Melodramatic Romance Short Stories & Bias Marriage Novels

My Black Friday live stream has pulled in over 500 million dollars. But on payday, my wife, Amber Shepherd, transfers every cent of my commission to her personal trainer, Darwin Whitley. Then, she tosses a voucher for an adult toy store at my feet. "There's your bonus. Throw in a little of your own cash, and it should cover a blow-up doll." Darwin slides an arm around Amber's waist and says provocatively, "That brand makes great condoms. Amber and I tried them out last night. You should check out their other stuff." I lose it and shout, "Amber Shepherd! My mom is in end-stage liver failure! That money was supposed to pay for her transplant! What the hell am I going to do with a voucher?" Amber just snuggles closer to Darwin and sneers at me. "A transplant? What are the odds of success? Why throw good money down the drain? Anyway, I've already cashed out the commission. Take the voucher and go play with yourself." Suddenly, a strange calm washes over me. She thinks she just won everything. She has no idea I still hold the exclusive contracts for every single supplier. I open the supplier backend management portal and blast a message to every group chat. "All partnerships are terminated effectively immediately. Contract termination fees will be billed to the signing parties."

My husband, Shawn Payne, goes bankrupt overnight. That very night, he ships me and our son, Tommy Payne, off to a deserted island, claiming it's the only way to keep us safe from his creditors. Worried sick about leaving him to face the danger alone, I sneak back home halfway there, only to find him throwing a wild party, his arms wrapped tightly around a beautiful woman. His best friend, Ryan Foster, needles him. "You dumped your wife and son in the middle of nowhere. How are they going to survive out there?" Shawn shrugs like it's no big deal. "Yvonne's closing down her dog food factory anyway. I had all the surplus kibble repackaged and shipped to the island. It's more than enough to keep them fed for a few years." The woman, Yvonne Sullivan, purrs and snuggles deeper into his chest. "Oh, babe, you're so good to me and the baby," she coos, gently stroking her belly, which isn't even showing yet. He taps the tip of her nose affectionately. "You're so innocent and soft-hearted. If I don't look out for you, who will?" He pulls Yvonne closer and continues, "For your sake, I had to ship that shrew off to some godforsaken island. If she ever found out you were pregnant, she'd tear you apart. Once you have the baby and she turns two, I'll bring them back. By then, it'll be a done deal. There's nothing she can do about it." His words hit me like a ton of bricks. A cold sweat soaks me to the skin. Three years later, right on schedule, he calls. "Hey honey, how are you and Tommy doing? I'm ready to come pick you guys up." I glance at the man beside me, and a rush of satisfaction washes over me. "We're doing great," I reply. "My new husband treats both me and your son incredibly well."

Sheila Jenkins was hit by a truck on the fifth anniversary of her wedding. The accident was devastating. Her legs were crushed beneath the vehicle, which rolled over them before finally coming to a stop. Her husband, Joshua Stewart, the man who had been her childhood sweetheart, was so frantic that he gave more than half the blood his body could safely spare, begging the doctors to save her life. When Sheila was finally wheeled out of the operating room, she had not even had the chance to thank him for everything he had done. Still drifting in and out of consciousness, she suddenly overheard a conversation between Joshua and his assistant. "Mr. Stewart, there's still time to save her legs. If the surgeons operate now, they can still treat the damage. Are you really going to give up and let Mrs. Stewart spend the rest of her life crippled?" Joshua's expression remained icy, and his voice was even colder. "I hired someone to hit her for that exact reason. The whole point was to make sure she ended up crippled." His assistant froze. "The only woman I have ever loved is Cecilia. If the Stewart family had not refused to accept her back then, and even threatened her life to force us apart, I never would have buried my feelings and pursued and married Sheila simply because she was the 'right' match. My greatest regret is that I could never give the woman I truly love the title of being my wife. Since I cannot give her my name, I will at least give her the wedding she deserves." He paused before continuing without a trace of emotion. "If Sheila finds out I'm holding a wedding for Cecilia, she'll definitely try to ruin it. This way, she'll be stuck at home, crippled and completely unaware of what's happening." Unable to stay silent any longer, the assistant let out a quiet sigh. "Mr. Stewart, I know the woman you love is Ms. Zeller. I just... don't think Mrs. Stewart deserves this. She hasn't done anything wrong. She has no idea your heart has always belonged to someone else. She doesn't even know that the baby she gave birth to was strangled to death by your own hands... and that the child she's been raising all these years is actually yours and Ms. Zeller's. That's already cruel enough. If she loses her legs too..." Before he could finish, Joshua cut him off, speaking with icy indifference. "What does her suffering have to do with me? The only person I care about is Cecilia. "From my perspective, even if Sheila loses both her legs and her own child... her suffering still isn’t worth a single one of Cecilia’s tears."

