قصص وروايات قصيرة من فئة Romance وعن After Death وتضم Bias وتدور في Regret

At the company dinner, my coworkers started a game: everyone texted their lover saying they’d fallen ill. Whoever’s man replied first won. No surprise, I came in dead last again. Both my calls and my texts went completely unanswered. “Claire, don’t feel bad. Mr. Blackwood is so busy, it’s completely normal he hasn’t seen your message.” A coworker smiled and tried to comfort me, but the truth was, I’d gotten used to it long ago. Forget a cold or a fever. Even the day I was diagnosed with cancer, I called him nineteen times, and he didn’t pick up once. When I stayed quiet, everyone turned to look at Vivian in the corner, and one coworker teased her with a grin. “Vivian, didn’t you say your boyfriend was super clingy? How come he still hasn’t replied?” Vivian clutched her phone, her face full of unease. “I’ll pass. What if he’s in a meeting? I don’t want to bother him.” The mood had gone stiff, and looking at her pale fingertips, I suddenly smiled. “It’s fine. It’s just a game.” Before she could refuse again, I leaned over and hit the speaker-dial for her. The call I’d expected no one to answer was picked up in an instant. The huge private room fell dead silent. Because the voice coming through the phone belonged to Adrian Blackwood, my forever-busy boyfriend of seven years. “Babe, don’t forget our date tonight.” “Seven o’clock. I’ll see you at The Laurent.”

I broke up with my boyfriend the year he was at his poorest. A year later, he was famous, and he married a prettier, livelier girl than me. On a late-night show, a host asked him whether a grand slam of awards this early in his career left any regrets. He pulled Mia closer. "I want to know how she's been. Since she left me." The host paused. "She's been... not well at all." Adrian finally smiled. "Then I can stop thinking about her." "But Ms. Whitman left behind a box of tapes before she died." Adrian's smile locked into place. On the tapes were every day and every night of my life, from the day I walked away from him to the day I stopped breathing.

My fiance, Adrian Hale, and I had planned to go snorkeling on Valentine's Day. The day we landed in the south of France, I discovered that his first love, Vivian Clarke, had come with us. They insisted on heading into unpatrolled waters. "But those waters are dangerous, shrouded in strange rumors..." Adrian frowned at me. "Sophie, do you have to ruin the mood right now?" Vivian smiled and hooked her arm through his. "With you here, nothing is going to happen to us." Once we were in the water, Vivian recklessly swam toward the deeper channel. A swell shoved half her body into a narrow opening. I swam over to pull her free, but she thrashed and drove her heel hard into my knee. Her elbow knocked my mask crooked. Before I could straighten it, Vivian kicked me into the opening. Adrian came up behind us, grabbed Vivian, and held her hand tight. The voices over my underwater headset were muffled, but I still heard Adrian's cold warning clearly. "Vivi doesn't know these waters. You do, don't you? "You led her into deeper water on purpose. Who exactly were you trying to hurt? "Figure your own way out. Consider it the lesson you've earned!" Briny seawater flooded my throat. My aching legs kicked uselessly. My body was wedged fast in the opening. I closed my eyes in despair. My last thought was this: if I died, they deserved to pay with their lives.

Four years after my death, the true heiress won the Best Actress award, but her sex tape was once again spread like wildfire. My Best Actor boyfriend, Nicholas Jennings, kicked open the rented house where I used to live, hoping to make me clarify once again that it was me in the video, but all he saw was a complete mess. The landlord happened to pass by and, upon his inquiry, scolded him, "You’re talking about Astrid Rhode? She died four years ago! A man saw the sex tape posted online and came here to have some fun with her, but she would rather die than comply. In a fit of rage, he killed her." Nicholas did not believe it at all. He kicked our couple's mugs. "Astrid made you say that, didn't she? She stole Maddie's life just because she looked like her. Did she think that helping Maddie once would atone for her sins? Tell her that none of the children in her orphanage will live if I don't see her clarification video in two days!" He strode away, and I shook my head with a wry smile. The orphanage had long since been reduced to ashes in the fire, and the children had already passed on to their next lives. I had made a deal with Death, wanting to come back and see him one last time. However, now, it seemed that the deal was better left undone.

