Plot Twists Romance Short Stories & Bias Awakening Novels

On our third wedding anniversary, Kent gave me a gift. A black metal wristband. Cold. Sleek. He called it a new product from his company—a pain-sharing system. The other user was Violet. His "girl bro." The person he was closer to than his own sister. Kent brushed a hand over my cheek, his gaze soft. "Clara, you're too coddled. You should learn from Violet. She's tough." Then he snapped the wristband onto my wrist. So while Violet got a full-back tattoo and an entire sleeve, I felt every single needle. When Violet went wingsuit flying, I collapsed at home. Every bone in my body felt shattered. I threw up blood. While she soaked up attention online as the "extreme sports queen," I was drowning in nonstop pain. Kent sat beside me, holding my hand as he cared. "Just hang in there. Violet's just being herself. As my wife, you should be more understanding." To finally push me over the edge, Violet decided to livestream herself jumping into the ocean to make me die in her place. Their friends couldn't wait to watch. Later, I watched calmly from a hospital room as the system slowly drained the life out of her. Kent looked deranged as he demanded to know why I wasn't dead. Because I had already reversed the system. All her vitality had become the nourishment that sustained me.

In the seventh year of our relationship, my boyfriend, Hunter Jenkin, seemed to have lost interest in everything. Desperate to figure out what still excited him, I bought a wristband that measured romantic excitement and fastened it around his wrist myself. When we watched a movie together, the wristband registered just 1 point. When we climbed a snow-covered mountain and kissed at the summit, the score was only 5. On his birthday, when I slipped a ring onto his finger, it rose to a mere 8. No matter what I did, I could never spark any real excitement in him. I was almost ready to give up, and I even suspected that the wristband was nothing more than an overpriced gimmick. Then, on the first night of Hunter’s business trip, my phone suddenly began vibrating nonstop. [Your partner’s romantic excitement score: 90.] I stared at the screen, stunned. By 1 a.m., the score had hit 100 and stayed there all night. I opened the location tracker, only to find an address so familiar that it sent a chill through me. It was the home of my best friend, Candace Lindhurst. Hunter had not lost his capacity for love. He had simply directed it all to someone else.

I ignored my friends and family’s objections and insisted on pursuing my now-girlfriend, who was disfigured in a car crash when she tried to save her first love. Some laughed at me for being a back-up plan, but I didn’t care. I worked day and night, earning money for her plastic surgery, and stayed by her side as she walked out of depression. But on the eve of our wedding day, as I was doing her laundry, a marriage certificate dropped out of her pants pocket. The groom was her first love. I was about to make things clear with her when I overheard her conversation with her best friend. “I know Steve saved me, but if Yves doesn’t marry me, he’ll be forced into a marriage alliance. I don’t want to see him lose his freedom. “As for Steve, I’ll find someone to forge a certificate for me. Don’t blurt this out, okay…” I felt my blood then grow cold as I quietly changed the groom of our wedding three days later to her first love. By the time she found out about the surprise, I would have left for abroad, never to return.

For ten years, I stood by Natalie Prescott as she went from having nothing to her name to building a fortune worth hundreds of millions. Yet in all that time, she never once takes me to a restaurant where a meal costs more than 100 dollars per person. With our tenth anniversary approaching, I finally send her a link to a high-end steakhouse I've had bookmarked for ages, hoping we can celebrate somewhere special for once. But the moment she sees it, her expression darkens. "Gabriel, I know we're doing well now, but we can't afford to get complacent. We need to remember where we came from. Frugality is a virtue, and we can't lose sight of that." She has a point, I tell myself, so I drop the subject without another word. It isn't until I go to cancel our reservation that I spot Natalie sitting across from a young man in the very restaurant she refuses to take me to. She's cutting his steak into bite-sized pieces and placing them on his plate, then gently wiping a smear of sauce from the corner of his mouth. I recognize him immediately—Ryan Mitchell, the company's newest intern. He's only 21. "Ms. Prescott, I really can't eat another bite," Ryan says, glancing at the spread of food on the table. "But look at how much we've ordered. We're wasting so much food." "Don't worry about it. As long as you're enjoying yourself, it's not a waste." Natalie gazes at him with unmistakable affection. "I'll just take the leftovers home to Gabriel." "But… they're my leftovers." Natalie laughs softly. "It's fine. Gabriel is with me when times are tough. He's not picky." Ryan chuckles. "So let me get this straight. He sticks around for the hard times, and I get to enjoy the good life?" Natalie doesn't answer right away. For a long moment, she simply looks at him. Then she finally murmurs, "Yeah." I stand frozen, gripping the reservation slip so tightly that my nails dig into my palm. Yet somehow, I can't feel a thing. Ten years. I spend ten years standing by her side—helping her build the life she has now—only to discover that, in her eyes, I'm the man who has to settle for scraps while someone else gets to enjoy the rewards. The hostess approaches me with a polite smile. "Mr. Cole, reservations have been hard to come by lately. Are you sure you'd like to cancel yours?" I swallow the bitterness rising in my throat and glance at the couple across the room one more time. Then I turn back to the hostess. "No. Keep the reservation. And please bring me your most expensive tasting menu."

