قصص وروايات قصيرة من فئة Romance وتضم Bias وتدور في Cheating

For three years, we held a wedding in name only—my husband, Kit Rutgers, a pilot, canceled our marriage registration eighteen times. The first time, his female trainee, Katy Ferguson, had a test flight. I waited outside the county clerk’s office the whole day. The second time, he got a call from her mid-drive, made a sharp U-turn, and left me standing on the side of the road. After that, every time we planned to make it official, some crisis with Katy mysteriously arose. Eventually, I chose to walk away. But the moment I boarded a plane to Solara, he lost his mind—and chased me there.

The family was holding a celebration for my newborn daughter. For some reason, my husband, Jonathan Shamrock, brought his secretary along. At the dinner table, his secretary dropped an unpeeled shrimp onto his plate and said matter-of-factly, "I just had my nails done, and I'm still wearing the diamond watch you bought me. Peel this for me." The Shamrocks' friends and family stared at Jonathan in shock, but he peeled the shrimp without missing a beat and popped it right into his secretary's mouth. Something inside me shattered. I stared at my old and very outdated clothes. Then I looked at my hands, rough and callused from years of being neglected. Then, Jonathan spat out something cold. "A man's wife shows the world how life has been treating him, and you look no better than a worn-out servant. You don't work. You don't even bother looking presentable. You contribute nothing to this family. "Starting tomorrow, we'll split every household expense evenly. I'd rather put my money into something that actually gives me a return." "Sure," I said quietly, and added nothing more. Then I called my brother. "Pull your investment out of Jonathan's company. I'm getting a divorce."

The entire family had always mocked me as the crazy one. On the day I found Jacob York, my fiancé, cheating on me, I grabbed him and jumped down from the fifth floor. He survived, but I became comatose. From that moment on, every night, he held Ella Stone, his affair partner and my adoptive sister, and made out with her beside my bed. During the first year, when he spoke about me, he would choke up and be filled with resentment. He said that dying together would have been letting me off too easily. In the second year, he had kissed her passionately while saying that he wanted to burn us all to death. By the third year, they seldom talked about me again. Most of the time, they talked about Ella's ovulation period and their wedding. I woke up on the day of their wedding. Under the blinding sunlight, Jacob kissed the pregnant Ella. I raised my thin hands and joined the applause of my former friends. The untimely claps startled everyone. Ethan was the first to come and confront me. He said ruthlessly, "Stop acting like some crazy lunatic, Summer. Jacob and Ella have already registered for marriage. If it weren't for you, they wouldn't have dragged out their wedding until today." Martha, my mother, had always been biased. As she shielded Ella, she begged me to spare them. "Summer, just pretend that Jacob died three years ago because of you. Let them be happy." I looked past Jacob's pained and conflicted expression before nodding slowly. But the moment Ella spoke, my empty stomach started clamping reflexively. So, I grabbed the knife of the cake beside my hand. I had suffered for three years, and I wanted something sweet. But they refused to believe that I wasn't going to lose control again and had truly given up.

I was in a long-distance relationship with my boyfriend. It had been three years, and he never let me go to him. I cried, I protested, and I even shouted at him. Alas, all he did was give me a tired answer. "It's for your own good, Wendy." I shut up because that really was the truth. I had made frequent trips to him during the first year we were together. The first time I went, I forgot to turn off the stove, and the fire burned my house down. The second time I went, the elevator I took malfunctioned. I was locked inside for hours. The loss of oxygen nearly knocked me out. Then, the third time came. I didn't think my luck would be this rotten, but it was. On my way to the airport, I ran into a car crash and stayed in the ICU for three days. Since then, he came to me. The fateful day came. My company sent me on a trip to Imperia. I didn't tell Chris and prayed to God that this trip would go smoothly. My prayers were answered, and the plane landed smoothly. I was so excited about my change in luck. I was about to text Chris to tell him all about it when I turned around and saw him standing among the crowd of people picking up the passengers. He was holding a bouquet of roses. I thought either my friend told him, or we were secretly telepathic. Just when I was going to approach him, I saw him smiling at a girl and pulling her into his embrace. Then, they kissed.