All because I opened a window to air out the room, my husband’s childhood sweetheart, Celine Ashcroft, caught a cold. In a fit of rage, my husband, Ronan Blackwood, had his men bind me and drag me down to the ice cellar despite my being five months pregnant. "Don’t think that just because you’re carrying my child, you can bully Celine. If even a single hair on her head is harmed, I’ll make you repay it a hundredfold!" Shivering violently from the cold, I knelt through tears, begging for forgiveness. I promised that from now on I would serve his precious sweetheart well to atone, that I would never again let her suffer even the slightest harm. He only gave a cold order to seal the cellar, saying I needed to be taught a lesson so it would be burned into my memory. A week later, when Celine finally recovered from her cold, he finally remembered me in the cellar. "Vesper, have you truly realized your mistake? As long as you agree to kneel and apologize to Celine immediately, I’ll spare you." What he didn’t know was that by then, I had already frozen stiff in that ice cellar. And the child he had treasured so dearly no longer showed even the faintest sign of life.

Chelsea Fischer's childhood sweetheart, Patrick Goldstein, loves fighting with me over everything. After I get reborn, I realize that I can never win against Patrick. So, I decide to attach price tags to everything I own. Since Patrick loves taking over Chelsea's front passenger seat under the guise of getting carsick easily, I slap a price tag onto the front passenger seat immediately. "That'll be 100 thousand dollars per year. If you decide to continue the subscription, you'll get a 20% discount." Patrick has his eye on my project proposal. As soon as Chelsea knocks on my office door, I say to her without even looking up, "Wire me 500 thousand dollars, and I'll change the project lead's name to Patrick's as soon as I receive the money." On the day of my daughter Callista Hammond's birthday, I reschedule all of my work matters so that I can hurry over to the kindergarten to pick her up. But Callista tells her teacher, "He's not my dad. I'm not leaving with him." While we're stuck in a stalemate, Patrick arrives at the kindergarten with the gift I've prepared for Callista. That's when Callista rushes over to hug his leg. "Take a good look, miss! This is my actual dad!" Chelsea is about to provide an explanation to me when I extend a hand to Callista. "Give me five million dollars, and I'll make sure that he gets your custody by the end of today."

My husband, Brandon Robinson, threw me a rehearsal funeral for the sake of his first love, Aylin Blessen. He said Aylin had witnessed her family burn to death and had been terrified of death ever since. The cure was to pick someone close to her, put that person through a full funeral process, and then have them reappear on the seventh day. Only then would she be healed. So, Brandon revoked my keycard access to our house, announced my death to everyone we knew, and sent me to a death simulation facility. I was not allowed to contact anyone for seven days. Aylin sobbed as she personally picked out my burial clothes. "Leanna, you only have to be dead for seven days. But this funeral could save my life." Brandon put my phone in a drawer. "You'll be alive and well through the whole process. What's the harm in doing this for Aylin's sake?" On the day of the rehearsal, Aylin shoved me into the facility's old cold storage unit. Then, she went back to the funeral hall and told Brandon I had run away. His expression darkened as he burned my portrait. "Since Leanna won't play along, then for these seven days, she's dead to me." My soul sat in the corner of the funeral hall and watched them hold each other as they "mourned." Brandon did not know it yet, but this rehearsal funeral was no longer just a rehearsal.

Camden Price's true love, Lynn Gardner, died on my surgery table. Unexpectedly, the malicious Camden chose to protect me from backlash and even proposed to me. He treated me extraordinarily well after we got married. Camden would take me to taste the hottest chili. We would sign up for the most death-defying activities like bungee jumping. When it was late at night, he would take me to the rowdiest and most dangerous bars to drink our hearts away. All this led to me contracting stomach cancer. During my late-stage cancer, I found the diary he left at home. Everything he did with me was what Lynn wanted to do with him. On the last page of his diary, he wrote hatefully, "She deserves to die." I did die. I died after Lynn was found alive. She had faked her death. I died on the day Lynn was marrying another man. You should be happy now, Camden.

Three days after his first love Mandy's death, my husband locked me in a steel cage and sank me into the ocean. "You vicious woman," he spat. "Stay here and repent to Mandy!" He didn't know I carried his child. I thrust the pregnancy confirmation toward him, but he walked away without a backward glance. Yet when he later saw my corpse—bloated and decomposing in the seawater—he went insane.

