Homewrecker Romance-Kurzgeschichten & Cheating-Kurzromane

Every time my wife, Jocelyn Seacross, visits her childhood sweetheart, Levi Anderson, who is terminally ill, she hints to me that maybe we should get a divorce. She says it's because Levi's dying wish is to have a proper place in her life. Today, she hints at it again. I don't kick up a fuss and simply say, "Okay." Because this conversation has already happened 99 times. This is the hundredth time this conversation has come up, and I finally find a reason to convince myself to let her go—our child is dead. Now, all that remains between Jocelyn and me are two certified copies of the marriage certificate.

My husband, Mitch Cooley, has been with me through my fifth year of battling depression. While searching for recipes online, a notification for a late-night livestream for anonymous confessions pops up on my phone screen. "What's the biggest lie your husband has ever told you?" I tap on the notification out of curiosity as my eyes are drawn to the profile picture showing two hands tightly clasped together. The interviewee replies, "I'm still single, but if it's about my stupid best friend, then she'd been lied to by her husband three times. "The first time, her ex-boyfriend died in a car crash while cheating on her, and her now-husband hid the truth on purpose so that she thought the main reason her ex died was that she wanted to break up with him. "Her husband knew all along that her ex-boyfriend had been cheating on her with me, but he watched her try to slit her wrists in remorse multiple times without telling her the truth. "As for the third time, I just mentioned to her husband that he could only ever have a baby with me, and he immediately got himself a certificate proving that he was sexually frigid and refused to sleep with her. "But the most ridiculous thing is that my best friend still stupidly went to get an IVF done while I was rolling in the sheets with her husband every night." I feel alarm bells go off in my head. Mitch had also suddenly experienced sexual frigidity recently. The hospital he went to for treatment was one recommended by my best friend, Lexie Moyer. My hands tremble as I click on the interviewee's profile picture. I then realize that the red mole on the ring finger is the exact same one on Mitch's finger. The interviewee's tone suddenly turns low and restrained. "Even when her husband told her today that he would be working overtime at the company, when he was actually keeping me and our son company, she still made a whole table of dishes waiting for him to come home." I freeze on the spot the moment the interviewee's voice changer malfunctions for a bit. I know that voice too well. It is Lexie's.

On our wedding day, my fiancée and brother died in a tragic crash, and the shock left my mother completely bedridden. Everyone blamed me, saying I brought misfortune and death to everyone around me. However, I didn't even have time to grieve. I worked myself to the bone, hauling concrete at construction sites by day and delivering food by night, just to afford my mother's medical bills. Then came the day I took a side job wearing a mascot suit for a grand opening event. One employee mentioned, "Our boss is super rich and handsome, and his wife is so sweet. Their family is so loving. They even rescue stray cats and dogs all the time!" I stayed quiet, only worried about whether I'd make it off my shift in time to grab a cheap meal at the construction site. Right after I pulled the mascot head over my shoulders, a familiar voice drifted over. "Madison, you're pregnant. Don't overexert yourself. Just leave the shop to Clyde to manage." I froze, peering through the small eyeholes of the suit, and felt like lightning had struck me. Standing right in front of me were my brother and my fiancée—the very two people who supposedly died five years ago. My mother stood right beside them, without a single trace of illness. And my best friend had his arm casually wrapped around Clyde's shoulder, laughing. "When the baby's born, I shall be the godfather!" Inside the heavy suit, I was trembling, my heart shattering into a million pieces. It turned out they weren't dead, but married and expecting a child. Every single person knew the truth and teamed up to make me live a lie.

A typhoon warning had been issued. I drove out to pick up my mother, who lived by the coast. My car broke down halfway there. I called my boyfriend fifty-eight times, and every single one was declined. The rain kept getting heavier. No rescue services were available, and the water was rising. My hands were shaking so badly that all I could do was get Mom to a nearby bus shelter. That was when I scrolled past a Facebook post from my boyfriend's assistant, Megan. "Derek is such a sweetheart. Spent two hours searching, and the little stray finally has a home." In the photo, Derek was at Megan's place, giving a stray cat a bath. I looked at my mother, soaked to the bone, and a wave of hurt washed over me. By the time evening fell, my boyfriend finally called back, but the wind was so strong that the signal kept cutting in and out. I was about to ask him to come get us when his voice crackled through the receiver, broken up by static. "Don't let your mom... the seafood... mess up the car." Before I could say a word, he hung up. The rescue team arrived. As we climbed in, Mom was still shivering, fretting over the seafood that had spoiled during the delay. I picked up the bag and tossed it into the trash. If it's spoiled, there's no point keeping it. Same goes for people.

