Plot Twists Romance Short Stories & Best Friend Marriage Novels

In our third year of trying for a baby, Gideon Tarrant insisted that I go to the snowy peaks of the Kestrel Range to pray for a child. "The old folks say that if a wife climbs Hallow Peak and kneels to pray every three steps, heaven will send her a baby." Because of that, I faced the blizzard in the bitter subzero cold and knelt my way up from the foot of the mountain. When I was nearly at the summit, the smartwatch on my wrist suddenly buzzed. The health app showed that Gideon's heart rate was spiking. Right after that, a video synced automatically to our family cloud album. In a delivery room, Gideon was cutting the umbilical cord with red-rimmed eyes. The woman in the bed was my best friend, Amanda Crowley. Six months earlier, she had come to me in tears and told me she was pregnant and unmarried. My heart went out to her, so I sent her 80,000 dollars. She did not accept it. She only sent back one line: [Hazel, thank you for giving me the best of everything.] I thought she meant all the ways I had looked after her over the years. At this moment, as I watched the video, I saw that the people gathered around her bed were my own family. My father was holding the baby, tears of joy running down his weathered face. My mother sat at the bedside, her eyes full of tenderness. "Just focus on getting your strength back. We'll make sure Hazel doesn't find out." My brother went even further and pressed a thick envelope of cash into Gideon's hand. "Gideon, once Hazel's prayed that blessing down for Mandy, we'll have her clear out and make room for our big boy!" My husband, Gideon, held Amanda's hand tightly and pressed a tender kiss to her forehead. "This time, I'm never going to let you or the baby get hurt again." I lifted my head stiffly and looked up at the prayer ribbon tied to the branch above me. Gideon had written the wish on it himself. It read: [May my beloved be kept safe.] It turned out I was never a part of the beloved he had been praying for.

Damian Pierce said we should be a minimalist couple. There was no need for gifts, holidays, and grand gestures. “True love doesn’t need material proof.” My best friend, Sienna Moore, even backed him up. “Exactly. Your husband really gets it. Unlike my ex, who did nothing but shower me with designer bags.” I nodded. We lived that minimalist life for four years. In all that time, I never received a single bouquet of flowers, and not once did he surprise me. On my birthday, he posted a photo of us on his social media with the caption: [Minimalist living. The best gift is simply being together.] The post got over 200 likes. I left a little heart in the comments. Then I came across Sienna’s private account. She had limited-edition handbags, custom-made jewelry, and a room filled with roses. [Someone once said true love doesn’t need material proof, but he insists on proving it to me.] The location was at the presidential suite of a five-star hotel. The date was my birthday. I scrolled through her posts from the past four years. Every single one had been posted on a day that was supposed to belong to Damian and me. Every gift she received had Damian’s taste written all over it. I exited her feed and removed the heart from his post. Just as casually, I ended our relationship.

My boyfriend, Yves Warren, had a memory disorder. No matter what I told him, he could only hold on to it for half an hour. Once those thirty minutes were up, everything was wiped clean. Then, at a party, he drew a challenge that required him to tell everyone everything he knew about my best friend. Worried he'd be embarrassed, I quickly tried to bail him out with a laugh. "Let him draw another one. He won't remem..." Before I could finish, Yves spoke. "Xenia Quade. Twenty-three years old. Five foot five. Weighs ninety-four and a half pounds. "Allergic to mangoes. Laughs a lot. Loves the water. Doesn't like sleeping alone at night..." The words rolled off his tongue as if he'd rehearsed them in his head a thousand times. I froze, swallowing the rest of my sentence. One of our friends laughed and teased him. "Look at you. You've gotten way better." "What about your girlfriend? You must know her inside and out by now, right?" My heart gave a jolt. Slowly, I looked up. Yves stared at me, his brow furrowing deeper and deeper. "Sarah Cole." That was all he managed. I waited, still hoping he would say something else, but he only gave me an apologetic look and nodded. "Sorry. I don't remember." Everyone else was busy praising how much he'd improved. I was the only one who felt exhaustion seep into every part of me. Yves and I had known each other for twenty-three years. We'd been together for seven, and our wedding was next week. Yet he couldn't even get my name right. This time, I wasn't going to correct him.