For ten years, he remained tangled up with her, and everyone in their circle laughed at him for being her forever backup plan. She had once said, “The housekeeper’s son? He’s fun to mess around with, but marry him? Not a chance.” No one noticed him standing just outside the door. With his fists clenched and his eyes burning red, he turned and walked away. That very day, he married someone else.

When I handed in my resignation, my supervisor said, "Mr. Foster promised to marry you once you made director. You're only one promotion away, so why quit now?" I looked down at my pant legs, the hems still soaked from the puddles outside. "Because of an umbrella." My mind went back to yesterday. Rain was pouring down, and I was stranded at the office entrance without an umbrella. Mark Foster's new assistant, Rachel Lynch, was stuck there too. Mark came downstairs carrying a single umbrella. He didn't hesitate before offering to share it with Rachel. After all, no one would read anything into the two of them being seen together. He looked at me and said flatly, "Erin, because we're together, sharing an umbrella would only get people talking. It's not worth it." I stood frozen for a long moment, watching them walk away beneath the same umbrella. Then I ran straight into the rain. In the ten years Mark and I had been together, he had fallen back on the same excuse more times than I could count. "Since we're together, we have to be careful about how things look." That was why I always came and went alone, while every promotion passed me by. Now, even sharing an umbrella with him was apparently too much to ask. By the time my resignation was official, the rain had eased to a drizzle. This time, I opened my own umbrella and walked away, calm and unhurried. I didn't need his anymore. It was never meant to shelter me anyway.

Damon Westbrook was kidnapped and held in the mountains for three months, subjected to every kind of humiliation. Three hellish months ground away every bit of fight he had. After his rescue, he developed severe PTSD. He hurt himself. He tried to end his life. Nightmares came every night. Through it all, Eleanor Carrington never left his side, holding him and comforting him again and again. "Damon, I'll always be here. When you're better, we'll get married." To help him heal, Eleanor brought back Marcus Keane, a former upperclassman of hers in college, who was finishing his doctorate in psychology overseas. The first time Damon met Marcus, he seemed calm and gentle, considerate in every way. "Don't be afraid. Eleanor and I will make sure you recover completely." Damon was deeply grateful. He cooperated with every treatment. Even when the sessions left him wishing he were dead, he gritted his teeth and endured. He believed everyone was doing everything they could to save him. Until tonight. The sliding glass door to the balcony hadn't closed all the way, and two low voices carried clearly to him. Eleanor and Marcus. Marcus took out a cigarette, his tone light. "When my research hit a dead end, I had no choice but to come to you for help. I never expected—" Eleanor turned her back to the wind and lit it for him. "Once the experiment is done, your dissertation is guaranteed to win the top international award." Marcus exhaled a stream of smoke and chuckled. "I only said in passing that a real case would be nice. I never thought you'd arrange a kidnapping yourself—let alone the kidnapping of the man you're about to marry."

The biggest laughingstock at the city's most exclusive society gala is none other than Camille Ellery's boy toy, who completely loses his mind over his love for her. Ansel Wells is devastatingly handsome, with an air of innate nobility. Yet here he is, groveling on the floor in utter humiliation. "Ms. Ellery, being by your side and serving you for the past three years has been my greatest privilege. I'm willing to do anything for you. Just please, don't ever leave me." His slightly husky voice rings out across the entire ballroom. After a brief moment of stunned silence, Camille's girlfriends all burst into laughter, clearly envious. "As expected of Camille. Only you could turn a man this gorgeous into a shameless lapdog!" "But we've all seen how hopelessly devoted he's been to you these past three years. When are you finally going to make it official?" "If you don't want to give him an official title, why don't you lend him to me for a bit of fun?" Camille holds a glass of champagne, swirling it with lazy indifference as a soft laugh slips from her lips. "I'd be happy to lend him out, but you'd have to ask whether he's willing. As for making it official?" She scoffs. "Sure, he's gorgeous and all, but there's no soul behind those pretty eyes." As everyone showers her with compliments for her irresistible charm, her gaze cuts straight across the ballroom and locks onto Stellan Loxley, who's dressed as a waiter.