On Christmas Eve, with the temperature at thirteen below zero, a blizzard shut down the interstate in northern New Jersey. The motel at North Ridge Travel Plaza had only two heated rooms left. My hands and feet were numb with cold, but I still walked happily toward Daniel Walker, my husband of five years, a man known for his thoughtfulness. Instead, he walked right past me and handed the last two room keys to his first love Claire Miller, who had just ended her marriage, and her dog Buddy. A woman stranded beside us watched enviously. "Your boyfriend is so thoughtful. He even got a separate room for the dog." Daniel didn't correct her or look back at me. He was too busy taking off his down jacket and draping it over Claire's shoulders. "Eileen is an adult. She can take care of herself. You have depression. You can't take any more cold." He seemed gentle and reliable, but what he truly loved was the feeling of rescuing someone vulnerable. The more helpless a person appeared, the more he gave them, even when I paid the price. Claire eased closer to him. She apologized to me, but her eyes stayed on the room keys. "Sorry, Eileen. Buddy is too skittish to stay with strangers." I didn't remind Daniel, point by point as I used to, that he had forgotten which of us was his wife. I didn't demand that he explain why a dog needed heat more than I did. I only tightened my grip on my car keys and stepped back into the storm. All his easy, considerate devotion went to Claire. All the humiliating, bone-deep cold went to me. But Daniel didn't know that the four-wheel-drive SUV he planned to use to chase me belonged to me. Before I left the apartment, I would take my ID and keys, and I would make sure the SUV stopped somewhere he could no longer follow. And the blizzard was only beginning.

After three years in a psychiatric hospital, I finally escape. Three years ago, I watched my fiance, Ethan Cregger, die in a car accident right in front of me. Already born with a heart condition, I spiraled under the weight of grief. Then everything else fell apart. My family lost everything. Dad seemed to age overnight. Mom cried until there were no tears left. Adrian Mercer, my childhood friend, gave up the money he'd saved to study abroad just to pay for my treatment. Even my younger sister, Mia Bennett, worked three jobs and begged me through tears not to give up on life. Not wanting to burden them any further, I voluntarily admitted myself to a psychiatric hospital. Three years later, I finally make my way back to our old family estate, now supposedly sold, for one reason. I want the bottle of wine Ethan and I buried together years ago. But through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I see a dead man—Ethan. He is alive and well, with his arm wrapped around my sister. My parents look happier and healthier than ever. Adrian is placing a birthday hat on the young boy standing between them. Everyone claps and sings, gathered around the cake like one big, happy family. And suddenly, I understand. Ethan never died. He simply built a new life with my sister. While I spent three years trapped in the past, everyone I love moved on without me. They created an entire lie just for me. Fine. If they've already decided there's no place for me in their lives, then I don't want them anymore.

It was the seventh year we spent living separately after the marriage. I came to see Blake Shaw, and once again, my key broke and was stuck in the keyhole. I quickly called Blake. He said, "You probably got the wrong key again. Stay in a hotel. I'll come back and open the door." I looked at the sticker on the key and froze. The key was right. He changed the locks. Before I could think further, my father called, and he laughed heartily. "Of course he's out! He came over first thing in the morning, and he brought gifts! Then, my best friend's call came in. She was drunk from the sounds of it. "He's drinking with Zack. Your man's growing to be a good drinker." Then, my brother's call came. "He's a busy guy. Finally found the spare time to help me out with my investments." My mind was reeling. They had no idea I just asked the guard if this house's owner was home, and they said he was. I stopped asking questions. Instead, I called a locksmith. A strange curiosity took hold of me. I wanted to find out what secret my friends and family were keeping from me.

I rushed back from out of town overnight when my best friend, Siobhan Coventry, went into labor. After learning that both mother and child were safe, I got teary-eyed with emotion. "Have you decided on the baby's name yet?" I asked. Her smile stiffened unnaturally for a moment. "Leonard Kessler. We'll call him Leo." "Kessler?" I stared at her in surprise. "I thought you said the baby would take your last name. Is his biological father's last name Kessler?" She gave me a vague hum before quickly changing the subject. "Ginny, I've been craving the wraps from that place in the college town." I nodded, forcing my doubts aside, and went out to buy one for her. It was only when I reached the hospital entrance that I suddenly remembered I hadn't given her my gift yet. I hurried back upstairs, only to see my husband—who had been away for two years, supposedly carrying out a classified project and never once returning home—walking into my best friend's hospital room with a bouquet in his hands. He sat down beside her bed and took her hand, his face full of concern. "You were so amazing, my love." My mind went completely blank, and all the blood rushed to my head. My hand was still on the doorknob when I saw my mother carrying the baby over to them, beaming with delight. "Look—the baby smiled as soon as he heard his daddy's voice." So her baby's last name was taken from Vincent Kessler—my husband's last name. The classified project… The whole story about having a child without the father in the picture… It had all been a lie. Even my own mother had helped her goddaughter and son-in-law deceive me. The people I loved most in the world didn't want me involved with this family at all.

