Bias Romance Short Stories & Marriage Novels

My wife hid the fact that she was carrying another man’s baby. She told me the truth only after she gave birth. I did not get angry. I even agreed to let her lover move into our home. Then, one day, she found a photograph in my bedroom. The moment she saw it, she fell apart.

"When is that desperate agent of Ace Davidson's finally going to get lost? Just looking at her makes me sick!" "Seriously! She's always clinging to our Ace. Does she really think she's his wife or something?" My finger stopped scrolling across the tablet. Without changing expression, I closed the fan post full of insults on Ace's fan page. As Ace's secret wife of five years and his agent, I'd grown numb to comments like these a long time ago. I turned around, took a box of arnica cream and a steaming hot lunch from my bag, and handed them to the chubby crew member sitting in the corner. "Pudge, eat first. Put some arnica on your face, too. You don't want it to leave a mark." Because of his heavy build and slow movements, the director had slapped Pudge in front of everyone that day. The entire crew had made a joke out of him. I was the only one who'd offered him any comfort. He took the items, his eyes reddening as he looked at me. "Alisson, thank you... You're a good person. There's something I can't keep from you." With that, he glanced around before pulling out a spare phone with a shattered screen. "Alisson, I accidentally caught this on video yesterday while I was organizing props in the underground parking garage." I tapped the video open. On the screen was Ace's private van, the one I'd paid for myself. The vehicle was rocking violently.

At Opaline Corp, the lowest-performing employee had to eat a plate of pasta mixed with live worms. This time, Tristan Crocker lost three clients and landed dead last. To keep Tristan from feeling singled out, my wife, Wendy Kline, hit me with a nine-million-dollar performance penalty because I showed up one minute late while sick—even though I'd brought in three million in revenue. Just like that, I became the first employee in company history with negative earnings. Grinning, Tristan shoved the plate toward me. "Wendy updated the company rules last night to keep everyone in line. Anyone who's late gets penalized three times their performance. You always said mistakes deserve punishment. Now that it's your turn, you're not backing out, right?" Every eye in the room locked on me, waiting for me to lose it. Wendy quickly sent me a message: [The nine million is only on paper. It's not a real fine. With your talent, you'll earn it back in three months. Tristan's allergic to worms. If he ends up in the hospital over a punishment, it'll damage the company's reputation. And if people hear we punished an outsider, that'll look even worse.] [You're my husband. You're one of us. I love you, which is why I'm giving you the chance to show some leadership.] [Once this blows over, I'll give you an extra twenty dollars a month, okay?] When I didn't reply, she finally snapped. "Company rules apply to everyone, even the top performer. If you don't like it, you're free to leave." I nodded, unclipped my badge, and set it on the table. "Fine. I quit." I looked at her. "And while we're at it, let's get divorced."

In the ward, Lydia Webb leans bashfully against Hayden's chest as he tenderly feeds her soup. Lydia pouts. "It's all your fault, Hayden. You were so rough that you made me bleed." "I just couldn't help myself," Hayden says, his voice thick with affection. "I'll be gentler next time, okay?" Outside the door, Melissa Smith clutches a lab report so hard her knuckles turn white. Her heart aches as if crushed in a vice. The report states, "Two months pregnant, with healthy fetal development." The man inside is her husband—the very man who swore to love her forever. Ten days ago, Hayden said he had to work overtime and hasn't been home since. She never imagined he spent those ten days indulging in another woman's bed.

The year I graduated from high school, my dad brought home a woman and a child with a rose on my mom's birthday. When the child offered my mom the rose, my mom gladly accepted it, only to end her life after spending her 39th birthday. … When I got married, I told my husband, Alistair Yates, that a rose was enough to end our marriage if he wanted a divorce. Then, he tried to reassure me that our house would not have anything related to roses. … Five years later, during one of the Yates Group's tender, one of our partners had a rose pinned to her chest. When he saw this, Alistair immediately kicked her out of the company and blacklisted her. That day, I realized that marriage could actually be blissful. Yet, six months after that, I completed my new drug research. The entire corridor was full of roses when I came out of the lab. The person who had been kicked out of the company? She was standing beside Alistair with a bright smile. I looked at him coldly, but he casually said, "Maria prepared all these for you. She's your sister and she wants to make amends with you." It took me two seconds to stare at Alistair before I turned to leave. What sister? I never had one. And from today, I no longer need a husband.