After seven years together, I called off my wedding to my fiancé, Jordan, two days before we were supposed to get married. The wedding planner looked at me in shock. “The wedding is less than 24 hours away. Aren’t you going to wait for the groom to come back before making the decision?” I simply smiled and glanced at the venue I had spent three months setting up, my voice indifferent. “Nah. He doesn’t have time for this. He’s busy getting married to his ex in Slandsdeca.”

I was two hours late to check out our future home. By the time I finally rushed in, my fiancé, Daniel, had already signed the paperwork. He and my best friend, Gina, were huddled over the floor plans with their heads together as they debated over the interior design. They went from discussing the layout of the gaming room to the nursery. They continuously bickered over whether the master en-suite needed a freestanding tub or not. A middle-aged couple standing nearby smiled warmly at Daniel. "Renovating your first home, huh?" the husband chimed in with a wink. "Take it from me, son, always let your wife have the final say." Daniel let out an awkward cough as his eyes drifted to Gina, whose cheeks had instantly flushed a soft pink. "Alright, fine," Daniel muttered, giving in with a grin. "We'll get the tub." I stood just a few feet away, watching them decide every single corner of my future home. The three of us had grown up together. When we were kids, they were the ones who picked the schools and told me where we were going. When Daniel and I started dating, every date night and vacation was planned by them. I just showed up. And now, even with my own future house, it felt like my only job was to wait for their final memo. For years, I had lived like a shadow to the two of them. Shadows didn't have voices. They just followed silently, a step behind. But even shadows would get tired. And sometimes, on a bleak, overcast day, a shadow would stop and refuse to take another step forward.

"Jump. You love me to death, don't you? Didn't you say you'd do anything for me?" Ethan Hart wanted me to throw myself off the observation deck of the tallest tower downtown, live, in front of the millions of people watching the broadcast. I stood on the wrong side of the railing. Below me, traffic streamed through the streets and neon flickered in the distance. His friends clapped and cheered. Vivian Lane laughed softly and curled herself against his arm. Ethan's grin turned vicious. "Come on, don't waste everyone's time. Jump, and I'll marry you." He'd made me a promise once. Finish a hundred of his demands, and he would marry me. When his company was circling bankruptcy, he told me to hand over everything I owned, and I did. Then he moved Vivian into my house in the suburbs and left me to sleep in a motel. The night he was tangled up with Vivian at a private party, he sent me over with something for his hangover, and made a point of telling me to bring a box of condoms, the right size. I stood at the door holding the soup I'd made, and heard him laugh. "She's my ATM. I use her, then I throw her out." No matter how far it went, I'd done all ninety-nine. This was the last one: jump. He thought I'd hesitate, thought I'd cry and beg him to pick something else. I didn't. I let go and fell. The wind roared in my ears, and the whole lit-up city slid past me. I heard him shout, heard the crowd scream, and underneath all of it, the one voice I'd waited too long to hear. [Congratulations, host. Emotional conquest progress: one hundred percent. Reward delivered. Your mother's terminal illness is fully cured.]

He almost never texts me first, and in person he barely says a word. In three years together, he's never remembered a single anniversary, and he's never once suggested we celebrate a holiday. But the second I message him first, he lights up, all "baby" this and "baby" that, fussing over me, coaxing me to sleep. Sometimes I'd get this strange feeling that there were two different Noahs. His explanation was that he was just bad with words face-to-face, and that texting or voice notes felt like less pressure. I kept telling myself that being together meant meeting each other halfway. He was quiet and reserved, so I'd be the one to reach out. He forgot anniversaries, so I booked the restaurant and reminded him to keep the night free. He had no time to schedule our engagement shoot, so I handled the whole thing with the studio myself. He was too busy with work to help us move, so I packed everything alone, booked the movers, and got it all done. When I was so worn out I was about to break, I'd send him a voice note, and he'd say, "I'm so sorry, baby. The lab was insane today. I couldn't be there for you, and it kills me to watch you run yourself into the ground." Hearing how guilty he sounded, all my hurt just melted away. And that's how I carried three years of this relationship on my own, running on the flawless tenderness he only ever gave me online. Until today, when I found a program on his laptop called Boyfriend Assistant. It analyzed every message I sent and generated the perfect reply, the perfect response, every single time. Cold snap? It sent: Bundle up, baby. Time of the month? It pinged an API and auto-ordered hot chocolate to my door. All those late nights he spent "working," the gentle voice notes that lulled me to sleep, every one of them was synthesized in Noah's voice. For three years, the person who'd been there for me, day and night, was never Noah at all. For three years, I'd been performing a one-woman show.