My best friend, Mia Sullivan, had gone abroad for three years. When she finally came back, she was in tears. She said she had been dumped by a scumbag, was pregnant, and had nowhere to go. I felt terrible for her, so I not only let her move into my house but also asked my husband, Hudson Darby, to take extra care of her. That was until I found a prenatal checkup receipt in the study. The patient was Mia, and the family member who had signed was Hudson. I worried I was jumping to conclusions, so I shoved it back and rushed out the door. After I got downstairs, I realized I had forgotten the files I needed for my meeting, so I headed back up. That was when I saw Hudson and Mia in each other's arms. "What if Charlotte finds out the baby I'm carrying is actually yours?" Mia asked. "Don't worry. Charlotte trusts us so much, there's no way she'll figure it out," Hudson replied. In that moment, the seven years of love I had given him instantly turned into a cruel joke.

On the day I finally paid off the mortgage on our marital home, my boyfriend, Jesse Culver, keeps ignored my calls even though we were supposed to go register our marriage today. Instead, I received a message from my ex-husband, Dave Grossman. "What does it feel like to be betrayed for the second time?" I was stunned when a video pops up. Inside a private room, Jesse was taking wedding photos with another woman, happily leaning against her. My dad, Chris Lillard, who had wished me a smooth marriage registration that very morning, was smiling adoringly at them. My friends and classmates were cheering them on, too. "Kiss! Kiss!" The bride-to-be in the video was my former best friend, Nicki Jones. When I was eight months pregnant, she slept with Dave. After I miscarried, I divorced him immediately and cut all contact with her. Dave kept messaging me. "Looks like your best friend really is irresistible." "Jesse called me a bastard back then and wanted to beat me to death. But now, he's deceived you for her too." Being betrayed for the second time hurts so badly that I can barely breathe. Five years ago, it pushed me into depression. Jesse was the one who pulled me out of it. However, five years later, he joined forces with my family and friends to betrayed me for the same woman. The next second, Dave sent me an address. He texts, "Want to go take a look? It's up to you."

Three years into her marriage, Chloe James knew something was wrong. She had pain, itching, and occasional bleeding, symptoms she was too embarrassed to discuss. She finally made a secret appointment. Lying cold on the examination table, she flinched as the doctor looked inside. "You're so young to have an IUD," the doctor remarked casually. "Why did you decide not to have kids?" Chloe's mind went blank. Her nails bit into her palm. "IUD? Doctor, that's impossible. I had a miscarriage two years ago. I've been trying ever since. I've done six rounds of IVF. Why would I have an IUD?" The metal instrument pressed in. Chloe gasped, tears springing to her eyes. "It's no mistake," the doctor sighed. "The coil has grown into your uterine tissue. "If you'd waited much longer to come in, the damage could've been much worse." Chloe's heart plummeted. Two years ago, she ate a slice of almond cake handed to her by her husband, Michael James. Then, her severe allergic reaction triggered a miscarriage. Her best friend, Sarah Daniels, a top OB-GYN, slapped her husband, Michael, right in front of her. "How could you be so careless?" Sarah sobbed, clutching Chloe's hand. "Hang in there, Chloe! I'll do everything to save your baby!" Sarah even knelt by the bed afterward, weeping. "I couldn't save the baby... I'm so sorry, Chloe." Ever since that tragic night, Chloe had never been able to conceive again.

My husband, Mitch Cooley, has been with me through my fifth year of battling depression. While searching for recipes online, a notification for a late-night livestream for anonymous confessions pops up on my phone screen. "What's the biggest lie your husband has ever told you?" I tap on the notification out of curiosity as my eyes are drawn to the profile picture showing two hands tightly clasped together. The interviewee replies, "I'm still single, but if it's about my stupid best friend, then she'd been lied to by her husband three times. "The first time, her ex-boyfriend died in a car crash while cheating on her, and her now-husband hid the truth on purpose so that she thought the main reason her ex died was that she wanted to break up with him. "Her husband knew all along that her ex-boyfriend had been cheating on her with me, but he watched her try to slit her wrists in remorse multiple times without telling her the truth. "As for the third time, I just mentioned to her husband that he could only ever have a baby with me, and he immediately got himself a certificate proving that he was sexually frigid and refused to sleep with her. "But the most ridiculous thing is that my best friend still stupidly went to get an IVF done while I was rolling in the sheets with her husband every night." I feel alarm bells go off in my head. Mitch had also suddenly experienced sexual frigidity recently. The hospital he went to for treatment was one recommended by my best friend, Lexie Moyer. My hands tremble as I click on the interviewee's profile picture. I then realize that the red mole on the ring finger is the exact same one on Mitch's finger. The interviewee's tone suddenly turns low and restrained. "Even when her husband told her today that he would be working overtime at the company, when he was actually keeping me and our son company, she still made a whole table of dishes waiting for him to come home." I freeze on the spot the moment the interviewee's voice changer malfunctions for a bit. I know that voice too well. It is Lexie's.

