Plot Twists Romance Short Stories & Bias Face Slapping Novels

I was in a relationship with Luke Johnson for seven years. When we were finally about to get married, my younger sister, Nessa Reid, made a mistake at her teaching job. Her mistake left one of her students paralyzed. My parents bribed a lawyer to tricked me into signing a confession statement on behalf of Nessa and ended up in prison. In prison, I was bullied by the other inmates. Two of my ribs were broken, and one of my eyes was blinded. I endured five brutal years there. After I was released, Luke brought me back to the mansion and proposed to me in front of everyone. He promised to give me a grand wedding. However, a day before my wedding day, Nessa drove too fast and killed someone. The victim came from a very powerful family. I thought Luke would support me, but he and my parents put all the charges on me. "Violet, you've been in prison before. Nessa's health hasn't been the best ever since she was a kid. She won't be able to take it…" However, before I was put in prison for the second time, someone broke my limbs and threw me on the side of the road to perish. While I was about to die, my parents and Luke went insane…

On the day I was supposed to register the marriage with my girlfriend, the CEO of Whitmore Group, her scheming male assistant stepped in first and handed over his ID. Just like that, the marriage certificate that should have belonged to me and my girlfriend became his and hers instead. All I did was ask a couple of questions. The assistant dropped to his knees in front of me, looking as if his world had ended. “Nathan, this is all my fault. If I hadn’t needed to get my child registered for school, I never would have resorted to something like this and entered a fake marriage with Claire.” Then he started sobbing and tried to slam his head into the wall as if he had to die to make up for it. Claire Whitmore had always been sharp and levelheaded, but this time, instead of saying a word for me, she slapped me across the face in front of everyone. “Ryan is a single father. Everything he did was for his child. Do you really have to be this petty? “It’s just a certificate. Once Ryan’s child is enrolled, I’ll divorce him. What difference does it make if you get yours a little later? Did you really have to push him to the edge? “Get on your knees and apologize to Ryan. Then give him half your salary as compensation. If you behave, I might let you borrow our certificate, take a picture of it, and show it off in your family group chat. Otherwise, don’t even think about getting one with me.” I gave a cold laugh. “Then forget it.” And I did not mean only the certificate. I was done with her, too.

On our seventh wedding anniversary, my husband's childhood sweetheart called, claiming a burst pipe at her home. Without a second thought, he ditched our celebration to play handyman. Moments later, Vivian Duffy's social media lit up with a smug post. [No matter when or where, my Superman arrives at one call. How should I reward him?] Accompanying the post was a photo of scattered condoms and torn clothing on the floor. I forced a smile, picked up my phone, and dialed a number. "My pipe is broken. Care to fix it?"

My cousin, Myra Walsh, leaves a voice message in the family group chat in a mean and uncouth manner. "Mom, I'm not meeting that guy who drives a rundown car. One look at him tells me that he's a single pathetic loser." She then kicks my chair. "Hey Sam, that useless piece of shit is a good match for you. Why don't you take my place on the blind date?" I follow Myra's line of sight. There's an old-looking car parked outside, and the owner, Henry Quinton, is currently reclining against the car while smoking. My entire family thinks he's just an ex-convict who has just gotten released from prison and is unable to land a job yet. I'm the only one who knows that's not the truth. Last week, when I was carrying out my internship at a bank, I witnessed the bank manager inviting Henry into the vault. Apparently, the trail of numbers Henry has in his savings is as long as a phone number. After putting on some makeup on my face to make me pure and innocent, I put on an oversized shirt before heading out of the apartment. In the cold wind, I cower slightly from the cold as I hand a thermos flask over to Henry. "Sir, Maya said she's not a match for you, so I'm here in her place." Henry snuffs out his cigarette, his gaze fixing on my flapping hem for three seconds. "Lass, if you want to be with me, you'll have to suffer tremendously in life." "I'm willing to go through anything as long as I get to be with you." That night, Maya flaunts photos of the bag a rich scion has given her. As for me, I've gone over to Henry's apartment.

