Contos de Romance sobre Obsessive e Romances com Freak e Cheating

"Pregnant patient, corpus luteum rupture, heavy bleeding! We need a consent form signed—now!" I stood there holding the clipboard, waiting, when a voice I knew way too well cut through the chaos. "I'm here!" Jimmy. My husband. The same guy who vanished on our anniversary—now signing off on emergency surgery for another woman. He didn't even blink before writing "husband" on the form. Still had our wedding ring on, too. He didn't recognize me behind the mask. Just grabbed my hand and begged. "Please save her. It's my fault. She's pregnant. I messed up. I love her. I can't lose her." His grip tightened. My wedding ring slipped off and hit the floor. I didn't say a word. Just turned and walked into the OR. A doctor beside me, totally clueless, beamed and said, "Dr. Meyer, your test results came back—twins! Your husband's gonna be so happy. Congrats!" I smiled, barely. "Schedule the termination after surgery."

Every time my husband cheated, he gave me a bracelet. I collected 99 bracelets in four years of marriage—I forgave him 99 times. He was away on a business trip for three days lately. When he came back, he brought home a rare bracelet worth Ten Million Dollars. That was when I knew it was time to ask for a divorce.

After three years of relentless pursuit, I finally won over Logan—a guy who had never shown the slightest interest in women—and he cherished me like I was his entire world. On the eve of our wedding, I accidentally overheard one of his friends teasing him, "Logan, are you really ready to step into the grave of marriage for Bella? And what about Joann? She's chased you for so many years. Don't you feel anything for her?" Logan's voice was cold. "If we hadn't grown up together, I wouldn't even want to see Joann's face. She could never compare to Bella, ever." So, I held onto dreams for our future, and I married him. Two years later, at our daughter's hundred-day celebration, Joann came to me in tears, claiming her baby had leukemia—and that only my daughter could save her baby. Logan's eyes reddened instantly, and without hesitation, he sent our daughter into the operating room to have her blood drawn. I struggled in the bodyguards' grip desperately, crying and pleading, "Logan, Lily is still so little. She can't take this. She'll die! Please, use the cord blood I stored for her. I'm begging you, let her go." He kicked me aside. "It's just a bit of blood. Joann's baby is dying, and you're still this selfish? Get out!" When the surgery was over, he tossed a divorce agreement at me. "Joann's child is mine. I have to give them both a name, and I'm taking her abroad for treatment." I stared at my silent, motionless daughter in the operating room, my heart turning to ash. "Fine." Six years later, Logan saw me in a baby store, holding the hand of my five-year-old son. Logan reached out with a pained look, trying to pick him up. "Why did you cut Lily's hair so short? She looks like a boy. What were you thinking?"