he woke up, all he remembered was a little girl who'd given him half a honey cake. He never knew that girl had been left disabled for life. I did try to explain, later. He said, "Chloe's too kind to lie. Nora, don't try to take credit for something like this just to get close to me." During the harvest bonfire, he hung the silver pendant his fiancée had given him on the old locust tree, saying it was to thank the girl who'd saved his life all those years ago. My dad stood at the back of the crowd, his eyes wet. "Nora, do you want me to go talk to him?" I watched Ethan gently drape his jacket over someone else's shoulders, and suddenly, I let it all go. "No need. "He's looking for the girl who saved him. Not me."

My girlfriend told me she'd been bonded to a System. It let her see a Demand Index for how much everyone around her needed her. At first, her eyes had gone red with tears. "Your number's only thirty. Does that mean you don't love me?" "Not needing you doesn't mean I don't love you," I told her. After that, she started holding an umbrella for her male assistant on rainy days and driving out of her way to take him home. When I asked why, she brushed it off. "Don't overthink it. His number was just high, so I figured he needed the help." Then I came down with a fever and took to my bed, and she chose to go shopping with him instead. "Your number's low, but his side is more urgent. Let me finish helping him first, then I'll come look after you." She shut the door behind her. I closed my eyes for a moment, then picked up my phone. "Mom, I'm coming home alone this New Year."

I run a nonprofit community kitchen that provides affordable meals for seniors. One of my neighbors, Margaret Ackles, comes to me in tears, complaining that her retirement income is barely enough to live on and that her son refuses to give her any money for living expenses. She says even putting food on the table has become a struggle. Feeling sorry for her, I decide to help. Our regular meal—a 15-dollar plate with two entrees, a vegetable side, soup, and unlimited sides—is already barely breaking even, but I give her a nearly 50% discount and charge her only eight dollars. Instead of appreciating it, she shows up with four or five other older neighbors and corners me on my way home from work. "Your prices aren't fair! You call this a nonprofit, but if you're charging people, how can you call it charity? Charity is supposed to be free!" "Our meals are 15 dollars for two entrees, a vegetable side, soup, and all the sides you want," I patiently explain, clenching my fists. "We're already barely breaking even at that price." Margaret's expression immediately darkens. "You think I've lived this long without knowing how business works? If you can give us a meal for eight dollars, that means you're still making money." "Fine. We'll let you keep a little profit. We won't ask for free meals. From now on, we'll pay five dollars a meal. Consider it a favor—we're already generous enough to let you make some money."

To celebrate his female student's birthday, my professor husband brought a group of people into my laboratory without permission. By the time I rushed there, birthday candles had been stuck into my culture dishes, and my research notes were smeared with cake frosting. The only pathogen sample in existence had already been knocked onto the floor. I tried to save it, but Zack Fenton stopped me. "Clean it up later. Let Cheryl make her wish first." Shaking with rage, I pointed at the wrecked laboratory. "Do you even know what that sample was?" He casually lit the birthday candles and barely glanced at the mess. "Wasn't it just the sample for your father's treatment? Your dad's already so old. Who knows if he'll even live long enough for you to succeed? Might as well let Cheryl enjoy her birthday first." Watching him carefully shield Cheryl Smith as she leaned forward to blow out the candles, I suddenly laughed. What he did not know was this: The medicine for my father had already been successfully developed last month. The sample destroyed on the floor was the only one capable of treating Zack's rare disease.