For Founders' Day, Julian Whitmore said he was finally taking me home to meet his family. I spent three months preparing. Then I waited an hour outside his front door. By the time I made it inside, his mother was already holding the hand of a girl in a fitted red dress. "This is Camille," she announced to the room, beaming. "Julian's fiancée. The wedding's set for Thanksgiving." I looked at Julian. He kept his head down. He didn't deny it. All through dinner, he and Camille Sinclair accepted toast after toast of congratulations, while the butler led me in through the side door and sat me at a table in the corner — without so much as a place setting. Three rounds of drinks in, he texted me: [Wait for me. I'll fix this.] I sent back three words: [Congratulations to you.]

To give her family an heir, my wife got pregnant seventeen times, only to miscarry every single time. Everyone thought I was infertile. I visited every famous doctor I could find, swallowed countless herbal prescriptions, and even went through thirty treatment procedures, but I still couldn't give her a healthy child. Under pressure from the outside world, I finally agreed to let Talia Isaacson borrow sperm from her first love. On Talia's eighteenth pregnancy, the baby was finally healthy. She told me excitedly, "The Isaacson family finally has an heir. You won't have to suffer anymore. No matter what, I'm giving birth to this child." Just when I thought our life could finally return to normal, I overheard Talia talking to her first love. "Talia, you're so smart. You made Gavin believe he was infertile. He'll never guess you did it on purpose." Talia stroked her belly with a gentle expression. "Gavin's just too stupid. He believes whatever I say. If I hadn't wanted to force him into a divorce, I wouldn't have needed to abort all those children. "Once I give birth, we'll take the baby and leave this place forever." I looked down at the scars and damage left on my body by the medication and surgeries. My heart turned to ash. After seven years of marriage, we had finally reached the end.

On the third day after our divorce was finalized, my ex-wife, Georgie Anderson, sent me a text message. [Why haven’t you transferred your salary from this month to me?] I thought she was joking. [We’re already divorced.] [So? What does it matter if we’re divorced? You should transfer nineteen thousand dollars from your twenty-thousand-dollar income, just like you did before. The remaining one thousand dollars will be your pocket money. When you were unemployed, I was the one who took care of you. Now that we’re divorced, you’re turning your back on me?] I stared at her text messages and fell silent for a really long time. Throughout our three-year marriage, I gave her nineteen thousand dollars out of my twenty-thousand-dollar salary. She was responsible for "budgeting" our household expenses. However, she spent my money on her civil service exam, afternoon teas with her besties, and even on her study partner, whom I’d never met. As for me, I handled all the house chores—cooking dinner, mopping the floors and doing the laundry. But when I took a little time after work to game, she would yell at me for being lazy. She was demanding money from me even after we were divorced. Her reason was that I might spend the money without thinking. I blocked her number. Three seconds later, she sent me a text message from another phone number. [You’ll regret this. I’m trying to help you one last time.] I laughed. ‘Helping me?’ I thought. Nobody had ever helped me in the past three years.

I discover that my wife's stepbrother has secretly swapped the IVF sample I had stored at the hospital. But I pretend not to know and let my wife give birth to a son. I raise their child as if he's my own. Years later, I mold him into a business prodigy and even transfer all of my company's shares to him. At the company's celebration dinner, my wife's stepbrother suddenly produces a paternity test in front of everyone and says to me, "Jon is my biological son. Give him back to me." I smile calmly. "Take him then."