For the past five years, I've been working at the Customs Department. Because my extraordinary sense of smell is a closely guarded secret, my wife, Judy Morrison, believes I'm nothing more than a security guard working for a company. On our third wedding anniversary, I catch her at the airport arrival gates—the same woman who claims she has to work late. She's smiling tenderly as she gently brushes back a stray lock of hair from Dan McLeod's forehead—her ex-boyfriend who has just returned from overseas. The moment she spots me, she casually drops her hand and instinctively shields him behind her. "Are you stalking me, Joel Plunkett? It's just some stupid anniversary. What? Is the world going to end just because we skip it? Spit it out. What is it you want this time? A new keyboard? A graphics card? Some new gaming gear?" As the surrounding crowd looks at me with sneering, contemptuous expressions, the humiliation hits me like a hard slap across the face. I shove the follow-up medical report for my old injury deeper into my pocket, then clench my trembling fingers. "I'm not stalking you!" "Thanks for picking me up, Judy," Dan chimes in smoothly. "Your husband is more important than me. Go spend the day with him. Also, don't be so harsh with your own husband. Apologize to him." Judy turns to me and mutters a stiff, "I'm sorry." My eyes widen in disbelief. Since when has the proud and untouchable Judy Morrison ever taken orders from anyone? My heart sinks. Dan pats Judy on the shoulder, takes the suitcase from her hand, and gives me a nod before heading toward customs. That is when I catch a faint, suspicious odor. I reach out to stop him. "Excuse me. Please open your suitcase. Customs needs to inspect it."

Two weeks before my wedding to Wendy Sutton, she gets a marriage certificate with someone else. That day, a screenshot from an unfamiliar group chat suddenly pops up in our wedding-planning group. The group is named "No One Stays Young Forever". A photo of Wendy and her new husband, Shiloh Caddel, is posted. They are beaming as they hold up the marriage certificate they've just obtained. Her brother asks, "You made sure Morgan doesn't know, right? Don't let this affect the wedding plans." My best friend replies, "Don't worry, he's still waiting for Wendy to come back so she can try on her wedding makeup." Her best friend chimes in, "They're only registering the marriage to make up for a past regret. It's not like she's really going to replace the groom." Wendy says, "Keep it from Morgan until the wedding. I'll tell him after the ceremony." I feel the crushing weight of betrayal. The screenshot is quickly deleted. The wedding-planning group falls silent. Then, as if nothing had happened, Wendy's brother asks what style I want for the decorations. I calmly type my reply. "Those don't matter anymore. The wedding is off."

I was helping a client catch his cheating girlfriend. After I snapped a photo of her with another man, my client sent it to her and called her in a fury. The next second, my wife's voice came through the phone. "Aww, baby, don't be mad. You're the other man too!" Her voice was sweet and gentle, but the words carried a mocking edge. My client froze. "What... do you mean?" She answered with eerie calm. "There are seven men ahead of you. But I only have one husband, and his name is Theo." Theo… That's my name.

On my wedding day, 12 confetti cannons go off as the bridal car pulls up to the venue. My fiancee, Giselle Warren, accepts the cash gift Dad offers her—but she refuses to step out of the car. Assuming the amount isn't enough, Dad quickly reaches into his suit jacket for another envelope, but Giselle shakes her head. "That won't be necessary." Then, with every guest watching in stunned silence, she pulls out a bag filled with electronic tracking monitors. They're numbered 1 through 63, each tag labeled with the name of a relative on my family's guest list. "Tell your family to put these on right now," she says coldly. "Otherwise, I'm not getting out of this car." Dad forces a nervous, accommodating smile. He doesn't know what the devices are—he just knows this is the most important day of my life. He reaches out to take the bag. My fists clench, and I step in front of him, blocking his hand. Giselle's face hardens. "Last month, when Shawn invited your family over for dinner, an expensive watch and 20,000 dollars in cash went missing from his room! "This is the most important day of my life. If your redneck relatives start swiping bottles of wine, hoarding party favors, and stealing from my guests today, I won't survive the embarrassment!" Shawn Warren is her foster brother. They aren't related by blood, but she defends him like family. Dad's face flushes a deep, painful red, but he still places a trembling hand on my shoulder. "Just let them wear them. Don't upset your bride on your wedding day. Your mom and I will explain it to the relatives. Don't let this delay the ceremony. "If they haven't done anything wrong, wearing them won't hurt." I watch Dad's shoulders slump in humiliation as he turns away. Without hesitation, I pull out my phone and dial the venue manager. "Cancel the reception. The wedding is off."