When the car crash happens, Maisie Hale uses her body to shield me from the brunt of the damage, leaving me uninjured. But when she wakes up, it turns out that she only remembers everything prior to her 18-year-old self. Her boyfriend at that time is Daniel York. Maisie's best friend, Chloe Shaw, keeps advising me to let Maisie go so that she can get back together with Daniel. Chloe claims that Maisie, an obedient girl, will only get to experience a range of emotions when she's with Daniel. But when Maisie's with a goody-two-shoes like me, her life is boring and dull. What no one knows is that I've had a crush on Maisie for many years now. That's why I stubbornly wait for the day that Maisie will regain her memories of me. Three years later, I get diagnosed with cancer. On the same day, I also find out what sort of surprise Maisie has prepared for me on the day of the accident. Finally, I let my love for Maisie go. When she hands me the divorce agreement once again, I sign it without hesitation.

The night before our third wedding anniversary, my husband, Clive York, cancels our flight tickets to Crystalin at the last minute. He looks incredibly apologetic as he looks at me and says, "Our core data was leaked. The company's in utter chaos. I have to stay to watch over it for the next three days." To make Clive's words more believable, his business partner, Kieran Hudson, intentionally uploads a photo of the company's employees working overtime in the group chat. "I'm going to have to borrow Clive for the next few days, Elise. I'll get him to buy a huge diamond ring for you once the crisis is over!" Clive's mother, Freya Ashlocke, also calls me. She sounds completely indifferent as she says, "A man has to put his career first. Stop behaving like a child, throwing a tantrum just because you didn't get to go on your trip." Clive transfers 10,000 dollars into my bank account. He leans down and presses a kiss to my forehead. "Pick a few bags that you like from the luxury goods department. I'll take you on a trip around the globe once work settles down." I obediently nod as I look at the transfer notification from the bank. "Okay." After Clive leaves, I transfer the 10,000 dollars back to his bank account. I also send a detailed record of our living expenses for the past three years that is split evenly in half. They don't know that their so-called proof of them working overtime has a timestamp that shows that the photo was taken a month ago. Meanwhile, I receive a notification regarding a purchase that is made using Clive's supplementary card that is connected to my phone number. The purchase isn't done at the company. Instead, it is done at a hotel. The bill shows that he has just paid for an underwater suite and a candlelight dinner for two.

On New Year’s Eve, Kian Newman never came home. Instead, he had someone deliver a container of frozen ravioli and sent me a single message: "Stay safe this year." I had barely locked the screen when a photo popped up in the company group chat. Isabel Wilkinson, Kian's assistant, had posted it. It was a lavish holiday dinner spread across the table, every dish clearly homemade. The caption read: "Someone spent all day cooking so I could have a taste of home. Love you." For the first time, I didn’t call or argue. I simply packed my things and went back to my hometown. The first day I vanished, a friend sent me a video. In it, Kian had his arm around Isabel, smiling casually as he said, "Lane's just upset. She’ll come back on her own." A month later, Kian was searching for me like he’d lost his mind. "I learned how to make ravioli, I’ll make it for you for the rest of our lives. Just come home and try it, okay?" He was still oblivious that I had always hated ravioli.