Five years ago, I was nearly killed in a car accident while saving my mother-in-law. My injuries were so severe that I spent years abroad undergoing treatment and rehabilitation. The moment I landed back home, I ran into my former college roommate, Vanessa Caldwell. She and her designer-clad friends looked me up and down with open disgust. "Gianna Lott?" Vanessa stared at me. "Is that really you?" One of her friends covered her mouth and giggled. "Vanessa, why does your old roommate look like she just got out of cleaning the airport bathrooms?" Vanessa waved a hand, pretending to defend me. "Don't be rude. Then again, Gianna's mother was a housekeeper..." She paused dramatically before giving me a fake, apologetic smile. "Oh my God, Gianna. I'm so sorry. Was I not supposed to mention that?" I had no interest in entertaining them. I turned to leave, but Vanessa stepped directly into my path. "By the way, my son's first birthday party is tomorrow," she said. "We haven't seen each other in years. You absolutely have to come." I rejected, "No, thanks. I'm not interested." Her friend's expression immediately darkened. "Don't be so ungrateful. Do you even know who Vanessa married?" She leaned closer, her voice dripping with superiority. "Her husband is the heir to the most powerful family in Crownmere. Someone like you could live 10 lifetimes and still never get close to a man like him." Another woman tittered meanly. "Just look at her. She probably doesn't even own a proper dress. Gianna, should I donate one of my old ones to you?" Vanessa raised a hand, putting on another performance. "That's enough." Then, she looked at me with exaggerated pity. "Gianna, I never imagined your life would turn out this badly." She sighed. "For old times' sake, I can arrange a catering job for you at the party. You'll earn a little money and get a glimpse of how the upper class lives." Before I could refuse, she shoved an invitation into my hand. I was about to throw it away when the name listed under "Father of the Birthday Boy" caught my eye and my breath hitched. It was my husband's name, Alexander Whitmore.

I had been in a secret relationship with Levi for five years. Just as I was about to meet his family, they went bankrupt. Levi told me that once he took everything back, he would return and marry me properly. No more hiding. No more secrecy. For him, I turned down every arranged match and waited for five years. Five years later, Levi returned as the business tycoon who swallowed my family whole. At a corporate gala, he appeared with his arm wrapped around the daughter of my family's rival. "I have to thank my fiancee," he said. "Without her, I wouldn't be where I am today." Everyone waited to see me break down and lose control. But I simply smiled and raised my glass. "Congratulations, Mr. Coleman." The next day, I called his sworn enemy. "Does your proposal still stand?" On the night before my wedding, Levi smashed open my door, his eyes bloodshot as he pinned me against the wall. "If you marry him," he said through gritted teeth, "I'll make sure he never walks away from this."

On the day I received my wife's prenatal checkup report, I suddenly heard the inner voice of the unborn baby in her belly. 'Daddy, Mommy is going to divorce you right after she gives birth to me! 'Since her first love is infertile, Mommy wants to give birth to a son so she can run away and live happily ever after with him!' Believing this without a shadow of a doubt, I resolutely chose to get a divorce. However, after the divorce, my health rapidly deteriorated day by day, and I was eventually diagnosed with terminal cancer. While undergoing chemotherapy at the hospital, I crossed paths with my ex-wife. Once again, I heard the voice of the baby still in her womb. 'Haha! In truth, Mommy never cheated on you at all! I lied to you!' Why did the baby lie? I couldn't understand it even up to the moment of my death. When I opened my eyes again, I had returned to the exact day my wife's prenatal checkup report came out.

In the eight years since my wife handed our daughter over to her widowed brother-in-law, I went to court eight times. This time, the judge asked me the same question she always did: was I here to sue for custody again? I corrected her. "I'm here to withdraw the suit. I'm giving up custody. I'm agreeing to the divorce." Ten years married to my wife, Vivian Simpson, and eight of those years spent in courtrooms. I'd become the whole city of Northbridge's favorite joke. Now, I'd finally endured enough to let go. From now on, the most spineless man in Northbridge would never have to show his face in front of them again.

For the ninth time, my best friend was left at the altar. And for the ninth time, my fiance was dragged in to play the part of her pretend groom. I was holding two cups of coffee. Before I could knock on the dressing room's door, I heard my best friend purring at someone. "You're the best, Anton. You knew this was an act, but you played along anyway." My breath caught. Through the half-open door, I stole a glance inside. My fiance, who had always been cold and unreadable, was looking at my best friend as if she were the most precious thing in his world. "Getting left at the altar must've traumatized you. If I don't help you get over it, Emilia's going to be worried even if she marries me." My best friend tugged lightly at the hem of his shirt. "But this is going to affect your relationship with her." "Not like it's the first time. She's still with me. We're still a couple." My fiance took out a diamond ring and held it against my best friend's finger. "We've been together for ten years. She has no other choice, anyway." The summer heat was scorching, yet part of me felt frozen solid. Slowly, I took my phone out and dialed a certain number. "Hey, I'd like to show you what I look like in that wedding gown."

