Tragic Love Romance Short Stories & Cheating Novels

On the last trip before Zeke Malone and I were set to register our marriage, someone clamped a hand over my mouth and dragged me into the bushes to assault me. Zeke and my sister, Crystal Bianco, arrived just in time to "save" me. That was when I heard Zeke switch to French and ask her, "Did you get enough footage just now?" "Yeah," Crystal answered back in French. "But isn't this unfair to Lizzie?" Zeke's voice turned grave. "The man was only acting. He never actually went through with it. We just needed the footage. As long as I don't hold it against her, that's all that matters. "Besides, you could win a Pulitzer for breaking this story. That's what actually matters here." I lay in his arms, a chill spreading through every inch of me. Certain I must have misheard, I couldn't help but ask, "What were you two just saying?" Zeke wiped the tears from the corners of my eyes, his voice as gentle as ever. "We were talking about your case, about what happened to you. It might be best to let Crystal be the one to report it. That way, the man responsible will pay for what he did." He assumed I couldn't understand a word of it, so he went right on discussing with Crystal how to get the story more attention. What he didn't know was that I'd spent the past year secretly teaching myself French, just so I could belong in their world. I never imagined that the first time I finally understood them, it would be to discover that they had both betrayed me.

At the annual company party, my boyfriend of three years openly flirted with the beautiful new secretary right in front of everyone. Without hesitation, I kicked him and his family out of my house where they had been freeloading for all this time. Humiliated and angry, he lashed out: "Sarah, this is all because you can't even get pregnant! Three years together and not a single child. If you just accept Amy in our relationship, you can still be the lady of this house!" Later on, his company was investigated for fraud. He ended up in prison, and to top it all off, it turned out the child wasn't even his to begin with.

In order to give my boyfriend, Alaric Lovell, a surprise on our anniversary, I manage to finish my work in three days on my business trip that's originally set to be five days. But as soon as I reach the front door after a whole night's travel, I hear laughter coming from within. Just one minute ago, Alaric has texted me, saying that he misses me greatly because he's home alone. The next thing I know, the sounds of people egging on someone grow even louder. "It's your turn now, Alaric. Truth or dare? Remember, we want the juiciest details!" "Damn, you guys really are nosy, huh? Fine, I'll spill the tea. Not a single word to Elena, alright?" "Just spill already! Don't you trust us with your secrets?" "I've given my virginity to Tracy," Alaric reveals. Everyone starts going "ooh" knowingly. Meanwhile, the revelation has me stunned. Tracy? As in Tracy Sanderson, Alaric's female friend who acts like a guy around him? Before I can register what's going on, Tracy adds smilingly, "Oh, he did more than give me his virginity. He's even impregnated me in the past." That's when I fling the door open and step into the house. As I stare at the shameless couple, I smile at them. "Is that so? Where's your baby, then?"

After eight years and countless pregnancy tests, I was finally pregnant. Zachary loved me to his core. With or without a child, his devotion never wavered—if anything, it only grew stronger. He was over the moon, practically bouncing off the walls, promising me the world and everything in it. His parents were relieved that the Williams family legacy would finally have an heir. They completely changed their tune, suddenly treating me like I was made of gold. But I had no plans to keep this baby.

The night before we're supposed to go to the city hall to get married, my fiancee suddenly breaks the silence after we sleep together. "A man in his 30s simply doesn't have the stamina of a younger guy." I'm so caught off guard that I stop pulling my pants back up. Heather Reid rubs the red marks on her shoulder, as if savoring a memory. When she catches me looking, she lights a cigarette with a smirk on her face. "Last night, that young sweetheart of mine simply wouldn't leave me alone and kept asking for more." My breath catches, and all the color drains from my face. I stare at her. "What did you just say? Heather, quit messing around. We're supposed to get married tomorrow." As if she's just realized that she's forgotten to tell me something, Heather smiles and says casually, "Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. Jake Palmer and I are already married. "He's been dying to make it official. I couldn't leave the poor thing hanging, could I?" It feels like someone has just hit me over the head with a sledgehammer. My mind starts to buzz as Heather says, "Dustin Holman, move out tomorrow. I bought you a house in Brockfield."