On the 30th day my wife, Sonia Child, gave me the cold shoulder; she suddenly suggested that we go on a trip to reconcile our relationship. However, the moment we landed, she cut up my identification document and smashed my phone, leaving me to fend for myself on a remote island. Someone asked if she had gone too far, but Sonia caressed her belly and said with disdain, "It's his fault for being so petty. All I wanted to do was give Eddie a test-tube baby, yet he started making a fuss about getting a divorce. "The baby will be born in eight months. Henry won't go hungry on the island when water and food have been provided. He'll just suffer a little." Eight months later, my happy wife held her son in her arms while asking her assistant, Robert Larkin, "It's been so long. Why hasn't he made a fuss about coming home?" Sonia had no idea that I had died on the island on the very first day I was there.

"Mr. Reed, your request for euthanasia has been approved. The procedure is scheduled for next month. Please sign here to confirm." The staff member handed Ryan Reed a thick stack of papers. His fingers trembled over the page. After a few seconds, he slowly signed, his name scrawled as if it had taken all his strength.

Three years after my death, Logan Grant finally married the woman he'd always loved. To get revenge on her behalf, he had my father thrown in prison, drove my mother to jump to her death, and demanded that I get on my knees and beg for mercy. The problem was, Logan, I'd been dead for years. All that remained of me was a pile of dry bones. When my death certificate was finally placed before him, he lost his mind. He dug up my remains, cradled my bones in his arms, and sobbed as he begged me to forgive him.

Three days before I got married, Evan Jones' claustrophobic ex-girlfriend cornered my car at the cliff of a winding road and rammed into me 12 times. When Evan arrived with the police, I was being rescued by the firefighters from my driver's seat, which had been smashed out of shape. However, Evan went to the limited-edition sports car, which had only lost some paint, and carried the trembling Nikki Shore in his arms. "Evan, Madison is bleeding on her forehead; she needs to get it stitched up at the hospital." However, Evan stopped my stretcher from getting into the car and glanced at my bleeding forehead and bruised arms. "These are just minor injuries, but Nikki has claustrophobia. Her condition will only get worse, and she has to go to the hospital first." As I was about to be left behind, I used the last of my strength to grab Evan by his pant leg. He frowned and pried off my fingers. "Nikki didn't crash into you on purpose. It's just her condition acting up. You're a lawyer, and you should know how some things are beyond our control, so stop making a fuss right now." With that, his assistant handed him a settlement agreement, and Evan grabbed my limp wrist to print my fingerprint on the papers. "Just bear with this. The ambulance will be coming soon."

To get back at me for taking one extra piece of lettuce at dinner, Simon Quinn drugged me right after my surgery and left me with a stomach perforation. My wife finally managed to book a specialist appointment for me, but Simon suddenly claimed his own stomach hurt so badly he couldn't stand it and stole my slot. I begged my wife to take me to the hospital first. She told me to endure it. Then, when I called an ambulance myself, she punished me by having someone hang me upside down in the bedroom. "If we hadn't had to eat those awful health meals with you, why would Simon's stomach hurt? "I heard hanging upside down helps stomach pain. After a few minutes, you'll naturally feel better." The pain made my body convulse. I cried and begged her to send me to the hospital. Instead, she kicked me hard in the abdomen. "Stop acting. Don't think I don't know you're just jealous of Simon! "Someone as kind as Simon would never drug you. If anything, you're the one who might've slipped something into the food to make his stomach hurt. Once the results come out, I won't let you off!" I grabbed her pant leg in agony. "I'm not lying. He told me himself he drugged me. Please, for the sake of our eight years together, give the specialist appointment back to me." She stepped on my hand in disgust. "You just had surgery. How could anything happen to you? Stop trying to drive a wedge between us. If you weren't such good househusband material, I would've divorced you long ago." Later, after she saw that Simon was perfectly fine, she finally remembered me. But the housekeeper was trembling all over. "Mr. Bowman died a long time ago..."

After being out of contact for a month, my wife finally remembered me. 'Mason's still one song short. Bring me that score of yours.' But this time, she never received a reply from me again. Mason tried to persuade her carefully. "Vega, forget it. Maybe I'm just not meant for this award. Don't fall out with Blaine because of me." Vega reassured him that I was only sulking. Then she went home, found my score, and handed it to Mason, thinking she could explain everything to me once I came back. But she never got the chance. I had been by her side the whole time—she just could not see me anymore.

It was our seventh year of marriage when my husband, Joseph Lowe, brought my best friend, Teresa Shaw, to my ward. And they were the picture of a perfect couple. I gave them my most genuine blessing. "You two make the perfect match." Joseph tossed an agreement in my face. An asset transfer. He demanded that I give Teresa everything I had. I took the papers and signed my name without wasting a moment to think. Teresa laughed happily, pleased with my obedience. She then hugged Joseph and said, "Thanks for taking care of Joseph for me, Selina. Oh, there's the divorce papers, too. How about…" I noticed the look of impatience in Joseph's eyes, so I snatched the papers from Teresa's hand. "Yeah, I'll sign them all."