Everyone said I was a fool, and not because I wasn't successful. I was one of the best attorneys in the country. No, they called me a fool because I spoiled my stay-at-home husband, Jonathan Shayman, rotten. He never had to cook. He never had to pick up our daughter. He never had to attend parent-teacher conferences. On top of that, I gave him five grand per month as his allowance. My daughter would always look at me with a blank expression and ask solemnly, "Mom, besides being handsome, what does Dad even bring to the table? Did someone put a spell on you?" I always told her she didn't appreciate her father or understand how hard it was to be a stay-at-home husband. After all, Jonathan had willingly left a prestigious law firm to become a full-time homemaker for my sake 10 years ago. He had even driven hundreds of miles on freezing winter nights to deliver gifts to my clients. He loved me enough to give up everything, so I believed I should do the same for him. However, Jonathan broke his promise on our daughter's birthday yet again. So, I took her to an amusement park by myself. When I got near the carousel, I saw Jonathan supporting one of my clients, Sandra Wood. He carefully draped his jacket over her shoulders and helped her onto the carousel. "Sandy, you're a lot better than the witch waiting for me at home. Besides, she gives me five grand every month without me having to lift a finger. I stay out all night partying, and she still thinks I'm out there maintaining client relationships for her." Sandra leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "Then, squeeze even more money out of her for me. We'll have an even better time together." My daughter's eyes were already red with tears. I stared at the two of them. For the first time since forever, I had nothing to say against the naysayers. A cold breeze swept past me, and I felt chilled to the bone.

I'm born different, with two hearts inside my body. This is the only thing about me that makes my parents happy, because my brother, Tristan Foster, has congenital heart disease. They bring me into this world only so he can keep living. Then I meet Cindy Green and marry her. She pulls me out of the desperate need to chase my family's love. I think she's going to be different from my parents. But when Tristan's condition flares up, she becomes obsessed with wanting me to donate one of my hearts to him. What she doesn't know is that I only have one heart left. The other one is already beating inside her.

I have once spent three whole years winning over the untouchable Keith Reed. I have also paid the price by sacrificing my whole career just so I can become the envied Mrs. Reed of my own will. But on our fifth wedding anniversary, I have decided to file for divorce. My best friend, Hailey Walker, is my lawyer. She repeatedly asks me, "Are you sure? You turned down an offer from a world-renowned fashion magazine just to get married to him, but now, you're telling me you want to file for divorce?" Suppressing the bitterness in my heart, I say, "Please help me draft a divorce agreement. The sooner it's done, the better." She sounds bewildered. "But why?" Looking at the extravagant bouquet of black datura on the dining table, I give my final answer. "It all began with a bouquet."

On the day I was supposed to officially introduce Sean Olson to my family, he showed up two hours late. The food on the table had already gone cold, and the look in my mom's eyes shifted from playful teasing to deep worry. Just as I was pulling out my phone to call him, a TikTok notification popped up on my screen. It was a video posted by Madison Grant, a student in his dance company. In the clip, Sean was dancing a passionate duet with her. He held her tightly by the waist as they spun together, and as the spin ended, he leaned in so close that his lips almost brushed her forehead, his eyes full of lingering affection. The caption read: [Thanks to my coach for choreographing this routine for me. We're like soulmates on the dance floor!] I locked my phone and told my family he had an emergency. After that, the entire dinner tasted completely bland. Late that night, Sean finally came home covered in the smell of sweat. He cautiously wrapped his arms around me from behind, murmuring sleepily, “Babe, I'm so sorry. The new girl’s basics are just too weak, so I had to stay late to give her extra training. “The Latin dance competition is next month, and she's the dancer I'm coaching. I can't afford to ruin my reputation. “Once the competition is over, I'll bring a nice bottle of wine over to apologize to your mom, okay?” I didn't say a single word. Because from now on, whoever he chooses to dance with has absolutely nothing to do with me anymore.