During the long National Day holidays, I planned a Golden Highlands trip for the whole family. I even booked tickets for a luxurious train ride so we could enjoy the scenery. But on departure day, my husband and son vanished. I called my husband. I could hear an airport boarding announcement in the background. My voice trembled. "Where are you?" He panicked and mumbled that the company had an emergency before hanging up. I tried calling again, but the line was busy. The next day, he posted an update on his social media. In the photo, he stood beneath the snowy peaks of Wintercrown with one arm around his old love while the other held our son. The caption read: [If we had been a little braver back then...] A friend commented: [Where is your wife?] I stared at his reply: [She's sick and resting at home.] Three expired train tickets sat on the table as my eyes welled up with tears. A decade of marriage. A pack of lies. It was time to bring it all to a close.

Jasmine Pepper and I had been married seven years, and because we were poor, my son and I spent our nights secretly collecting bottles to recycle. My son was quick at it, and good, always looking up at me with a hopeful little face when we finished a round. "Dad, do we have enough saved up to take Mom to the amusement park?" Jasmine was frugal and quiet by nature, and she often turned down our son's requests, always claiming there wasn't enough money. But that day, I counted a whole bag of change and could hardly believe it. I grabbed my son's hand and took him to buy tickets for the amusement park. The moment I looked up, though, I froze. There was Jasmine, one hand laced with another man's, the other cradling his son, riding the carousel like she didn't have a care in the world. My son and I stood rooted to the spot. The ticket seller gave us an apologetic look. "I'm sorry, sir, but that lady's booked out the whole park for the day. You'll have to come back another time."

While I waited at the hospital to get my tubes tied, I came across a question that was blowing up online. [What's the cruelest way to get revenge on a woman?] An anonymous answer sat at the very top with thousands of upvotes. [Easy. Become her best friend, then slowly take everything she's proud of away from her. [I should know. That's exactly what I did to the girl I grew up with. [By the time she realized anything was wrong, her parents already treated me like their daughter, and I outranked her at her own family's company. Her childhood sweetheart, who later became her husband, lost his virginity to me in the house she personally decorated for them. [And those twins she thinks are hers? They were conceived using my eggs and implanted in her. They're obsessed with me. They even call me Mom when she's not around. [All I had to do was say a few words, and her husband convinced her to get her tubes tied. And somehow, she actually agreed. [Now she'll never have a biological child of her own.] Some people in the comments were horrified. Others ripped into the anonymous poster. But nearly everyone wanted to know the same thing. [What did she ever do to you? Why would you go this far just to destroy her life?] To everyone's surprise, the poster answered. [Nothing, really. There was never some huge feud between us. [She was just better than me at everything when we were growing up. And she always acted so calm and untouchable, like nothing in the world could get to her. [It irritated the hell out of me. So, I worked my way into her life little by little. I took my time, planned everything carefully, and eventually took away everything she cared about. [Like right now. She's sitting alone in a hospital, miserable while she waits to be sterilized, and I'm in bed with her husband, planning to go through this entire box of condoms tonight.] Her latest post included a photo of a box of Magnum XL condoms. And behind the box was the nightstand in my own bedroom.

Five years into my secret relationship with Brittany, I drove out alone to visit our old professor, Professor Reed, at her house in the hills with a gift. While we were catching up over coffee, she suddenly brought up my best friend, Tyler. "Back in the lab, no two worked together as smoothly as Tyler and Brittany," Professor Reed said. "Sharing late nights in the lab, constantly by each other's side… All of us old folks were just waiting for them to finally make it official." The smile on my face froze. Unaware of my sudden stillness, Professor Reed patted the back of my hand and continued, "And thankfully, the wait is over. Brittany told me that as soon as the award night ends tomorrow, she's proposing to Tyler right on stage. She's even stopping by today to ask me to be her witness. Since you guys are so close, you'll definitely be standing right beside him as the best man." For a second, I forgot how to breathe. The next moment, the doorbell rang. When the door opened, Brittany was standing on the porch holding a present. Beside her, Tyler was holding onto her arm, their fingers intertwined. Silence immediately filled the room. When her eyes met mine, panic flashed across her face, but her immediate instinct was to step forward and shield Tyler behind her. I gripped my phone tightly in my hand, the edges digging into my skin until it burned. On the screen, her message from this morning was still visible. [Babe, as soon as the awards ceremony wraps up tomorrow, I'm finally making us public. I'm going to make you the happiest man in the world.] So, the relationship she promised to go public with wasn't ours, and I was never part of the future she kept talking about. I stood there, watching our professor walk up with a warm smile to welcome them in. I watched the two of them standing side by side, a sharp pain spreading from my chest through my entire body. It was only at that moment that I finally understood that, in this secret five-year relationship, I was the one she had kept hidden all along.