In the seventh year of my marriage to Adrian Sandford, his ex, Celine Wheeler, came back. She posted: [We were young, reckless. We missed our shot. This time, I'm fighting for love.] That night, Adrian sat on the balcony, cigarette burning between his fingers, staring out till sunrise. My phone wouldn't stop buzzing either. Their friend group—everyone who saw them grow up—flooded the chat. Regret for them. Relief, too. They forgot I was still in there. Adrian had no clue how many times I replayed the years I chased him. Seven years. I'm tired.

To celebrate our two-year anniversary, my boyfriend, Jace Cole, and I went whale watching in Monterey. When we checked in, the hotel manager recognized Jace and rushed over with a warm smile. "Welcome back, Mr. Cole! We’ve set up the room exactly the way you and Miss Laurent like it." Miss Laurent. Riley Laurent, Jace’s ex of eight years. My fingers curled tightly into my palms. The staff suddenly realized their mistake, color draining from their faces as they scrambled to swap Riley’s name for mine on the reservation details. Jace raised a hand to stop them. "Don't bother. Just clear out the flowers, the stuffed animals, and the cake." He shot me a brief glance. "Riley loved rituals. The staff here got used to setting all that up for us, so I guess they just defaulted to it today. Don't overthink it; Alex just forgot to cancel the package. Honestly, all that stuff is pretty pointless anyway." I swallowed the lump in my throat and said nothing. The next morning, we had to wake up early for the boat charter. I tried calling Jace’s name three times to get him out of bed. He just pulled the blanket over his head, his voice muffled. "It's always the same routine. Get on the boat, claim a spot, take a few photos. Riley and I already did it. Going back again is just boring. Go on your own." So, I boarded the boat alone, but luck wasn't on my side. Seasickness hit me hard, and I didn't even get to see a single whale break the surface. When Jace came to pick me up at the dock, one of the crew members recognized him and pulled out two printed photos from a past trip. In the first photo, Jace held Riley wrapped tightly in his jacket to shield her from the freezing ocean wind. In the second photo, they were kissing against a breathtaking backdrop of breaching whales. My stomach churned, and I forced my eyes away. On the third day, I told him I wanted to drive south along Pacific Coast Highway 1. Jace’s tone was flat. "Riley and I drove Highway 1 a bunch of times. There's nothing new to see down there, and I really don't feel like doing it again." A heavy silence settled over me. It hit me all at once. He had already experienced everything with Riley. Everything he had once shared with her, he now dismissed as pointless as if there was no reason to ever offer it to me. If this entire trip was nothing more than a tired rerun for him, then it was time to end it right here.

I've been married to the prince of the underworld for ten years and have endured countless life-or-death situations by his side. My hands, once trained to play the piano, are covered in calluses from holding guns and stained with blood. But at 28, my husband ends up falling for a young woman from the slums. She's as delicate and pure as a chamomile. She's his well-kept little secret—until I run into them at the woman's prenatal appointment one day. I storm up to him, demanding an explanation, only for him to nonchalantly hand me divorce papers. "Sonia is a devout follower of the church and can't have a child before marriage. I must make an honest woman out of her. Sign these, and you'll get 40% of the company's shares." I refuse to do as told, so he corners me. In the end, he has my crippled younger brother tied up and forced under a hydraulic compression machine. "Sign the papers, Maeve, or watch your brother become a human mince pie. The choice is yours." I fall on my knees and beg him to stop. As the machine turns on, my hands fly to my aching lower belly, and I scream as I lose consciousness. When I wake up again, I'm back in the hospital, in the same spot where I ran into my husband and his mistress at her prenatal appointment. This time, I don't confront him. Overnight, I make arrangements with a sanatorium abroad, get divorced, and run away from home. Yet the moment I truly disappear, my husband loses his mind.

My daughter’s kindergarten held a family event, and I rushed there, only to see her holding hands with my wife’s male secretary. “Daddy,” she said, “I wish our family could stay like this forever.” I watched as the three of them hugged, radiant with happiness. Suddenly, exhaustion washed over me. Later, I filed for divorce. Then I left to teach in rural villages for thirty years. If I couldn’t light the lamp in my own home, I’d at least illuminate the path for others.