Five years after their breakup, Lauren Scott signed a master-servant contract with Yale Sutton, the ex-boyfriend who had been penniless when they were together. Yale would pay off her debts, and in return, Lauren had to fulfill his every demand. "Lauren, take off one piece of clothing, and I'll knock a million off your debt." Yale spoke slowly, his voice dripping with mockery. Around the private room, the men hooted and cheered while the women laughed and made teasing remarks. Lauren gritted her teeth. "Fine. Just don't go back on your word, Mr. Sutton." Without a moment's hesitation, she unbuttoned her blouse and let it fall to the floor, baring her porcelain-white skin and most of her full, rounded breasts. The room fell silent for a moment before whistles erupted from every direction.

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."

My girlfriend, Quinn Simmons, my best friend, Seth Johnson, and I were one the outs. When I apologized to Quinn, she just fingered her nails. Then I tried to talk to Seth. He scrolled through his phone and turned a deaf ear to me. I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. I begged for their forgiveness, but my efforts were fruitless. In high school, Quinn and Seth asked me which electives I intended to take. Seth gave me the cold shoulder for a whole month after I chose the same electives as Quinn. Seth threw the 20 apology letters that I wrote for him into the trash, saying, "I don't really care. You two are a couple. I'm not forcing you to choose the same electives with me." During our university days, both Quinn and Seth rented places off campus and asked me to move in with them. When I chose Seth, Quinn chased me out of her place with a frosty expression, saying, “Go find your new roommate. Just leave me alone.” Quinn's disregard lasted two months. I kept chasing after her, trying to coax her the whole time. One day, I accidentally tumbled down the stairs. My whole body shook as I clutched my injured leg, but Quinn didn’t even spare me a single glance. She just stepped over me. Ten minutes ago, we were choosing a movie to watch. Quinn wanted to watch a sci-fi film, while Seth wanted to watch a romance movie. They asked me to choose again. In the end, after I chose a comedy, they spent the entire time ignoring me and chatting among themselves. "I want to watch a romance movie," Seth said while looking at Quinn. "It's fine if you don't." Quinn scoffed. "Can you watch something logical for once? What's so interesting about a romance movie anyway?" As Seth rolled his eyes, a flash of panic flickered across Quinn's eyes. She sighed and said, "Fine. We'll watch whatever you want to watch." I stood rooted to the spot, clutching the three tickets for the comedy movie. Suddenly, I didn't feel like watching the movie anymore.

Late at night, my husband came home with a young model. "So, you are the washed-up wife that Mr. Dawson keeps at home?" The girl looked at me with a mocking smile and said. Jay Dawson, my husband, reeking of alcohol, glanced between us with interest. He then hugged the young girl and led her into the bedroom. I sat alone on the living room couch, wrapped in a blanket, and listened to their shameless noises all night. I endured it for two years. Our agreement had finally ended this year, and so had my love for Ethan. I walked away. But Ethan chased after me like a madman.

Five years ago, I threw Jase Prescott out of my mansion like a dog. Five years later, he'd become a renowned professor, while I'd been told my illness was incurable. He swirled the red wine in his glass, his gaze icy. "Why aren't you out making the big bucks, Audrey? What made you switch careers and start drinking with men for money?" Bitterness rose in my throat. I forced a smile. "Can't be helped. I'm buried in debt. Jase, would you be generous enough to lend me a hundred thousand?" He splashed the red wine across my face. "Same old story." His voice was as sharp as a blade. "You're still rotten with greed." Looking at the way he hated me to the core, I finally breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God. He had no idea that the heart beating in his chest was mine.

When my wife, Hazel Zimmerman, is diagnosed with a terminal disease, she insists on divorcing me just to set me free. I refuse to do so. Instead, I travel all over the world to seek doctors and treatment remedies in hopes of finding Hazel a cure. I keep going at it until I start vomiting blood from exhaustion. But as soon as I reach home, I overhear Hazel bragging to her best friend smugly. "Brandon, that idiot, actually thinks that I really have cancer! I just wanted to use this excuse to divorce him so I could go on a world trip with Nathan. "Once I've had my fun, I'll claim that I'm cured of my disease. Then, I'll remarry Brandon again." "Do you really think Brandon will believe your excuse?" the best friend asks. Hazel just sneers in disdain. "That idiot loves me so much that he can't live without me. Ever since he found out that I have cancer, he's been crying his eyes out. What can he tell, anyway?" When Hazel brings up divorce once again, I don't hesitate to accept it this time.