It's Thanksgiving, and I'm waiting for Zeke Jones to come home after cooking up an extravagant meal. When Zeke returns, he doesn't even glance at the meal I've prepared for him. Instead, he proceeds to pack a bag. "I can't celebrate Thanksgiving with you this year," he says. I take another bite of my turkey and say nothing. At the stroke of midnight, Zeke's first love posts a new photo on her social media page. In the photo, she's lying on Zeke's back with a bright smile on her face. The moon outside the window is bright. "Happy to spend Thanksgiving with good company," her caption reads. Instead of hysterically questioning Zeke about the post, I just tap on the "like" button without reacting in any way. Zeke calls me. His voice sounds panicked as he tries to explain himself. "Please don't misinterpret the post. I will definitely spend Thanksgiving with you next year…" I freeze for a few moments, letting out a small laugh. I don't offer him a reply. Next time, he says? Oh, Zeke, I'm afraid there won't be a next time.

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?

I was the most laid-back of all the women Isaac Sterling kept around. While the others did everything they could to win his attention and secure a place in his heart, I had long since given up trying. Instead, I spent my days lounging in the luxury mansion he bought for me, eating, shopping, and enjoying life. Every time Isaac started seeing someone new, the other women would worry that they would be replaced. I, on the other hand, barely reacted. Even when news broke that he was getting engaged, I did not care. I simply smiled and said, "Then I wish him a happy marriage and a lifetime of happiness." What no one knew was how deeply I had once loved Isaac. I had loved him enough to give up everything and stay by his side as he struggled from having nothing to becoming one of the most successful men in the city. However, the bright, noble young man I remembered had changed, and so, I proposed a breakup. With a frown, he lowered his voice and coaxed me gently. “Come on. Don't be upset. My engagement to the Harris family heiress is only a business arrangement. Just be patient for a little longer.” However, I had been patient for far too long. I endured being his lover without a title or a future. I endured the endless stream of women who came and went around him. I even endured watching him prepare to marry someone else. This time, I was exhausted, and I was leaving.

On the day of my third wedding anniversary, I wait for my husband, Jonathan Myers, in the heavy downpour for four hours even though I'm already nine months pregnant. I can feel the rain drenching me from head to toe. At the same time, I keep suffering from the irregular contractions. Jonathan sends me a voice message. I can hear a bell tolling and a woman's laughter in the background. "Honey, I'll be home late. Quinn told me that she's never admired the cityscape at night before." The moment I'm hoisted onto a stretcher, I glance at my phone. Coincidentally, Jonathan's social media feed has just refreshed, showing a grid of nine photos. Quinn Farris can be seen standing in front of a floor-to-ceiling window, where an array of the city lights stretch out behind her. The caption reads, "I'm admiring the world with my baby girl." Meanwhile, I've lost a lot of blood in the delivery room. On the surgical forms, the spot that's supposed to bear my husband's signature is left empty. At 3:00 am, Jonathan wakes up in Quinn's bed. He then transfers me 5000 dollars and leaves a note on the transaction history. "Thanks for your hard work." I reject the transaction before dialing a number. "Dad, I've thought things through. I want to leave the country."

Three years of marriage, and I'd become known in our social circle as the ultimate doormat. My husband staying out all night, his silent treatment, bringing his first love home to flaunt in my face—through it all, I'd smile and make him hangover soup, keeping the house spotless. Everyone thought I loved him to the point of madness. Even he believed it. Until the day of the divorce, when he begged me with tears in his eyes not to leave—and then watched "me" collapse rigid to the floor after a power outage, revealing a charging port on the back of my neck. He lost his mind. Meanwhile, the real me was lying on a beach in the Maldives, running my fingers through the hair of a gorgeous twenty-something with a six-pack, cheerfully pressing the "factory reset" button.