Queenie Gibbs had a habit of breaking down anything that couldn't be quantified into data, then scoring and evaluating it. Love was no exception. She didn't want children, so I went and got a vasectomy without being asked. Plus five points. When her mother, Charice Gibbs, was hospitalized, I put my entire life savings toward the medical bills. Plus two points. In our third year together, I finally scored high enough to clear her bar for marriage. I'd always believed that as the youngest top-tier data analyst in the country, she simply carried the rationality of her work into our relationship. It didn't mean she didn't love me. Then, the day before our premarital checkup, a notification popped up on her phone. [Subject B: Last night's physical data has been logged.] I tapped it open and found a chart comparing two men. Subject A was me: stability 97, lifestyle compatibility 95, physical attraction 88. Subject B was Bill Hutley, the project consultant who had just joined her company. He scored lower than me on the first two, but his physical attraction was a 99. Below the chart was a video file that had been left open. It was only a dozen or so seconds long, and the footage shook badly. Queenie was pinned beneath him, panting in a way I had never heard before. At the very bottom was one more line: [Recommend increasing intimacy samples.] That night, I pushed the phone in front of her. "'Increase samples.' What does that mean?" Queenie was silent for two seconds. "Exactly what you think it means." "How many times did you sleep with him?" "Seven." She answered methodically, "The first time could have been a fluke, so I verified it six more times." I laughed, but she frowned at me. "You don't need to be bothered by this. In the current overall rankings, you're still number one. Our wedding isn't getting canceled, either." She even explained earnestly, "Marriage is a lifelong decision. I'm just eliminating the margin of error before I get married." In that moment, she was still calculating her margin of error, and I was already done being her sample.

I notice only two seats left in the conference room—one near the trash can, and the other next to Anthony Sharp, my secret boyfriend of three years. I'm about to walk over when Queenie White, my best friend, suddenly pulls Mia Farrell, my younger sister, over to sit next to Anthony. "You have a cold. You should sit here since the draft is weaker here, Mia." Anthony pulls out the chair for Mia, takes off his suit jacket, and offers it to her. "You should wear this." I freeze right in my tracks. Meanwhile, everyone in the work group chat goes wild over Anthony's actions. "Mr. Sharp personally pulled out a chair for Mia! He even gave her his suit jacket! That's so sweet!" "They're definitely dating! They're basically flaunting their relationship! I'm so here for this!" Anthony doesn't even spare me a single glance during the two-hour meeting, clearly trying to keep our relationship under wraps. I point out the flaws in Mia's proposal and offer suggestions, but none of them are taken seriously. Yet, when Mia coughs just once, Anthony immediately orders his assistant to turn up the AC. I suddenly realize Anthony is deliberately ignoring me. If he doesn't want to acknowledge me, then I don't want him either.

"We partied too hard last night and forgot to use protection—don't forget to buy morning-after pills for your wife." Looking at the woman's smooth bare back and the red mole on her neck in the photo, I felt absolutely nothing. Again. Five years of marriage, and this wasn't the first time. Kathy liked to test me this way. She called it her "little experiment." The first time, she "accidentally" left a receipt for condoms on the nightstand. I got angry and confronted her, but she just smiled with contempt. "Why are you so petty? My girlfriends and I bought that on purpose just to see how you'd react." The second time was on our wedding anniversary. A guy showed up at our door with a bouquet of roses, ready to propose to her right then and there. I got into a fistfight with him, fell down a flight of stairs, and broke three ribs. That's when she finally strolled out and told me the guy was an actor, and the whole thing was supposed to be a surprise for me. Five years. Her games kept getting more extreme. From flirty texts to explicit photos, she kept pushing my limits. And I'd gone from furious to completely numb. Since she loved testing me so much, fine—I'd give her exactly what she wanted.

On Christmas Eve, I giddily wait for my husband, Hunter Gibson, to come home while nursing my eight-month pregnancy. Unexpectedly, Hunter bursts through the front door with his childhood friend, Winter Jones, in his arms. I attempt to help him out, only to get shoved to the floor instead. My belly bumps into a corner of the coffee table, causing pain to shoot up my nerves. Cold sweat soon beads on my forehead, and yet Hunter doesn't even spare me another glance. "Get out of my way! Someone drugged Winnie's drink at the bar! If I don't purge the poison out of her, she'll die!" As I shield my belly, I dig out my phone. "I'll call an ambulance for her—" But Hunter snatches my phone away before hurling it at the floor, breaking it into splinters. Then, he grabs me by the neck angrily. "Are you trying to ruin Winnie's reputation? If word gets out, how is she going to live with her head hung high?" In order to prevent me from "ruining his plan", Hunter decides to trap me on the balcony while disregarding my pleas and the fact that I'm only wearing thin pajamas. "You should take some time to cool off! Once you've finally learned your lesson, you're only permitted entry!" I can only slam my palms onto the glass door desperately with tears running down my face. There, I'm forced to watch as Hunter and Winter go at it like desperate rabbits on the carpet in the living room, with the Christmas songs serving as their ambiance. A heavy snowfall has occurred that night. At the crack of dawn the next morning, Hunter finally remembers that I exist. He calls my number, yet my phone was turned off. Furious, Hunter yells, "Where the hell did you go? Winnie's stomach is in discomfort! Get your ass back here right now and cook her some soup!" What he doesn't know is that I'm right outside the balcony door. The thing is, dead people are incapable of answering phone calls, not to mention Hunter has already broken my phone, to begin with.