Vivian Hayland called for the thirty-seventh time, asking to borrow my husband Wilson Gomez for a day. The school was holding "Take Your Family to School Day." All the other children would have their fathers with them, and she didn't want anyone making fun of her son. Wilson glanced at me, then grabbed his coat and quickly got out. On his way out, he tossed me the same line as always. "She's divorced, and it's not easy raising her son alone. Stop being so petty." But that was also the day our daughter, Tammy, had been looking forward to for three whole months, because she would be performing for her family. She sat backstage clutching her costume and waited until the show was over, but her father never came. When we got home, we saw Wilson on a live TV broadcast. He, Vivian, and Leonard were all wearing matching outfits. He even let her hold his arm. When the TV host asked how long they had been married, Wilson did not correct the mistake. Instead, he leaned down and ran his hand through Vivian's loose hair tenderly. Leonard even went ahead and hugged Wilson around the waist tightly, shouting Dad as loud as he could. As the camera panned across the audience, applause and cheers rose from all sides. My daughter watched in silence for a long time, then tore the drawing of our family she was holding in half. "Mom, someone else keeps borrowing Dad. Is it okay if we stop waiting for him?" I looked at her red eyes, and whatever hope I was clinging to finally died. I pulled out my phone and messaged my lawyer, Ryan Green. "Get the divorce agreement ready."

Before our wedding, Cyrus Lane and I each folded fifty paper stars, wrote a wish inside every one, and filled a glass jar with all one hundred. We promised we wouldn't open it until our fifth anniversary. Today was that day. Cyrus said he had a meeting at work and that we'd celebrate later, but I couldn't wait. So I opened the jar by myself and started with my stars. "I hope we spend every anniversary together." "I hope I'll always come first in his heart." "I hope we grow old together." Smiling, I reached for one of his. The first read, "Remember to get her an almond latte every Wednesday afternoon." The second: "Remember, her stomach is sensitive. Don't order anything spicy when you eat together." The third: "Remember, she's afraid of thunder. Stay with her whenever there's a storm." I was allergic to almonds. I had never drunk almond lattes. I loved spicy food, and Cyrus had never once cared whether it upset my stomach. And in all five years of our marriage, whenever a thunderstorm rolled in, he always claimed something had come up at work and left me home alone. I kept unfolding the stars. By the time I'd opened all fifty, there wasn't a single one with my name on it. The almond lattes, the sensitive stomach, the fear of thunder. Every detail belonged to my best friend, Quinn Xavier. Then I heard a key turn in the lock. Cyrus walked in carrying a cake. "Happy fifth anniversary..." He stopped when he saw the table covered in unfolded notes. I looked up at him from where I sat amid the scattered paper. "Consider your wish granted. "Go be with her."

For our fifth wedding anniversary, my husband, Elliott Quinn, promises me a special gift. But when the day arrives, I walk in on him tangled in bed with my best friend, Lauren Langley. Hysterical, I confront him, but Elliott answers without a trace of shame. "On our wedding night, you were fast asleep. Your dad was the one who put Lauren in my bed. We've kept it from you for five years, and Lauren has had to put up with it all this time." Then he drops another bombshell. "And your last miscarriage wasn't an accident. Jack saw how heartbroken Lauren was, so he slipped abortion pills into your drink." Shaking with rage, I scream, "Why?" Elliott pulls Lauren behind him protectively and says offhandedly, "I got bored with you. Lauren is better than you in every way. She's gentle and considerate. Even Jack prefers her. She's put up with this for five years. You should count yourself lucky." Lauren darts out from behind Elliott and grabs my hand, refusing to let go. "Sienna, I'm not trying to take your place," she says anxiously. "You'll still be Mrs. Quinn. I'll just be part of the family too. Remember when you said you wanted us to stay together forever? Well, now you've got your wish." With that, she reaches out to hug me. Trembling violently, I shove her away. The next second, a pair of small hands shoves me to the floor. Searing pain tears through my abdomen, and blood won't stop pouring from between my legs. I look up to see my son, Jack Quinn, glaring at me with pure hatred. "You're the most evil mommy in the whole world! Why don't you just die?" In an instant, my vision blanks out, and my ears start ringing. As the life inside me slips away, my heart turns completely cold. I force my lips into a bitter smile. If they all think Lauren is so much better, I'll just step back and let her have the family.