Castellora, Santoria. "You're the illegitimate daughter. So what does that make your kid?" Dante Locatelli looked at the pregnancy test in my hand. I froze. "What's that supposed to mean?" "Means he's illegitimate too, babe." Before I could even breathe, he kept going. "You're my side chick now. I'm marrying your sister. She's the real Ambrosi daughter. She actually fits my life." "What about me? What about our baby?" He lifted a brow, that cocky little smirk sliding onto his face. "If you can be illegitimate, why can't he?"

My girlfriend was always extremely possessive of me. Throughout our seven-year relationship, Hannah Levin kept on repeating the same thing, “Do you have any idea how handsome you are, honey? I just want to hide you away from the world. You’re so gorgeous that anyone could easily fall for you. I get jealous whenever someone looks at you twice.” That was why she never let me anywhere near her social circle. Until one day, I stumbled across her private social media account using an anonymous profile. Three years. More than six hundred posts. Every single one of them documented her life with another man. They wandered through Skyreach Citadel, made wishes atop snow-covered mountains, and kissed openly on the streets of Silverhaven. Her latest post showed them at the beach. Surrounded by cheering and screaming friends, she kissed him for everyone to see. The caption was: When you love someone, you can’t help showing him off to the whole world. My fingers trembled as I quietly closed the page and booked a flight to Ravenport. It turned out that letting go of a seven-year relationship could only take a heartbeat.

My husband kept making me see a psychiatrist. He said I had delusional disorder and kept imagining I was a corporate heiress. He once grabbed me by the throat and screamed that my parents had died in a car accident years ago. To cure my "illness" and stop him from worrying about me, I took my medication on time and tried to forget those "delusions". One day, I was handing out flyers on the street when a Rolls-Royce stopped in front of me. The driver respectfully opened the door. My father, who had only ever appeared in my "delusions", stepped out, pain written across his face. "The one million dollars I transfer to your account every month is supposed to let you see what life is like. Why are you out here putting yourself through this?" One million dollars? I could hear my ears ring. What exactly had my husband been hiding from me when he said he had spent all our savings treating my illness?

For five years, Yale Xander worked as a lowly servant in the Xavier household, all to help his girlfriend, Moon Xavier, who lost her memory, remember him. He treated every man she dated with respect and humility. He let her take her anger out on him whenever she was in a bad mood. Even after her childhood friend kicked him down the stairs and broke both his legs, Yale still forced a smile and told her it was fine. All he asked in return was that she visit him more often. Just when Moon finally agreed to seek treatment for her memory loss, Yale went to the butler and asked to end his employment and leave. His best friend, Cody Xavier, rushed over. He grabbed Yale by the shoulders and shook him. “You’re leaving now? Yale, have you lost your mind? “Is this because Moon is marrying Justin? She has lost her memory! Just hold on a little longer. Once she remembers you, she’ll regret everything she’s done to you.” Yale fell silent for a moment. Then, he let out a bitter laugh. “I can’t do this anymore.”

A trending tag read: "Emil Carson's mistress is pregnant." On my birthday, he came home with a woman who had a slightly visible baby bump. "Caprice is pregnant. I need to make sure she and the baby are properly taken care of. I’ll need you to cooperate. For now, we’ll go through a temporary divorce. Don’t worry. Once the baby is born, we’ll get married again." I did not cry or make a scene. I proceeded with the divorce from Emil. When we stepped out of the city hall, he expressed in a pleased manner, "Just stay low and keep to yourself. I'll contact you after Caprice gives birth." Then, his tone suddenly became threatening. "But if you cause any kind of trouble for Caprice, you can give up on any chance of remarrying me." I nodded quietly. However, I waited until they had their second baby, and yet there did not seem to be any initiative on his part to remarry me. It did not matter anymore. I was about to give birth to twins—a son and a daughter. Just like Emil, I was going to become a parent of two. If anything, I was afraid of him barging back into my life and disturbing my peace. After all, I now have a partner who has a particular streak of jealousy.