My twin sister Claire and I have been at war our whole lives. A box of M&Ms? We’d count each one. Making sure we each got the exact same number of each color. Choosing bedrooms meant a tape measure. No one could have an inch more. When we were eight, Claire locked me in the basement. She tore apart my favorite American Girl doll. When I finally got out, I could only cry and gather the pieces. But she just threw herself on the carpet. Screamed that I pushed her. Dad drove out in a blizzard to buy me a new doll. He got into a bad car accident. He never came back. Our whole world fell apart. Mom said we were broke. She couldn't afford to keep both of us. She agreed to let Aunt Susan take one. I killed Dad. It was my fault. I couldn't let Claire leave Mom, too. So Aunt Susan took me. And she never treated me like I was human. From then on, I woke up shivering in a freezing attic. No heat. Forced to shovel snow, scrub hardwood floors. Like a maid. When I got older, to pay off her Vegas gambling debts, my aunt took all my IDs. She sold me off. Gave me to the trailer park manager's son. A drunk. A gambling addict. At twenty-two, I got pregnant. No health insurance. He watched me writhe in pain, but he wouldn't spend the money to call an ambulance. I died on the way to the ER. I died, but I didn't move on. My ghost drifted back home. And I saw the impossible. Dad was alive. He, Mom, and Claire were in the lavish backyard. Celebrating Claire’s graduation from an Ivy League school. Mom paused while cutting the cake. “I wonder how Chloe is doing,” she said. “We tricked her into leaving. I just worry all the time.” Dad pulled up a photo from Aunt Susan on his phone. “Don't worry,” he said. “She and Claire fought too fiercely back then. Sending her away and separating them was for her own good. Look, Susan gets our thousand dollars a month. She's taking great care of her.” So that was it. My parents had teamed up to lie to me. And my aunt was lying to them with a fake photo.

It had been six months since I died in a car accident, but my wife, Susan Young, still thought I was throwing a tantrum and waiting for me to come home and apologize. Then one day, she suddenly couldn’t find a watch. Her childhood friend, Julian Lane, gave it to her. When it broke, she asked me to take it to a watch repair shop. She called and said angrily, “Quentin, are you finished making a scene? If you don’t want to be with me anymore, we can get divorced. What are you trying to prove? “Where did you put the watch I asked you to get repaired? “Did you hide it from me? After all these years, you still haven’t stopped being jealous of Julian!” Then my sister’s voice came through the phone. “Congratulations, Susan. Quentin is dead. He’ll never be jealous of Julian again.”

My wife, Caroline Bailey, was a forensic pathologist. For her first love, Ian Lawson, she was willing to break every rule she held sacred and allowed him into the autopsy room to observe. She even let him throw acid onto a corpse's face. That was, until Caroline took on a new case. As she stood over the disfigured body on her operating table, she began to fall apart. The acid-burned face was starting to look more and more like mine.

It's my third year living with ALS, and my 11th day since losing the ability to speak completely. My wife, Renee Sutton, bursts into my hospital room with a lawyer and a notary in tow, gripping a so-called expert report that concludes all of my symptoms can be faked. She throws it onto my bed. "Miles, you're really a hell of an actor," she says. "You had me fooled for three years. Today, you're finally going to tell the truth." I look at her and open my mouth, but no sound comes out. She shoves a divorce agreement in front of me. "Sign it. Admit you faked your illness to swindle marital assets. You're not walking away with a single cent." I look down at the pen, then at my right hand lying motionless on the sheet. Her eyes hold nothing but a cold sneer. "Still faking? Fine. Keep faking. "Back then, you told me you didn't love me anymore, and I believed you. You said you wanted to marry that older woman, and I believed that too. "Now you've circled back and landed flat on your back, needing someone to take care of you. Did you really think I'd go soft on you again?" A nurse rushes in from the hallway and forces a writing board into my stiff left hand. "Ms. Sutton, he had a tracheotomy just yesterday! This board is the only way he can speak!" Renee stares at the board. Her expression slowly shifts as she lowers her head to look. Scrawled across it, in two shaky words, is my answer. I pour the last of my strength into every stroke. "I'm sorry."