In the second year of my divorce battle with Adrian Pierce, the judge awarded him everything. As I was packing, my daughter pulled an old cell phone out of one of the boxes. "Mommy, look. It still turns on." I tapped the screen, and an email popped up. It was one I had written to myself 10 years ago. "Clara, how are you at 28? Did you marry the man you love? Is your baby adorable? He loves kids so much. You two must be so happy together." Tears splashed onto the screen as I typed back, one sentence at a time. "I did get married, and we had a daughter. However, I found out he was cheating on me with my best friend, our daughter's godmother, during the third year of our marriage. We spent two years fighting through the divorce, and he won. I walked away with nothing." A reply came back mere seconds after I hit the send button. "You're lying! Adrian and Avery love me more than anyone else in the world. They would never betray me like that." A bitter smile tugged at my lips as my trembling fingers typed another swift but brutal reply. "The people who loved you the most? Funny. Our daughter was born with a congenital heart defect. She wouldn't survive without surgery. I got down on my knees and begged Adrian for the money to save her, but he accused me of trying to scam him. "He froze every one of my accounts and used the money from our wedding gifts to pay for his wedding with Avery. The invitations have already been sent out. "Wake up, Clara. Adrian will no longer love you 10 years from now. Now that you know the cruel truth, it's your choice whether to walk away now or stay with him."

Three years after we broke up, I finally crossed paths with my ex-boyfriend, Leo Davis. It was during a high-stakes police raid. He was the star lead detective. I was the fugitive wanted for four murders across eight states. When our eyes met, Leo froze. “Clara… what are you doing here?” I turned to run, but a bullet caught me in the leg. In the interrogation room, Leo slammed his hands on the table with his eyes bloodshot. “Four innocent people, Clara! How could you do this?! “Tell me it’s a mistake,” he begged, his voice breaking. “Just say the word. Please!” I looked at his broken expression and smiled. “You’re right. It is a mistake. It’s not four bodies, Leo. It’s five.” I leaned in closer. “You care so much about your darling wife and my former best friend, Maya Davis. Didn't you notice she was missing?”

After saving my girlfriend, Tiffany Swain, I suffer from a concussion, leading to me getting rushed to the hospital. That's when I decide to play a prank on her. "Who are you?" When I see Tiffany's expression freeze on her face, I almost burst out laughing. But Tiffany suddenly points at her best friend, Janet Emery. "I'm your fiancee's friend. That's your fiancee, Janet Emery." This time, my expression freezes on my face. Janet approaches me at that moment. "That's right. I'm your fiancee." I squeeze out a smile at her. "Let's go home, then."

Seconds before the crash, my best friend, Nora Sinclair, threw herself over me to protect me. When she woke up, she'd lost her memory and mistook my fiancé, Julian Pierce, for her boyfriend. There were five of us in our friend group, and for the sake of her recovery, we decided it would be best to play along with the mistake. The first month, the trip Julian and I had planned before our wedding became hers instead. Nora held his hand and kissed him while everyone cheered them on, leaving me trailing behind with all four of their bags. The second month, Nora moved into the home Julian and I had bought for after the wedding. My name was taken off the deed and replaced with hers. My sister, Yvette Lane, tried to reassure me. "Nora lost her memory saving your life. We're only playing along with this to help her recover." I believed her. I forced myself to smile and played my part through one ridiculous charade after another. Then came the ninth month. I had just finished having my bridal makeup done and hurried to the wedding venue, only to find Nora already wearing my wedding dress, smiling as she stood beside Julian and greeted the guests with her arm linked through his. Yvette patted me on the shoulder. "Nora accidentally found your wedding dress last night. We couldn't bring ourselves to tell her the truth, so just let her have the wedding this time." One of Julian's friends, Yale Lawson, grinned and chimed in, "Exactly. You've already given in eight times. What's one more?" A bitter ache spread through my chest, and suddenly the wedding ring on my finger felt painfully tight. Then I looked up and saw Nora wearing my spare wedding band. It fit her perfectly. Only then did I notice that the wedding dress had always been one size too small on me, yet it fit her perfectly too. Every guest there knew exactly what was going on, but they still laughed and cheered, calling her Mrs. Pierce. That was when I finally understood. From the very beginning, I was the only one who hadn't wanted this "mistake" to become real. With a bitter smile, I slipped off the ring that had been cutting into my finger. Fine. If this was what they wanted, they could have their ninth farce. I was done after this.