Three years after Madeline Brooks, my wife, cheats on me and promises never to betray me again, I finally cheat on her too. When she rushes home, she finds me lying on our bed, my body covered in hickeys. "Madeline, no wonder you cheated so many times. I get it now. It really does feel damn good," I say mockingly. The shock on her face is unmistakable. Her eyes quickly turn red as she grabs me by the throat. "Sebastian Donovan, do you hate me that much? I swear I'll always stay loyal to you. I haven't seen him in the past three years. What more do you want from me?" She isn't wrong. For the past three years, she's done everything she can to make me feel secure. Whenever she comes home, she hands me her phone without hesitation. Whenever she goes out, if she's gone for more than five minutes, she video-calls me just to show me where she is. She knows exactly how much her betrayal has affected me. Every time we're intimate, she showers repeatedly and disinfects herself before coming anywhere near me. However, she hasn't exactly been loyal. As I stare at her, I can feel my body trembling. "You cut things off with him physically. But what about emotionally?" I ask. "Every time you get drunk, you call out Nathan Donovan's name. Every piece of clothing you've bought me is something he would like. Even when you buy me a watch for my birthday, you instinctively pick the one he would have liked most. And the anniversary ring you give me? It's even his size." I swallow hard. "You may have ended things with him, but you're forcing me to become him." Madeline's hand trembles. She grits her teeth, then forces a smile. "Sebastian, you don't get to hold this over me anymore. Yes, I cheated. But how are you any better than I am? We're both terrible people. We're perfect for each other." She says it without a trace of guilt. And just like that, the three years I've spent struggling with the aftermath of her betrayal suddenly feel like one big joke. All the things she's done to reassure me, all the ways I've tried to convince myself that we've finally moved past it—suddenly, they all feel meaningless. A wave of exhaustion washes over me, overwhelming me. For the first time, I realize I'm not angry anymore. I'm simply tired. And suddenly, I don't want this marriage anymore.

My wife’s twenty-two-year-old “charity case” put a box of condoms in front of her while every executive at our company watched. Our home security feed had accidentally appeared on the conference-room screen. “You promised me one wish if I got into a top master’s program,” he said. My wife smiled. “Yes.” Then he kissed her—and she kissed him back. That night, she begged me to forgive her. She even signed an agreement: if she cheated again, I would get everything. Less than half an hour later, I photographed them kissing outside our gate. But that wasn’t enough for her. Three days later, her lover stormed into my office, slammed his own forehead into my desk, and screamed that I’d attacked him. My wife believed him. “You’ll apologize publicly tomorrow,” she told me. “Then announce your resignation.” We had founded that company together. I had financed it. Now she wanted me humiliated and gone. “All right,” I said. “I’ll be there.” At ten the next morning, she sat at the head of the table. Her lover smiled from the back. I handed everyone a copy of the documents my attorney had prepared. My wife opened hers. Her smile vanished. “Ansel… you can’t do this.” I looked at the signature she’d given me three nights earlier. “You already agreed.”

Elias Marque was known for being the most handsome and wealthy man in the research institute. After countless efforts, I managed to win him over and claim him as mine. After being with him, I realized he was extremely scrupulous about order and would not tolerate anyone breaking the rules he established. One time, when I simply took a single sip of milk from his glass, he swept the glass into the trash. "That milk was mine. Why did you touch it?" Later, he explained to me that he had a strict compulsion for order and was prone to severe anxiety whenever it was disrupted. Though he insisted it was not personal, I was still deeply hurt for a long time. On our fifth wedding anniversary, I went to the institute to surprise Elias. To my horror, I saw a young woman bringing a half-finished latte to his lips. Instead of getting upset, all he did was let out an indulgent sigh while remarking, "You're still the same as before you went overseas. You should know I don't like sweet drinks." Despite what he said, he leaned in and took a sip. Meanwhile, I watched the entire thing play out while I was standing in the pouring rain. I could feel my blood turn cold. As it turned out, Elias could make exceptions. Instead of confronting him, I just tossed my ring into a puddle. Then, I opened my umbrella and walked away into the rain. I decided to walk away for good.

At my best friend Naomi Dodson's Sip and See, my husband, Joe Walsh, gifts her a luxury villa. I think it's a mix-up, but he stays deadly calm. "Naomi's baby is mine. The villa is her reward." The world goes cold around me. Desperate, I push for answers. "When did this start?" He knit his brows, annoyed. "Does it matter? You're still Mrs. Walsh. You get the money, the freedom, and a kid without the birth pains. What's not to like?" What he doesn't know is that he has severe azoospermia. I am never the infertile one. He is.