Three years into our long-distance relationship, my daily conversations with Evan Crawford turned into a three-person group chat. He said the company was busy preparing for its IPO and that he didn't have time to check his phone. If I needed anything, I should tell his "buddy," Nicole Pearce, and she'd pass it along. From then on, everything came through Nicole: what time he left the office, when he traveled for work, what he took for his stomach pain. She knew every moment of his day. Every message I sent him just sat there on "unread." On my birthday, I asked in the group chat if he could spare ten minutes for a video call. Nicole replied, "The launch event is right around the corner. Don't distract him." And yet somehow he had time to like her latest Instagram post. The night the company went public, I took an overnight bus to the celebration dinner and arrived in time to hear him raise a toast. "I owe these past six months to Nicole. She took care of all the little things for me." When he spotted me, he frowned. "Why didn't you check in through the group chat first?" Nicole took the gift from my hands. "He's exhausted. Whatever you need to say, I'll pass it along." A wave of helplessness hit me. I pulled my hand back and left the group chat. If even missing him had to go through her, I had no reason to report my life to him anymore.

Two divorce agreements lay before Anya Ellington and me. One was hers. The other was mine. My share amounted to 20% of our assets, plus a villa. She would get the twins and everything else in the house. I skimmed the papers in seconds, then signed without protest, perfectly calm. Not a trace remained of the hysteria I had shown over the past few days. Anya's pen slowed as she signed her name. She fixed me with a burning stare. "You have no objections?" she asked. "You're not even going to ask about visitation rights? Once you sign, there's no taking it back." I handed the papers back to her, and the corners of my mouth curled into the faintest smile. "No need," I said. Anya's eyes narrowed slightly. Something flickered behind them, something she wanted to say but held back. None of it mattered anymore. A few hours later, I was no longer her husband. I was no longer the Ellington family's live-in son-in-law. I wasn't even the father of our two children anymore. I was nothing more than a corpse, disfigured beyond recognition.

In the year I came of age, my father, the King, intended to confer upon me the title of Princess of the State. My mother suggested that good things come in pairs, and proposed that a prince consort be named on the same day as my coronation. The court selected four proper young nobles. I would decide my choice by drawing lots. In my previous timeline, without hesitation, I had chosen Henry Lapointe, the heir to the Duke’s mansion, whom I had long admired, as my prince consort. But after we were married, I learned that he had a beloved. She was a woman who was said to possess the beauty of a goddess. She slashed her face eighteen times and sold herself into servitude at the Princess’s residence just to stay by his side. For years after our marriage, his heart would twist in agony every time he saw that woman. He believed that I had used my power to force her to disfigure herself and become a lowly servant to prevent them from being together. To seek revenge, he secretly poisoned me with a slow-acting toxin and conspired with his beloved to betray the capital’s defense maps. This led to the Ubury empire’s territory being seized, and I was forced into prison. He ordered men to force-feed me the poison day and night, which compelled me to serve dozens of perverted old guards. They literally tortured me to death. When I opened my eyes again, I had returned to the day of the Prince Consort selection. Amidst the uproar in the court, I drew the lot for Justin Yale, the hostage prince with the weakest political base. But on the day the royal decree was issued, Henry broke down.

When I get married to Zachary Lennor, I know that he has a younger, depressed sister who's a huge pain in the ass. On our wedding night, she suddenly barges into our room with the excuse that she's terrified of the dark. That's why she wants Zachary to sleep with her. When I get hospitalized due to my illness and need Zachary to take care of me, his sister insists that he go home to eat all three meals with her every day. Otherwise, she'll go on a hunger strike. Even when Zachary and I are on a date, his sister will call him immediately, claiming that her depression is acting up. If he doesn't go home right away, she will jump off a building without hesitation. Unable to take it anymore, I unleash my anger on Zachary's sister. But Zachary is quick to shield her from my ire. With an icy expression, he tells me, "I only have one sister, whereas I can always get myself another wife. If you can't stomach her presence at all, we'll get a divorce right now." I keep tossing and turning in bed at night, unable to sleep at all. That's when I decide to get out of bed just so I can apologize to Zachary and his sister. As soon as I walk to the doorway, I hear a familiar voice whining from the master suite, where Zachary stays. "Zach, since Samantha got so mad at me today, does this mean she's found out that I'm not your actual sister at all, but your ex-wife?" Zachary pauses momentarily before saying reassuringly, "Even if she does, it's fine. Although I do love her, I've already vowed to stay with you forever the day I married you. "So, even though we're already divorced, I will still keep my word. I won't let you go." At that moment, I finally realize that Zachary's so-called younger sister is just a fake identity. Her depression is also a big fat lie. I'm the only one who's been kept in the dark about everything in this performance. In that case, I'm not going to humor these jerks anymore.

