Obsessive Romance Short Stories & Independence Regret Novels

When the kidnappers shoved a gun into Elena Vaughn's mouth and demanded ten million dollars from her husband, Julian Vaughn was busy with another woman. He focused all his attention on slowly zipping up Chloe Bennett's gown, without a thought for what Elena was going through. Julian only agreed to pay the ransom after Elena said through gritted teeth that the kidnappers might actually kill her. Soon after, a transfer landed in the kidnappers' account. Amount received: one dollar. Then Julian's ice-cold voice came through the phone. "Elena, consider this dollar your acting fee. "Chloe's having an asthma attack. I don't have time for your little show." The line went dead. Her face covered in blood, Elena begged the kidnappers for three days. This time, she didn't want his love. She wanted to survive.

On the way back from our pre-wedding trip, the yacht hit a reef and started taking on water. There were five of us on board, and only four life jackets. My fiancé, Ethan Clarke, slipped the last life jacket over my adopted sister Sienna Shaw's shoulders and fastened the buckles for her. "I might as well tell you the truth now. "Sienna's pregnant with my baby. Nothing can happen to her." Before I could say a word, Owen Ford, my childhood friend, stepped in front of me. "You've had years of happiness that should've been hers. This time, give her a chance to live." My brother, Adrian, wouldn't meet my eyes. "Mom and Dad know about it too. You've always been a better swimmer than Sienna. You'll figure something out." Sienna cradled her belly and looked at me through her tears. "I'm sorry. But out of five people, someone has to stay behind." So this pre-wedding trip was really just a celebration of their baby and a farewell they'd planned for me. The yacht slowly began to sink. They jumped into the sea, and not one of them looked back. Half an hour later, a rescue boat came cutting through the waves. I stayed in the cabin, yet I was the first to be rescued. If five was too many, I'd be better off alone.

Max Siegel loved me deeply and promised me the grandest wedding anyone had ever seen. However, just three days before the big day, everything changed. The custom-made wedding dress he'd ordered for me was given to his stepsister, Fawn Lewis, and instead, he handed me a pill—one that could erase memories. “Kate,” he said, “I don’t want to hurt you, but Fawn has just been diagnosed with terminal cancer. She doesn’t have long. Her last wish is to marry me. I can’t have her leave this world with regrets. “This pill will make you forget everything about us for a few days. But don’t worry. After the wedding is over, I’ll give you the antidote, and you’ll remember everything again. Then, I’ll give you the wedding you deserve.” His tone left no room for negotiation. Without hesitation, I took the pill and swallowed it. However, what he didn’t know was that I developed that drug myself, and there was no antidote. Three days from now, I would forget the man I loved most—him. And once that happens, there’s no turning back and no chance to start over.

In the third year after my fiancée, Iris Ford, falls off a cliff during a sketching trip in the mountains, I accidentally walk into her personal art exhibition. The person I have longed for day and night is right there, gently adjusting the scarf of the young man beside her. The walls are covered with portraits she once promises to paint only for me, but every subject of her paintings is that young man. Violet Bardot, Iris' best friend and the one who once helps me handle her funeral affairs, grabs me anxiously. "Graham, don't do anything rash. Iris has her reasons. After Jack Glenwood saved her, she suffered from a head injury and lost her memory. She didn't mean to stay away." I smile at how ridiculous she is. "It's one thing if Iris lost her memories, but did you lose yours too? Since Iris is still alive, why do you not bring her back? You've watched me live in pain and misery for three years. I had to rely on sleeping pills just to get by. Do you find that amusing?" Violet falls silent and doesn't dare to look at me again. The young man named Jack hides behind Iris timidly. In the next moment, Iris turns to look at me with a frosty expression. "Mr. Stevens, I do not wish to go back. The person I love now is Jack. Since I've forgotten my past, just treat it as memories from a previous lifetime."