When Stella Everette's junior went looking for death again, I knew she would come to peel off my skin next. It had been this way for a hundred years. Her beloved, Louie Linfield, kept throwing himself into the demon cave, trying to die for the lover he had lost there. Every time, Stella saved him and used the healthy skin from my body to replace his flesh that was burned away by the primordial flames. The skin on my body had been replaced repeatedly. There wasn't a single patch of untouched skin left. Only my face still looked somewhat like it had before. But this time, Louie burned half his face. When Stella locked me in the demon realm's prison and used torture tools to tear the skin from my entire face, there wasn't a trace of warmth in her eyes. "Lucian, Louie is my mentor's only blood relative left, and he once saved my life. You're my husband. Isn't it only right for you to help me?" She hurried away with my blood-soaked skin, leaving me alone in the lightless prison. She had forgotten that I had lost all my demonic power. I could no longer grow new skin, and I couldn't withstand the corrosive demonic energy in this place. The freezing demonic energy pierced through my entire body, tearing into what little flesh I had left. With the last bit of strength I had, I took the beaded bracelet from my wrist and pressed it against my chest. Whispering, I called out to my mentor, "I want to go home."

For three years, Julian Hart has been Larkmoor's idea of the perfect husband. 7:00 a.m. — He gets up to make breakfast. Vivienne Sterling eats only whole-wheat sandwiches, so he goes out early for the freshest ingredients. 9:00 a.m. — He ties her shoelaces and sees her off. 10:30 a.m. — He cleans their mansion, waters the plants, and straightens her study. 3:00 p.m. — He organizes her walk-in closet and jewelry and irons her clothes. ... 10:00 p.m. — The bath he's prepared is at precisely the right temperature when she arrives home on schedule. As Julian helps her out of her coat, he catches the faint smell of tobacco on it.

At my nephew's college celebration, I ran into my ex-fiancée, whom I hadn't seen in five years. She was dressed to the nines, surrounded by our former classmates. The moment Willow Radcliff saw me, her eyes went red. "You were alive this whole time, Orson. Why didn't you come back to me?" I looked away, wanting to leave. She stopped me and pulled out the engagement ring from years ago. "I sabotaged your college applications three times and forced you to repeat your senior year for three years. And when the fire happened, I chose Gareth over you. I was wrong. "For five years, I've regretted what I did. Now, I want to keep my promise. I want to marry you. Please, give me a chance to make it up to you." She looked at me, silently pleading. Her old classmates immediately started cheering and teasing her. Everyone assumed I would say yes. After all, I'd spent 15 years trying to win Willow over. Even after she sabotaged my college applications three times, I never broke things off with her. But I simply held up my hand, showing her the ring on my finger. "I'm already married."

Teresa Gardner, my girlfriend, is thrilled when I hand over the design drafts I spent so long working on to Quentin Solomon, her first love. She is so happy that she agrees to travel to Jarevon with me. Yet the moment we reach the airport, Quentin calls her. "I got into an accident. I really want to see you right now. Please don't leave with him, Teresa!" Teresa, who is usually so level-headed, panics and desperately pleads with me to let her go see Quentin. In the end, even as our friends keep sending us well wishes for our trip to Jarevon in the group chat, I can only smile as I release Teresa's hand and let her go to Quentin. Teresa's eyes well up with tears the moment she sees how thoughtful and understanding I am, as always. "I swear this will be the last time. I'll come back and marry you once I've checked on Quentin's condition, Aaron." I remind myself it's the 96th time I've done this for Teresa. I muse that perhaps I just have to hold on a little longer. If fulfilling these last three requests doesn't fix things between us, I'll walk away completely—Teresa and I will go our separate ways and never cross paths again.

Lucas Ashton and I have secretly dated for five years. We're preparing to announce our relationship during a business dinner. However, he doesn't mention a word of it during the dinner. Instead, he leans close to me and whispers half-jokingly, "I'm sick of sleeping with you and want to call it quits. Shall we not disclose our relationship?" I smile and nod. Then, I point at Emily Lane, his first love. "This is Lucas' girlfriend." In my past life, I pleaded with him not to leave me. All that got me was torment and death.

My girlfriend, Esther Cahill, and my best friend, Lionel Fox, are both ESTPs. They send each other thousands of messages every day, but the second I say something, they both go completely silent. "Gabriel, it's not that we don't want to reply. You just wouldn't get what we're talking about." I have always assumed that I'm just too quiet and that I don't really fit in with them. One day, I get hit by a car outside the school and end up bleeding badly. The driver speeds away, and I call Esther ten times, but she doesn't answer. I enter the three-person group chat, only to find that she's having the time of her life chatting with Lionel. The messages keep coming in so fast that I can barely keep up.