At our ten-year reunion, Nathan Naylor, our former class president, starts a game of "Guess Who." Whoever guesses wrong has to drink three. When it's Jessica Slater's turn, she smiles. "There's this guy. He had his pick of the best universities in the country, but he gave up that chance for me. He spent years trying to win me over, doting on me the whole time." Everyone seems to know exactly who she's talking about, and all eyes turn to Dylan Tate. A little tipsy, Jessica gets bolder. "He has this tiny mole on his left hip. It shows when he plays basketball. On graduation night, I licked it." Everyone around the table starts whooping. "Why bother guessing? Just tell us you're together already! Come on, how long have you two been together?" Dylan holds his glass, his lips pressed tight, almost smiling. I tighten my grip on my phone as my heart sinks. Dylan and I have been together for seven years, and no one has a clue. But everyone knows he once tried to win Jessica over. Nathan taps the table. "Ashley, you're up," he says quietly. I look at Dylan and hesitate. "He..." Dylan looks up at me, a clear warning in his eyes. I switch gears. "He's been trying to win me over for ten years. This time, I don't want to miss my chance." My phone buzzes in my pocket. A single line appears on the screen. "Ashley, I've been waiting for you to say that!"

Hallie Shaw lived her life judging everyone with a rigid scorecard. When we were dating, she used to say that any person or event scoring below ninety points wasn't worth a second of her time. After marriage, every single thing I did was evaluated. On our wedding anniversary, I prepared a full spread of her favorite dishes. She took one bite and said, "Eighty-nine points." Then she set down her utensils and left to share a meal with Miles, who allegedly had a poor appetite. For the company's anniversary party, I tried on twenty-seven suits, only for her to glance at me and say, "Eighty-eight points. Not suitable to bring along." That very night, she walked into the celebration with Miles, who was wearing nothing more than a simple white shirt. To earn that perfect score, I quit my dream job, earned seven professional certifications, and learned four foreign languages. Yet no matter how hard I tried, my score remained forever stuck at eighty-nine. Meanwhile, Miles didn't have to lift a finger. Just by standing there, he was automatically a perfect hundred. I asked her once, "What does it actually take to get a ninety?" She glanced over at Miles and offered no answer. In that moment, a sudden, bitter laugh escaped my lips. Her scoring criteria had only ever had one rule from start to finish, and it wasn't me. I pulled off my wedding ring and dropped it straight into the wine glass in front of her. "Hallie, this time, I'm the one giving out the scores. Your loyalty: zero points. Your marriage: zero points. And as a person, you fail."

Maynard Hansen planned a luxury birthday cruise for Darlene Thompson, but the cruise ship capsized when a violent storm swept in without warning. Without hesitation, Maynard gave the last seat on the lifeboat to Darlene. As I struggled in the water, my son, Waldo Hansen—whom I carried for nine months and gave birth to—cried out, "Don't let Mom up! She'll push Ms. Thompson off." Clutching nothing but a broken plank, I somehow made it to shore. By the time I collapsed on the sand, I was frozen, exhausted, and done. I had never felt so alone. Shortly after, I found myself clutching a diagnosis of severe depression in my hand. I was ready to bring this wretched life to a quiet end. But when my husband and son realized I truly didn't want to live anymore, they collapsed into tears. They wrapped their arms around me as they sobbed, "Please don't leave us. We really can't live without you."