Five years ago, my family went bankrupt. When I had nowhere left to turn, it was my rival, Grant Ford, who threw me a lifeline. He paid off all our debts on one condition: I had to marry him. I assumed the marriage was revenge he'd been planning for years. Instead, for five years, he treated me like I was precious. He never even raised his voice at me. When my anxiety grew worse, he slept beside my bed for months and held my hand through every panic attack. Little by little, I let my guard down. For him, I even dulled my edge. Then, out of nowhere, an intern joined the company. She wore the clothes I used to love. She even copied the way I pitched ideas when I was younger. And she stole the project I'd spent eight months of late nights landing, all while I was pregnant. But Grant only smiled at her indulgently. "Let her try. It's good for young people to have some drive." When he turned to me, his voice was cool. "You've gotten too cautious lately. Let her take the lead on the project." I looked down at the milk stain on my sleeve from feeding our baby, Jamie. That was when I understood. He loved the defiant woman I'd been, not the wife he'd worn down. No wonder he was so eager to find a stand-in for the younger, sharper woman I'd been. But a replacement only gets her turn once the original leaves the stage. If he was so impatient, I'd give him what he wanted.

A few weeks before the wedding, my brother Adam, my childhood friend Liam Foster, and my best friend Celia Brooks moved into the house I shared with my fiancé, Julian Reed. From that day on, the smart lock seemed to forget who I was. The lock wouldn't recognize my fingerprint, and my code never worked. I kept getting locked out. Every time, Julian said, "There's nothing wrong with the lock. You're doing it wrong." My brother thought I was making a fuss over nothing. "Stop blaming everything on the lock. Everyone else can get in. Why can't you?" Liam tried to calm me down too. "Don't ruin everyone's mood over a stupid lock." Yesterday, I stood doubled over with stomach pain, trying the lock over and over. My fingers were stiff from the cold, and I still couldn't get into my own home. Just then, the others came home. Celia pressed her finger to the scanner, and the lock clicked open. I stood frozen outside the door. Julian shook his head. "We're getting married soon, and you still can't figure out how to unlock a door?" The next day, I had a repairman look at the lock. After checking it, he told me, "Nothing's wrong with the lock. Only four fingerprints are registered, and the code was recently changed." So the lock that was supposed to let me into my own home had been keeping me out all along. I checked the lock's access log, then texted the wedding planner, "The wedding is off."

The day before our wedding, I received an expensive suit from my wife. Not long after, her young lover called me, his voice trembling. "I'm sorry. It was my fault. My bad for mixing up your size. Please… please don't blame Sylvie." On the other end, I could hear Sylvie soothing him gently, patiently, until he calmed down. I stared at the plane ticket in my hand—a one-way trip out of the country—and calmly asked her for a divorce. Then, as if I no longer mattered, she left me with a single, cold sentence. "Just don't regret it."

On the day of my mother's funeral, I sat outside the chapel, crying so hard I could barely stand. Three days earlier, my father had told me she'd died in a car accident. He said her body was so badly damaged that I shouldn't see it. I wouldn't be able to handle it. I believed him. I put on a black dress and sat beside her casket all night. Ten minutes before the cremation, my phone buzzed. A notification popped up for a hotel livestream. I opened it and froze. My mother was on the screen in an evening gown, smiling as my younger sister, Nina Whitmore, handed her a glass of champagne. My father sat beside her, his eyes red. "From now on, Nina doesn't have to live in Evelyn's shadow or suffer in silence." My brother smiled and dropped a set of keys into Nina's hand. "The condo is yours now. Adrian is inside waiting for you." My whole body went stiff. Adrian Cole had been my fiancé for eight years. He was supposed to be here with me, mourning my mother. The camera shifted, and there he was, standing in the condo doorway and brushing a hand over Nina's hair. I'd sold the little cottage my grandmother, Rose Bennett, had left me just to afford the down payment on that condo. Only last night, Adrian had held me and said, "Once your mom's funeral is over, we'll move in." Now he was holding my sister and telling her something else. "Don't cry. This is our home now." Then I heard footsteps behind me. I turned around. My mother stood in the chapel doorway, still wearing the same evening gown from the livestream. The smile on her face hadn't even fully faded. "Evelyn, I had no other choice. Your sister has loved Adrian since she was little. Adrian already gave you eight years. Can't you let Nina have him now?" I looked at the black-and-white portrait surrounded by flowers. The woman in that photo had such a warm, gentle smile. But the woman standing in front of me had just buried me alive.