I died in the year my husband hated me most. Unable to endure his endless silent treatment any longer, I swallowed a bottle of pills and ended my life. At the crematorium, watching the flames roar inside the furnace, he allowed himself a rare smile. “Someone as vile as her doesn’t deserve to be laid to rest whole.” So when the staff handed him the urn, he flipped it over. My ashes scattered across the floor in an instant. All this time, he had believed I was responsible for the death of his first love. That belief was why he had schemed and plotted for years, all for this precise moment of final desecration. When it was over, he stepped over my ashes and walked away without looking back. Though not long after that, he fell to his knees and begged the crematorium to give my ashes back to him.

Over the weekend, my wife, Madeline Puth, invited her coworker, Kenneth Wilson, over for dinner. When the three of us reached the front door, Kenneth casually pressed his finger to the fingerprint lock. The door clicked open. I froze and stared at him. Madeline glanced at me and said as if it were the most natural thing in the world, "He's been here a few times before. He registered his fingerprint for convenience." Kenneth smiled at me. I returned his smile without a word. Then I walked inside, grabbed my bag, and headed straight for the door. Madeline hurried after me. "Where are you going?" I pulled the door open. "I'm clearly not the man of this house anymore, so of course I'm leaving."

I just set up my husband's best friend, Abigail, with a guy. Then he looked at me and said, “You’re nasty.” I froze, unable to process the words. From the backseat, my son, Liam, doubled down. “Mom, Dad and Aunt Abigail have been together for two years. He gave you so many hints. How did you not notice?” I turned pale. My hands were still peeling the snacks I’d bought for them. “Why...?” Danny’s eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. He looked completely bored. “I didn't want to say anything. But now that you set Abigail up with someone else. Do you have any idea how hard she cried today?” He paused. “Divorce or separation. Pick one.”

At the Lowell family's autumn memorial gathering, the moment my unfavorable token hit the floor, Spencer's girl best friend, Keira Boone, burst out laughing. "Wow, Lena. You're carrying a Lowell baby and the tokens still say no?" The Lowells had a rule: if an engaged woman couldn't draw a favorable token in five years, the engagement was void. Year one, I drew a bad token, and the wedding was pushed back. Year two, my dad was dying. I begged Spencer through tears to take me to the hospital, but he held me back. "Lena, ten more minutes. Don't let your dad's illness break the rules." Now it was year five. Keira tossed a marriage certificate in front of me. "But don't worry. Spencer already has a wife." In the photo, she and Spencer sat shoulder to shoulder. The registration date was the day after my fourth failed draw last year. Yet the night before they signed, Spencer had held me and said, "This is the last year. I swear I'll marry you." I went cold all over, but Keira wasn't done. "And lately, whatever needs Lowell had, your bro here took care of them for you." My stomach turned. I spun around to confront Spencer. He just rubbed his temples. "You're pregnant. I didn't want to risk touching you. What's wrong with her helping out? "The certificate's just to keep my family happy. You'll still get the wedding next week. "I've gone this far for you. What more do you want?" I slid off my engagement ring and set it back on the altar. "I don't want it anymore. "And I don't want you either."

My wife cheats on me after five years of marriage. Standing at the doorway, I hear her whisper to her lover in a soft voice, "What are you afraid of? He's broke and pathetic. Do you think that he dares to divorce me?" I tighten my grip on the lottery ticket in my hand. I have just won 60 million dollars a moment ago. This time, I will see who is the broke and pathetic one!