My wife is pregnant, and I'm a little worried. Before bed, I scroll through a parenting forum and come across an anonymous post. "My husband won't let me have my male best friend's baby. Is this a serious violation of my reproductive rights?" The poster pours her heart out, each line of the post dripping with self-pity. "My doctor said my progesterone levels are low, my her HCG levels aren't doubling as expected, and the gestational sac is implanted close to the scar tissue from my last surgery. If the pregnancy continues, it could cause massive bleeding and put my life at risk. "That's why my husband refuses to let me continue the pregnancy. But he doesn't understand. This baby is the only reminder my best friend left me. How can I force my husband to willingly raise another man's child?" The comments section is buzzing. Then, one highly upvoted reply makes my blood run cold. "Girl, you can't fight a man like that head-on. You have to destroy his confidence at the root. You should slip something into his drinks that reduces sperm activity. Then, trick him into getting a fertility test. When he sees a diagnosis saying he has a low sperm count, he'll be devastated. "After that, when you tell him that you're determined to give him a child no matter what, he'll be so grateful that he'll worship both you and that baby for the rest of his life!" Staring at the vicious scheme on the screen, I break out in a cold sweat. Just then, my wife walks into the bedroom carrying a warm glass of milk. "Honey, you've been so stressed taking care of me lately. You're even starting to get gray hairs. Here, have a glass of milk."

My mistress tries to take Scarlett Astin's place as my wife, so I kill her, burn her body to ashes, and bury her in the middle of nowhere. Five years later, I become a general manager. Scarlett gives birth to twins, a boy and a girl, and we settle into a happy life together. I gradually forget about the past. Then, after Scarlett is discharged from the hospital, she suddenly says, "Don't forget to invite Madeline Brown to the twins' sip and see. She's an old friend of yours, right? She took such good care of me during my hospital stay." A chill ran through me, and the hair on my arms stood on end. Madeline Brown is the name of my dead mistress.

Ten seconds before the bomb detonated, I decisively clipped the blue wire, saving hundreds of lives inside the high-rise building. At the celebration dinner, Robert Vance—our bomb squad captain—handed the top honor to the new rookie, Vivian Reed. “Let the new girl have it. You don’t want people to say I favor you, do you?” Throughout our five years of secret dating, he had used this same excuse repeatedly to shut me up before I could even complain. Every life-threatening mission fell entirely on my shoulders. Yet every honor and public commendation was without fail handed to someone else. Clutching my bleeding side, I retreated to a corner. From afar, I watched Vivian accept the vibrant bouquet and medal, soaking in everyone’s adoration under the blinding glare of the live broadcast cameras. During dinner, a teammate curiously asked her how she had possessed the nerve to make the critical choice. Vivian cast a shy, fluttering glance at Robert, covering her mouth with a coy laugh. “Oh, that wasn’t any technical strategy. Red was our captain’s favorite color, so I just couldn’t bear to do it.” The hall erupted into a wave of suggestive laughter, even colleagues chanting for them to kiss. Swept up in the electric mood, Robert—who had always shunned my very shadow in public—cupped her chin and pressed his lips to hers right before everyone’s eyes. A pang erupted in my heart. Five years of life-or-death missions together had taught Robert to take my presence and devotion for granted. He had forgotten one fundamental truth: elite bomb technicians never hesitate. It was high time I defused him like the ticking time bomb he was.

The staff member handed the marriage certificate back to me. "Mr. Evans, this marriage certificate is a forgery. According to our records, Mrs. Fielder's spouse is Marcus Brown. They have a six-year-old son together." The words on the certificate blurred before my aching eyes. I held my daughter tightly in my arms as my ears rang. A second later, my phone vibrated. A message had arrived from Marcus, Natalie's assistant and her legal husband. Marcus: [Matthew, my wife is at our son's parent-teacher conference. She doesn't have time to register your illegitimate daughter.] I clutched my phone and stared at the message until tears blurred my vision. So I was the other man all along. The grand wedding we'd once held, the years we'd spent inseparable, the marriage I'd been so proud of... None of it had been real. On the way home, I called the woman Natalie hated most, her sworn enemy. "I'm single now. If you're still willing, I'll marry you in seven days," I said.