A sudden burst of screams erupted in the living room at 3 AM. I pushed open the door to hear the commentator announcing that my fiancé Noah Lucas' favorite team had advanced to the quarter-finals. Our best friend, Jessie Newman, jumped up excitedly and kissed Noah on the cheek. I would be taking wedding photos with Noah in another five hours. The hangover soup on the table had long since gone cold, with a cigarette butt floating in it. I could not help coughing. The two of them froze mid-conversation. Jessie realized what it looked like and stepped over the wine bottles on the floor with her fair legs. She hugged me and kissed me on the cheek, too. Her voice was gentle and innocent. "Lola, why are you awake? Don't overthink. I've been best friends with Noah since kindergarten. We were just messing around! Noah was too noisy, wasn't he? I'll teach him a lesson for you." Noah casually tossed a cushion at her, hitting her squarely on her bottom, and teased with a laugh, "You're blaming me? You were the one shouting!" Then, he nonchalantly reassured me, "Lola, we're about to take our wedding photos soon. Go and get some more sleep. We'll turn the volume down." There was no apology or explanation. They were just trying to brush me off, as always. They assumed I was being paranoid and petty, tainting their 20-year friendship by overthinking. I loosened my grip on my nightgown. "It's okay. You guys continue." I had had enough of this three-person farce. I was done.

"Hi there, I'd like to emigrate." Christina stood at the counter and handed over the neatly prepared documents to the clerk on the other side of the glass. The clerk quickly stamped each page. The red ink spread like tiny ripples on still water. Then, without looking up, he pulled out another form and passed it back to her. "Ma'am, your paperwork will be processed in fifteen days." Christina nodded, turned on her heel, and headed for the exit. But before she could step outside, whispers trailed after her. "Did I see that right? Mrs. Waldorf is applying for emigration? Did she have a squabble with Mr. Waldorf?" "Even if they argued, would it go this far? Mr. Waldorf practically worships her. What could possibly make her leave so decisively?" "Exactly. Five years ago, their wedding was the event of the century. Even someone like me, who barely goes online, heard about it. And three years ago, after her car accident, the blood bank ran out of stock. Mr. Waldorf ignored everyone's objections and nearly drained himself to save her. Then, just last year, when she disappeared for an hour, he mobilized every media outlet worldwide to find her. Now she's leaving without a word—won't that drive him insane?" The murmurs swirled and lingered, but Christina only smiled faintly. Her expression was calm, but her eyes darkened with a bitterness that deepened with every step. Yes, she thought. Everyone knew just how much Lucien Waldorf loved her.

When my wife, Celeste Harrington, sent her seventh young lover to me for a penile augmentation, her friends made bets on how quickly I would lose my mind. But even after the light over the OR door went off, nobody heard me fall apart. "Celeste, that's the seventh guy now. What if your husband is actually angry enough to stop speaking to you?" one of her friends asked. Celeste shrugged. "He can't have children with me, and I've got a family empire to pass on. Sooner or later, I'm going to have a baby with another man. Why not keep a few men around now so he gets used to it? I get to enjoy myself, too." I stepped out of the OR, my expression unreadable, and delivered the usual announcement. "Congratulations. The operation was successful." Celeste approached with a smile. "Nice work." Then she handed me a divorce agreement. "Sign it, will you? It's just for show. This guy refuses to have a baby with me unless I divorce you. Once the baby's born, we'll raise it together. Nobody will dare call you less of a man when you're raising a child." I'd played along with this humiliating routine six times before. This time, I signed without hesitation. Then I turned around and said yes to someone else's proposal. Celeste had apparently forgotten one important detail: I wasn't infertile. The problem was the genetic risk of having a child with her. All I needed was a different partner. Why had she ever assumed I'd be generous enough to raise her lover's baby?

When my wife's first love was injured in a car accident and urgently needed a kidney transplant, she gave me an ultimatum. If I refused to donate my kidney, she said she would take our daughter and die alongside him the very next day. Crying, she begged. "Can you stop being so selfish? It's only one kidney. "It's not like you'll die! Are you really going to force me and your daughter to our deaths?" With a bitter smile, I agreed. What she didn't know was that our daughter had already died in the very same car accident that injured her beloved first love. And I was suffering from end-stage kidney failure. Once I went through with the surgery, I wouldn't be far behind from death either. Since she was willing to sacrifice everything for the man she loved, then I would give her exactly what she wanted. I would make her the person responsible for both my death and our daughter's so she would have to live with that regret for the rest of her life.