Historias cortas de Best Friend Romance y novelas ambientadas en Regret

Before my engagement, a fire broke out in my dressing room. The explosion sent shards of glass deep into my body. My best friend, Monica Addams, shielded me as we escaped the flames.  At the hospital, she stayed by my side as I clung to life.  She called my fiancé, James Miller. However, his response was dismissive. “Veronica isn’t feeling well, and I’m accompanying her to get an IV drip. If it’s no big deal, just drop it.” Furious, Monica unleashed a string of curses and called her own boyfriend, Lucas Smith, asking him to help find a specialist.  He brushed her off, too. “Stop overreacting. Veronica’s sick, so I’m getting her some medicine.” When I narrowly escaped death and met Monica’s gaze, I said in a low voice, “I want to call off the engagement.” Without hesitation, she responded, “If you end yours, I’ll end mine.” That was when both men panicked. 

A month before our wedding, I couldn't sleep. I picked up my fiancé's phone and found a password-protected album. I hesitated for a moment, then opened it. The album was packed with hundreds of photos, all of the same person. There were shots of her posing at Yosemite, drinking coffee outside the office, even one of her... asleep. My heart went cold. I didn't just know this woman. I knew her well. She was my best friend, Mia Porter. Tears were already streaming down my face. Eight years together. I'd been by Julian Hale's side from when he was a photography assistant all the way to becoming an established photojournalist. He never once took a photo of me, and even when I asked, he always refused. I thought he was sticking to some kind of professional principle. Turns out, the person he wanted to photograph just wasn't me. Just then, my phone buzzed. An account I'd turned on post notifications for had updated. Mia had updated her Instagram: "My favorite photographer finally agreed to take me to France! Can't wait for all the gorgeous shots. Any ideas for cute matching outfits with a European vibe?" I sat there in a daze for a long time before I quietly got up, slipped off my engagement ring, and booked a flight home. Eight years. I was finally free from walking on eggshells, terrified of crossing his so-called principles. Finally free from waiting at home, ready to cook him a hot meal the moment he walked through the door. If there was no room for me behind his lens, then I would step into a world without him and live a life that was truly my own.

Before the wedding, the coordinator, Rachel Bennett, called me. "Ms. Lane, we tailored the suit to the groom's measurements. Are you sure you want us to change the size?" "Yes," I said. "The groom's changed." My wedding to Caleb was two days away. I'd chosen the venue, designed the invitations, and picked out both my dress and his suit on my own. Every time I tried to involve Caleb in the planning, he only got annoyed. "You know I'm not into all the ceremony. "Don't bother me with this little stuff." Then yesterday, I found an old proposal video on his computer. It was five hours long. Four of those hours showed Caleb painstakingly setting everything up himself. For the final hour, he excitedly walked a woman through every detail he'd prepared before dropping to one knee. "Nina Sawyer, will you marry me?" Nina. Nina Sawyer. Caleb had always told me she was a childhood friend he'd grown up with. Now she was also my best friend, and she was supposed to be my maid of honor. I gave Rachel the new measurements and watched as she carried the suit away. For some reason, tears suddenly started spilling down my face before I could stop them. She startled and quickly handed me a tissue. "Ms. Lane, are you okay?" I wiped my eyes. "I'm fine. Please have the suit altered as soon as possible. I don't want anything delaying the wedding."

During my wedding, someone suggests that we play the game "one dollar and 50 cents". The host will call out an amount that the players will have to match by forming groups. I draw the 50-cent straw, and so does my best friend, Rebecca Cross, who is also the group favorite. My fiance, Ian Chilton, his childhood friend, Richard Price, his older sister, Anne Chilton, and my stepsister, Chelsea Whitmore, all draw one-dollar straws. For the first round, we need to make up a total of 1.50 dollars. I make a beeline toward Ian, but he gazes distractedly at Rebecca. It isn't until he is assured that she won't be eliminated that he finally loosens his painfully tight grip on my hand. Before I can truly feel my disappointment, the second round begins. This time, we need to make up a total of five dollars. Everyone instinctively surges toward Rebecca. I don't pester Ian this time, and he naturally fails to notice that I've been left out. It isn't until the host reminds them that they're 50 cents short that they reluctantly let me into their group. For the third round, we need to make up 2.50 dollars. It's clear that the six of us can conveniently form two groups of said amount, yet they debate heatedly over who gets to be in the group with Rebecca. As time is running out, Richard and Chelsea finally walk reluctantly toward me, having lost in a game of rock-paper-scissors. In the final round, we need to make up 4.50 dollars. As soon as the whistle is blown, they crowd together merrily. Ian even considerately wraps his arm around Rebecca's shoulders out of fear that she'll be jostled. Meanwhile, I'm knocked to the floor by the crowd, my palms digging deeply into splinters sticking out of the wooden floor paneling. From start to finish, nobody spares me a glance. In that instant, everything feels pointless to me. When we played hide-and-seek as children, they only realized I hadn't been "found" after nightfall. When we visited the amusement park as adults, they would always forget to buy my ticket. All things considered, it simply isn't polite to keep trying to fit into a small group that doesn't have room for me.

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."