The day the company is exposed for accounting fraud, my wife, Megan Grant, immediately holds a press conference to protect Liam Johnson. She shifts all the blame onto me, publicly declaring that I will be punished by the law. Liam puts on an act of heartbreak, saying, "Flynn, I warned you a long time ago that you can't just take the company's money. Why didn't you listen?" My coworkers stare at me in disbelief, expecting me to defend myself. Instead, I smile, take responsibility for everything, and resign. Megan thinks I've finally come to my senses and quietly promises me, "Once this blows over, I'll find a way to get your position back. I'll also tell everyone about our marriage. Consider it my way of making it up to you." However, there's one thing she doesn't know. In order to protect the company's interests, the chairman ordered me to install monitoring software on all the company's computers on the day we opened our doors. Once he retrieves those system logs, their lies will fall apart! When the truth comes to light, they won't just be facing massive financial fines; they'll be facing prison time too!

While celebrating our tenth year anniversary, my boyfriend, Archie Cullen, and I are caught in a sandstorm warning on the grasslands. Instead of staying with me, he leaves me behind to save the equipment in the tent. Having worked with Archie for years, I know he cares about his work more than anything. The storm rattles the gear, and a falling saddle strikes me, leaving me in too much pain to go after him. I could only pray through the night for us and for our work. When I finally return to the studio, I find my most important camera lens and hard drive destroyed. Meanwhile, he's carefully wiping down Sharon Thatcher's walkie-talkie, looking relieved. "Thank goodness we weren't in the worst-hit area. I did everything I could and managed to save the work Sharon and I had poured our hearts into. "She comes from a renowned family of artists and has a great degree. I'm very confident about this competition." Archie is always full of praise for her. Whenever the two of them talk about art and filmmaking, I can barely get a single word in. I look down at my injured left arm. "What about me? What about everything I poured my heart into?" I ask Archie. He looks up at me in confusion. "You're angry over a broken hard drive? Everything you shoot looks about the same anyway. Just shoot it again. "Besides, you're fine, aren't you?" Suddenly, I have nothing left to say. I look up and hold back my tears. So in his mind, what they create is real art, something worth risking everything for, even if it means leaving me in danger. If that's how it is, I'll enter the film competition on my own. From now on, my work will never carry his name again.

After I had helped our law firm win nine hundred and ninety-nine cases in a row, my husband, who had kept our marriage hidden for years, finally agreed to hold a wedding and make our relationship public. However, I waited until nightfall, and he never showed up. Instead, I saw a photo of him and his female assistant kissing in front of everyone at their wedding on Instagram. Her caption read, [I was just being mocked by my coworkers for being a bachelorette no one wants, and then my lawyer hero came to save me. From now on, I’ll be his perfect employee during the day, and he’ll be my loving husband at night.] In the photo, the wedding rings on their ring fingers were impossible to ignore. For a moment, everyone expected me to break down and make a scene. However, I simply smiled and left a comment under the post. [When are you two having a few kids? I’ll be sure to send over a big gift.] The very next second, my husband, who had been unreachable all day, finally called me. “Brit got pregnant out of wedlock, and the man who did it abandoned her,” he said coldly. “Her parents are extremely traditional. If this gets out, they’ll kill both her and the baby. As a lawyer, don’t you have any compassion for her at all? “Delete that comment right now. Apologize to her personally,” he continued. “Once she gives birth to the child and everything settles, I’ll hold another wedding with you.” I looked down at the divorce papers in my hand. Then, I let out a soft snicker. “No need,” I said. “Mr. Larson, just wait to receive our divorce case.”