My husband, Arthur Banks, had just been promoted to colonel and ordered to report to his new post in Miami immediately. Under the military relocation program, he could bring two family members with him. Our neighbors envied me. They thought my daughter and I would have a better life in Miami. But I knew he'd already promised those two spots to his widowed adopted sister, Emily Carter, and her daughter, Lucy. In my last life, his decision had hurt and angered me so much that I'd filed a complaint. That forced Arthur to change the list. A few years later, Arthur came home a success, ready to take Emily and Lucy to Miami, only to learn that Emily had sunk into depression and died. He took Lucy, thin and frail, back to Miami with him and divorced me. Soon after, he sent his own daughter more than 1,000 miles north to learn etiquette. No one expected the car to get caught in a blizzard on a mountain road. My daughter's body was never found. But he wasn't the least bit heartbroken. He even told everyone that Lucy was his real daughter. "Isabelle is your own daughter! How could you be so heartless!" When I confronted him, he backhanded me across the face. "If you hadn't filed that complaint, I could've taken Emily away from here, and she never would have died of depression! "You two killed her, so it's a life for a life!" Hatred swallowed me whole. I soaked the house in gasoline and dragged Arthur into the flames with me. When I opened my eyes again, Arthur and I were both back on the day he filled out the list of dependents.

Everyone knew I, Isabella Marino, was Vince Moretti's greatest weakness—the one thing the mafia boss would never tolerate being touched. Years ago, when I was kidnapped, Vince disarmed himself at gunpoint, risking death to get me back, even paying his entire fortune for my ransom. To keep me from harm, he walked a razor's edge, navigating danger at every turn. After I got pregnant, he waited on me hand and foot, barely letting my feet touch the ground. There were rumors that he kept a pampered mistress outside—some woman he spoiled rotten. I never believed them. But then she flaunted herself in front of me. To beg for my forgiveness, Vince cut off his own finger. The next day, that woman slapped her pregnancy test results in my face, sneering, "Vince wanted a baby with me so badly, he just couldn't help himself!" I was already frail. The shock and rage sent me into a miscarriage.

When our SAT scores came out, my four childhood friends came over to my house for drinks. Halfway through the night, someone suggested a game of truth or dare. When it was my turn, my stepsister, Selena, dared everyone to show which colleges they planned to apply to. The four of them opened their laptops. Each screen showed an application preview for the University of Alaska. Liam, the childhood friend I'd had a crush on for years, sent me a draft application with my information already filled in and pointed to my SAT score: 1580. "We said we'd be together forever. "You haven't applied early decision to an Ivy yet anyway. So how about it? Do you dare go to the same college as us?" So, in front of everyone, I added the University of Alaska to my application. Amid the whistling, Liam leaned down and kissed me deeply, his answer to my confession. The day my acceptance letter arrived, I took a bag of freshly baked muffins to Liam's house. But from inside, I could hear several of them talking about me with contempt. "Is Catherine really going?" "Of course. I watched her submit the application myself!" "Thanks to Selena, a few fake application pages were enough to get rid of that annoying tagalong." "Come on. If you ask me, Liam has it worst." "Relax, man. This little dating game will be over soon. School starts any day now." I froze, clutching the paper bag. Then the door opened. My four childhood friends came out, with Selena in the middle of them. The moment they saw me, their smiles vanished.

My husband, who's a negotiation expert, allows his intern to recklessly anger some criminals. It causes me, the hostage, to suffer severe injuries in the explosion, and my right leg breaks because of it. Yet, my husband once again issues a letter of forgiveness for her. "My wife, as a reporter, ignored warnings and forced contact with the criminals to get the scoop. The main responsibility lies with her. Kimberly, being a newcomer, should not bear major fault." I don't cry or make a scene. I simply pull out a divorce agreement. However, he sneers at me. "I know you're just jealous and want me to comfort you, but don't cross the line." For the past three years, I've brought up the topic of divorce 47 times, and each time, he treats it like I'm just throwing a tantrum. But it's different this time. His name has already been signed on this divorce agreement. As long as I add my signature to it, it will take effect immediately.