At her engagement party, my best friend, Hannah Sawyer, caught her fiancé cheating. Ryan Carter didn't apologize. Instead, right there in front of everyone, he sneered, "Who else would ever want you besides me?" Hannah was crying so hard she could barely stand. Without thinking, I grabbed my boyfriend Yates Grant's hand and placed it in hers. "Who says nobody wants you? "Starting now, he's your boyfriend." Yates froze for a second. Then he went along with it, taking off his jacket and draping it around Hannah's shoulders before leading her out by the hand in full view of everyone. That night, the three of us sat together drinking and laughing about the whole thing. It was only supposed to be an act, just this once. But Ryan kept harassing Hannah afterward. So Yates continued playing her fake boyfriend. He picked her up from work, walked her home, and helped convince her parents that she'd moved on. I never once doubted either of them. Not until I came across a post online. [I borrowed my best friend's boyfriend to make my cheating ex jealous. Now I don't want to give him back. What do I do?] The poster said her best friend had personally offered up her boyfriend. Their first time holding hands had been fake. Their first hug had been fake. But the first night he spent at her place had been real. People in the comments tore into her for betraying the friend who had helped her. She replied: [He said that since he slept with me that night, he'd take responsibility for me.] I stared at the photo of the three of us sitting in our living room, my hands and feet turning ice-cold. I'd only lent her my boyfriend for one night so she could save face. They'd turned that one night into the rest of their lives.

My best friend, Adeline Miller, and I marry into the Caldwell family together. Coincidentally, we become pregnant at the same time. I'm married to Rowan Caldwell, the older brother who's a famous psychiatrist. As for Adeline, she's married to Elliot Caldwell, the younger brother who's an extremely skilled doctor. Rowan gives me a ride to the hospital, hoping to accompany me to my prenatal check-up due to the discomfort I've been feeling throughout my pregnancy. But on the way there, he abandons me by the road and leaves me there because of a phone call from his first love, Veronica Whitmore. As I sob, I beg him, "Please, Rowan, I'm begging you! It's raining heavily right now! Can you please drive me to the hospital first?" Rowan shakes my hand off impatiently. "Veronica has slit her wrist! This means she might die! Can you be more understanding toward her situation, Emilia? I'm going to tend to her injury right now! You can go to the hospital on your own!" It's raining cats and dogs out in the world. Yet, Rowan doesn't hesitate to ditch me on the highway. Left without a choice, I can only call Adeline and ask her to drive over to pick me up. Unexpectedly, on the way to the hospital, we see a truck barreling toward us. While I'm unconscious, I hear Adeline crying while calling Elliot on the phone, only to get reprimanded by him. "Stop messing around, Adeline! Must you come up with all sorts of lies whenever I'm spending time with Veronica?" It's thanks to a passerby's help that an ambulance is called to the crash site. That's how we get to survive afterward. Alas, we both end up losing our babies. Upon regaining our consciousness, we just smile bitterly at each other. "Are you getting a divorce?" "Yeah."

Today was the day Quentin York had promised we'd finally go public. After five years of dating in secret, our relationship was finally going to see the light of day. I stayed up all night putting together a five-minute video from every photo we'd ever taken together. Then I posted it the moment the clock struck midnight on his birthday. But the second I hit send, I was suddenly kicked out of the account. By the time I logged back in, the video was gone. At the same time, a message from Quentin came through. "Your best friend just got dumped. Seeing your video will only make her feel worse. Be good, okay? Let's wait a little longer." Then a message from Lena Xavier popped up. "Can you please do something about him? I just got to the bar, and he suddenly showed up and forced me into his car. Seriously, he's unbelievable!" The two messages arrived one after the other. Just like every trip we'd ever taken together. They were always up front, while I trailed behind. This announcement was the last chance I was giving Quentin. Since he didn't want it, then forget it.

When I was ten years old, I suddenly gained the ability to see red threads connecting people’s heads. Only those who had actually slept together would be bound by this unavoidable red line. Over the years, two extra red threads popped up over my father’s head, driving my mother to threaten to file for divorce again and again. Because of this, loyalty became the single most important thing I looked for in a partner. In the end, I chose Jasper—a modest, reserved man whose head was completely clean. On the night before our wedding, my bridesmaids hosted a bachelorette party. We played a game where whoever lost had to hand over their phone for the rest of us to snoop through. When it was my maid of honor Jean’s turn, she clutched her phone tightly, her face flushing red as she bashfully giggled. “Don’t look at mine! He wore me out so late last night. Those photos are definitely not fit for public viewing.” Everyone teased her for keeping her relationship so secretive, since no one had ever met her boyfriend. I was just about to step in and smooth things over when I suddenly saw a bright red thread stretch straight out from the top of her head. It wove right through the crowd and anchored itself directly onto my fiancé, Jasper. Yet, when he dropped me off at home last night, his head had been entirely clean. In fact, just half an hour ago, he had sent me a text. [Aria, I’ve saved myself for you for twenty-five years. On our wedding night tomorrow, I can finally have you. I love you!] I looked over at Jasper standing outside the door, staring at me with deep affection, and then back at Jean, whose face was glowing with passion. I raised my glass and clinked it gently against hers. “Jean, is your boyfriend’s last name Cook?”