Throughout our four years of college, Derek would always book train tickets for me and my best friend, Giselle, whenever we traveled home for semester breaks. He always claimed he was too late in getting the tickets, so we never ended up sitting together. Every time the tickets were issued, Giselle would tear him apart in our group chat. "Seriously, Derek? You booked three tickets and somehow managed to put us in three different cars. "Next time, you’d better at least make sure you’re sitting next to Iris, or I’ll be coming after you." Derek fired right back. "Who the hell do you think you are? I’d sit at her feet if she asked me to. It’s none of your business." I bought their story. Even when I spent hours sitting alone, or when I came down with a fever during the night ride and tried Derek’s number more than a dozen times without success, I told myself he was probably asleep in another part of the train. Then came our graduation trip. Someone asked if I would switch seats with them. I grabbed my suitcase and made my way down the aisle, only to find Giselle, my jacket propped over her shoulders, and her head resting on Derek’s shoulder. The two of them were sharing a pair of earbuds. Spotting me, Derek pulled out his earbud and straightened his back. "Just so we’re clear, we’ve been careful about boundaries. "I was worried you’d feel uncomfortable knowing we were sitting next to each other, so I kept it from you." Giselle patted the seat next to her. "I’m your best friend. Wouldn’t you rather have me sitting next to your boyfriend, making sure he behaves, than some random girl?" Before I could say a word, a conductor came over carrying two matching luggage tags with a smile. "According to our records, you always booked two seats together on all of your sixteen trips in the last four years. Here is a little something to commemorate your journeys with us." The conductor noticed me and reviewed the booking information again. "You must be the friend who always travels with them. "That’s strange. Why do you always book a seat separate from them?" The entire car went silent. The truth dawned on me when I saw the discoloration on Derek’s face. They had never once been apart during the train trips. For four years, the single seat left apart from theirs had always been mine.

I stumble across a shared document titled "Honeymoon" on my wife, Talia Smith's, computer. I assume she's finally making good on the promise she's put off for five years. Overjoyed, I click it open, only to find the itinerary is completely different from what we originally agreed on. The original schedule overlaps with my business trip, so I postpone the trip by two days. Since there's no aurora in Glacieland during this time of year, I change the destination to Kjeldsland. Then I remember we're trying to conceive, and our expenses are piling up, so I downgrade our tickets from first class to business class. Just then, another account suddenly appears and changes everything I've edited back to its original state. Immediately after, a line of text pops up in the document. "Mommy, we agreed to go to Glacieland, so we're going to Glacieland! If not, Daddy will be upset!" That catches me off guard, and I assume someone's playing a prank on me. Talia has appeared behind me at some point. "He's the son of my foster brother and me. Next time, I'll definitely go on our honeymoon with you," she explains calmly.

After a difficult labor took the life of my first son, I spent another three years undergoing IVF before finally giving my husband, Caspian Wyndham, a daughter. Unable to resist, I sent Caspian a photo of our daughter while he was still on his way back to us. But I had barely put down my phone when a livestream notification popped up. "Teaching My Fellow Girls How to Become Mothers Pain-Free, Live!" The blogger never showed her face, but her voice was unnaturally gleeful. "Six years ago, I personally created a new identity for my boyfriend and sent him off to save a depressed heiress. "Once they got fake-married and had a son, we planned to stage complications during labor, then have him hand the baby over to me to raise. "My boyfriend pulled it off, and he even married me afterward. The only mistake he made was being too softhearted. Before he walked away, he insisted on leaving the heiress something to remember him by. "That woman is such an idiot. She had no idea that my husband's name and identity were completely fabricated, and she even went through IVF just to have his child." I subconsciously gripped my phone tighter. Viewers who had gone through similar heartbreak flooded the livestream with furious comments, but the blogger only grew more brazen. "Her two biological brothers were involved in this too. Even if I were a fake heiress, they'd still take my side. "Luckily, the true heiress gave birth today, and my husband has decided to fake his death and come back to our family." Still giggling, she held up another phone and displayed a photograph. "Look at this baby. She's barely been born, and she's already lost her father. Poor thing!" My breath hitched. It was the exact photograph I had sent Caspian moments earlier. Just then, my phone rang. I answered with trembling fingers, and my eldest brother's detached voice came from the other end. "Caspian was on his way back to see you when he got into a car accident. The car exploded, and there's nothing left of him."