Married to Jasper Brook for six years, I found out that he was keeping a mistress under his wing. She was stunning but timid, shrinking back at the slightest raised voice. Because of this, Jasper never lost his temper around her. He indulged her fragility and treated her preciously. However, the mistress wasn’t as obedient as she appeared. When she stirred up trouble with me, Jasper’s patience snapped, and he unleashed his fury on her. The next day, she sent me a photo of her neck covered in hickeys. “Selena, Mr. Brook is so scary. I’m terrified.”

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.

Lily Harper was my husband Victor Carter's first love. The day she got divorced, Victor dressed up and headed out with the newest toy on the market for her son. That was the day I started teaching our son, Arthur, to call him "Mr. Carter." He skipped Arthur's first-day-of-school assembly to take Lily's son, Leo, to an amusement park. I told Arthur, "Mr. Carter has a lot of work to do." When Lily called to say her place felt empty, Victor walked out on us on Christmas Day. I comforted my heartbroken son. "Let Mr. Carter go do his work. Mommy will always be here with you." Later, the two boys got into a fight at school, and the teacher called us in. Victor stood across from Arthur and me, right beside Lily. Arthur clenched his fists. "Mr. Carter, your precious Leo hit me first." When we got home, Victor realized how badly he'd hurt Arthur and decided to throw him a huge birthday party. In the middle of the party, Lily called again, crying because Leo had a fever. Victor put his phone down and gave Arthur an apologetic look. "I'm sorry, I..." Arthur looked back at him, his face blank. "It's okay, Mr. Carter. I have Mom. That's enough."

Loving Murphy Townsend was a secret Gemma Kirk could never share. Murphy was not just anyone—he was her uncle. She was the cherished rose he nurtured, but he was the forbidden love she could never confess to.

I watched as my boyfriend put the ring that he had promised to give me on Sophie White's finger at her birthday party. When I questioned him, Mark Goodman shrugged nonchalantly. "I promised to marry Sophie. Since that's not happening now, the ring is compensation." I was left speechless from rage and so disenchanted that I decided to cut all ties with him. Everyone was cheering when Mark later showed up at a gathering with Sophie, both wearing a matching set of rings. But when they all thought I would make a scene, I smiled faintly. "You two really deserve each other. When are you getting married? Do send me an invite."

For another girl, Lex Hamilton—my fiancé of several years—dumped me in the middle of nowhere and left me to fend for myself. Three years later, he showed up with her to bring me back. "It's been three years," he said. "Even a dog would've learned its lesson by now. I did this for your own good. If you don't fix that attitude of yours, don't expect to ever become my wife." They thought I'd crumble. They thought I'd beg, cling to him, and unload all the pain and humiliation I'd carried for the past three years. Instead, I smiled. "Sorry, Mr. Hamilton. I'm already married."

Coming home from a late shift on a winter night, my fingers were stiff with cold. The first thing I did was head for the bathroom. Ethan stopped me, a bowl of late-night leftovers in his hand. “What took you so long? Rena’s in the bath. Just wait a bit.” I glanced at the clock. It was already eleven thirty. “I have to be up at six. Could you ask her to finish earlier next time?” He frowned. “It’s just a bath. Do you really have to make an issue of it?” When we’d been apartment hunting, I suggested getting a place with two bathrooms. Ethan insisted on this one because it was close to his and Serena’s office. Their commute was ten minutes. Mine meant three transfers and nearly four hours round trip. Back then he’d said, “I’ll drive you to and from work. You won’t have to cram onto the subway.” Six months later, not once. The bathroom door opened and Serena walked out in my bathrobe. “Sorry, Quinn, I didn’t know you’d still need to shower this late. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have soaked so long.” Ethan immediately grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around her, then bent down to towel off her wet hair. “Don’t worry about it. You don’t owe her an apology. She’s just tired from work. On edge.” A sudden wave of weariness washed over me. I set down the towel I’d been drying my hands with and slipped off my engagement ring. “Right. On edge.” “So this place is all yours.”