I always had a weakness for handsome men, so I camped out online to grab one of the very first AI incubi. The brand's whole pitch was seduction tuned a hundred percent to its owner's taste. But every time I got within ten minutes of Lucien Crane, he'd force-start a system cleaning cycle, go dark, and idle out. "Master, please don't overuse me. Bacteria buildup can cause a malfunction." Left unsatisfied every single time, I finally went to customer service, and the rep looked as baffled as I felt. "An incubus unit would never break off contact with its owner. We'd recommend restarting him at home." But on the drive back, I happened to scroll past a livestream from my live-in housekeeper. The title sat right there in bold: How a Seasoned Queen Subdues In Her AI Incubus. The lighting was low. The man's earlobes were flushed, and he knelt on one knee, every inch of bared skin crossed with messy whip marks. My housekeeper wiggled her red-painted toes, all smiles. "This one's got real stamina. Five hours straight and he never once tapped out." As the comments poured in, envious, a chill ran through me. So the so-called "cleaning system" was just his excuse to slack off and idle. Behind my back, he was happily playing somebody else's obedient little sub. If he wouldn't serve me the way he was built to, then he could wait to get shipped back to the factory and scrapped for parts.

My mother-in-law, Kate Irwin, has a hood over her head and a time bomb strapped to her body. Ten seconds are left. My husband, Sean Quimby, could have saved his mother. As Efton's top bomb disposal expert, Sean could cut the right wire without breaking a sweat. Instead, he hands the wire cutters—the tool that will decide whether Kate lives or dies—to his sobbing intern, Yara Gibson. I watch as Yara cuts the wrong wire. The timer hits zero. A wall of flames engulfs Kate. The blast wave slams into me, but Sean's first instinct is to pull Yara into his arms. He even turns his back to shield her from the flying debris, gently soothing her. "Don't be afraid. I'm here." He doesn't even spare a glance at the charred remains behind him. Only after calming Yara does he finally turn to me. He sheds a few tears and says, "Wendy, I'm sorry. I couldn't save Dahlia." My mother, Dahlia Green, is overseas, enjoying the sun and beach. She sent me a photo just moments ago. So I put on a sympathetic face and comfort him, "It's okay." After all, my mother isn't the one who died.

I am delivering documents to my fiance, Caleb Greene, when I see his personal assistant, Yelena Langdon, sit in his lap. "Mr. Greene, the seatbelt's broken and dug into my chest so hard that it really hurts now. Could you help me take a look?" Caleb, who claims to have a phobia of women, lets out a low chuckle and strokes her waist. "Is that so? Then I should take a closer look to see where you're hurt." The two get tangled together right there in the car, so engrossed in each other that they fail to notice me standing outside even after five minutes have passed. I knock on the car window. After Caleb rolls down the window, his face twists into an expression of shock. "Becca! What are you doing here? I can explain! We were trying out the car earlier when the seatbelt suddenly got jammed—" "There's no need to explain anything. The car suspension is indeed not bad." Tossing the documents right in his face, I then throw the car key into a nearby storm drain. "You can have the car. Don't forget to clean it after you're done having your filthy fun." With that, I turn my back to him and dial my mother's number. "Mom, I agree to meet with the marriage alliance partner you told me about last time. The sooner the better."

At our son's first birthday banquet, my husband, Luis Danforth, stood up in front of everyone and announced he was bringing another child into the family. Then his first love, Cathlene Richards, walked up cradling Luis's "illegitimate son." "Luis, thank you for giving our child a home." The room erupted into murmurs. My in-laws just nodded, looking relieved. The whole world took their side, calling me, the wife, cruel and small-minded. Luis crossed the room and threw a paternity test in my face. "Layla, sign it. Let him take his rightful place in the family. It doesn't matter how much you cause a scene. This is ironclad proof." I looked at the report, at the line confirming a "biological match," and smiled. I picked up the microphone and, in front of every guest in the room, played a recording. "Cathlene, that DNA sample you stole out of the trash belongs to my golden retriever."