I cradled Chloe’s newborn, filled with joy and affection. The baby was not blood of mine, yet as Chloe’s best friend, I would love and protect the little one with everything I had. "Sweet boy," I whispered, gently tapping the tip of his nose. "I'm your godmother. No one would ever hurt you." The hospital room was washed in golden afternoon light. Adrian stood by the window in a dark overcoat, his profile sharp against the glass. He looked exactly like the man the whole industry knew: controlled, elegant, untouchable. Hollywood's golden producer. My newlywed husband. Then he said, in a voice as flat as if he were discussing a contract, "He's not your godson. He's my son." For a second, I thought I had misheard him. Maybe I was just exhausted from the wedding, from the endless calls and fittings and congratulations. I almost laughed. But Adrian turned around. A cruel little smile curved his lips. "The child is mine," he said again. My arms tightened around the baby. "The night you got hurt," he went on, "I was with Chloe the whole night. We went through an entire box... apparently this little guy still found a way to arrive." I couldn't move. It felt as if ice water had been poured down my throat. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. After a long silence, I finally managed to whisper, "But... we only registered our marriage yesterday." Adrian walked over and put an arm around my shoulders, almost gently. His tone was soft, but it carried the kind of condescension people used with a child throwing a tantrum. "Don't worry. Chloe and I were never going to get married. If I had wanted to marry her, I would have done it years ago." He paused, and something almost pleased flashed in his eyes. "Didn't Chloe ever tell you? We had a history. I was her first."

After my 99th proposal, I finally convince Bridget Sherman to go with me to register our marriage at the city hall. Instead, all we get is a stern warning from the clerk. "Ms. Sherman, our records show that you're already married. If you register another marriage with Mr. Peterson, you'll be committing bigamy. That's a punishable crime that could throw you behind bars for up to two years. "I strongly advise you to respect marriage and the law. Don't treat marriage like a game or test the limits of the law." I stand there dumbfounded, unable to accept that the woman I've loved all this time has already become someone else's wife. Before I can even question her, Bridget loses her temper. She hurls the forms at my face. She fumes. "I told you not to come, but you insisted! Will you only be satisfied when I end up in prison? I've never met a man as clingy and pathetic as you!" Only then do I learn that, just to help her young intern, Keaton Joplin, put on an act, she secretly registered her marriage with him a month ago. Later, after discovering that Keaton only married her to scam her, she comes to me in tears, begging for forgiveness. "Channing, as soon as the 30-day divorce waiting period is over, I'll marry you! Meet me at the entrance to the city hall. Don't stand me up!" 30 days later, torrential rain pours down. Countless people see a young woman in a wedding dress waiting from morning until night in the wind and rain, shivering from the cold as tears stream down her face harder than the downpour. She's waiting for me to appear. But this is just like waiting for a boat that will never arrive at an airport.

Before I turned fifteen, I lived like a weed. Cold, damp, barely surviving. Then I met Ethan Hayes and Summer Reed. The first home-cooked meal anyone ever made for me was made by Summer. The first dress I ever owned was bought by Summer. The first birthday anyone ever celebrated for me was something Summer planned down to the smallest detail. She would carefully put ointment on the chilblains covering my hands. And she would tell everyone, over and over, that I was her best friend. As for Ethan... He was the one who pulled me away from a group of laughing street punks. He was the one who kicked open a door and rushed me to the hospital when my fever reached 104 degrees. He was the one who broke my drunken stepfather's head open with a single punch, the night the man came at me again. The day he confessed his feelings, his hands were trembling and my heart was pounding so hard that tears filled my eyes. "I swear I'll protect you for the rest of my life." I often thought that in the bleak, gray life I had been given, meeting the two of them was the greatest luck I could ever have asked for. Until my twenty-third birthday. I heard Ethan shouting at Summer. "I can't control what I feel! I fell in love with you. So what? You feel the same way, don't you?" Summer looked into his red, tormented eyes. At last, she burst into tears and threw herself into his arms. "But... what about Mia?" Hidden around the corner, I smiled bitterly. What else was there to do? They were the two people I loved most in the world. I couldn't bear to make things harder for them. So I called my advisor and said calmly, "Can I apply for that twenty-year Antarctic research program?"