Yves Riverson had a new razor. It was royal blue, wrapped in red silk, and he placed it at the very bottom of his suitcase as though it were some priceless treasure. During the flight, the plane suddenly hit turbulence. The alarm screeched through the cabin, and in that moment, the thing he clutched was not my hand. It was the razor someone else had given him. Only after the plane landed did he seem to remember I was there. He gently caressed my hand and told me not to be afraid. I said nothing, nor did I push him away. After we left the airport, I watched him eagerly pick up his phone. "Yeah, yeah, it's fine." Then he turned and saw me. The smile on his face froze. "Just talking to my parents." I nodded and ended the call with his parents. The car was moving slowly, and he was happily chatting with that person. I was scrolling the screen. The jewelry purchases made through our linked-payment account. That person made sure to note that the razor must be royal blue. "To Ms. Samantha Shaw." Samantha's laughter drifted faintly from the phone. I looked at my tired reflection in the car window and suddenly blurted out, "When did you start having an affair with my best friend?"

After I moved into a new place with my boyfriend, Simon Zane, getting anywhere felt like a detour. My commute took an hour and twenty minutes, and I was late to work every other day. Our favorite restaurant was two hours away; by the time we arrived, we couldn’t even get in line, so we went home hungry. Visiting my parents meant taking several back roads, and I was too scared to make the trip alone. Whenever I complained, Simon reassured me. "A new place takes some getting used to. Give it time." Then my best friend Wendy Brooks's rental developed a leak, and Simon brought her home without asking me. After a day there, Wendy couldn’t help marveling at the location. "My office is a five-minute walk from here, and several of my favorite places to eat are nearby. Even my hometown’s really close. Everything I need is within a mile and a quarter!" The more she said, the less it sounded like a coincidence. Back in our bedroom, I happened upon the requirements for choosing our new home. The page was crowded with notes: [Wendy Brooks’s office], [Wendy Brooks’s favorite shops]... The home I’d been trying to get used to had never been meant for me. I said nothing and started packing immediately.

My boyfriend, Wendell Lowe, has been complaining about my best friend, Carissa Chapman, for three years. He hates the fact that she's loud, uploads too many selfies on her social media feed, and doesn't bother looking at the price whenever she's ordering food at a restaurant. Every time a gathering is over, Wendell feels the need to talk smack about Carissa. "Don't invite her to the next gathering in the future. She's so annoying." I keep thinking that Wendell really dislikes Carissa. So when Carissa gets a new boyfriend, I quickly tell him the good news. "Carissa has a boyfriend now. She won't be bothering us anymore." But Wendell gets mad instead. "Who's the guy? Is it the IT guy from her social circle? Isn't he the one who pulls OT every day? Can he even spend time with her?" One week later, Carissa brings her new boyfriend, Gavin Ferguson, over to our gathering. Gavin keeps putting food on Carissa's plate, pouring her water, and dabbing the corner of her mouth for her. Wendell, on the other hand, looks extremely stormy the whole time. After the gathering is over, I comment, "Gavin is pretty decent. He's pretty caring toward Carissa." Suddenly, Wendell stops in his tracks. "He's just putting on an act. Carissa is the type who gets touched far too easily. She shouldn't be with a guy like him. "If anything, she needs to find someone who really understands her. Someone who knows that she's terrified of the dark, doesn't eat cilantro, and often smiles and says that she's fine whenever she's sad." The more Wendell speaks, the softer and shakier his voice becomes. Under the streetlight, I notice how damp his lashes are. A tear soon slides down his nose bridge. For the past three years, Wendell has been admonishing Carissa relentlessly. It turns out it isn't because he hates her. I turn on my heel and walk in the other direction. "You should seek her out. Don't take the detour this time."