Male POV Romance Short Stories & Cheating Novels

On my very first night working the overnight shift at the new hospital I've been transferred to, I run into my wife, Willow Jensen, who claimed she needed to be away on a year-long business trip. Now, she's lying on a gurney outside the delivery room, heavily pregnant, with blood pouring from beneath her. The man kneeling beside her grabs my hand tightly, his desperate pleas ringing in my ears. "Doctor, please! You have to save her!"

Everyone knew Sienna Wolfe had many boyfriends. But I was the only one she publicly recognized as her official boyfriend, all because I was foolish enough to give her everything. Recently, Sienna had become obsessed with rock climbing. To buy her the best gear on the market, I took a part-time job at a high-paying chemical plant. I never expected that job to give me leukemia. When I got the test results, I stood outside the hospital, my hands trembling as I held the test results. I called Sienna in complete despair, telling her I was sick. Yet, all I got was her irritated voice. "Then go to the hospital. What do you want me to do? I'm not a doctor." Just before the call ended, a man's voice came through clearly from her side. "Babe, come try the new gear. I designed this especially for you. It'll fit your body perfectly."

I find cigarette ashes on the passenger seat of my wife's car. She brushes me off, saying, "My new assistant left it there. He's not the most sensible." When I ask for a divorce, she stares at me in disbelief. "Just because of that?" "Yeah. Just because of that!"

At our company dinner, my girlfriend, Katherine Hale, makes a detour to get some treats. She hands a glass of juice to my childhood friend, Mark Langley, who is sitting opposite us. Then, she sets down a cup of yogurt in front of me. Mark thanks her with a smile. "How thoughtful of you! You remembered I can't have iced drinks because of my gastric issues." I stare at the cup of yogurt with mango bits in it. Then, I nudge it further away from me, my expression blank. "What's the matter?" Katherine asks casually. I respond, "I'm allergic to mangoes. Did you forget that again?" She freezes for a moment. Then, she smiles and shrugs. "Come on, it's no big deal. Just pick out the mango bits." But she never forgets that Mark doesn't want any cilantro or onion in his food. Also, he only accepts chilled juice without any ice or sugar. Meanwhile, I have difficulty breathing if I take even a single bite of mango, but she thinks it's fine as long as I pick them out. Turns out, if one is biased enough, they can overlook even matters of life and death. On our way home, I sit in the back seat as usual. I look at the two people in the front, who seem perfect for each other. All of a sudden, I feel relief washing over me. Katherine can't even remember my allergies, so what am I holding onto this relationship for?

As I was rummaging through the trash for leftovers, my wife, who had died three years ago, suddenly showed up. She stepped out of the Voyce and looked down at me from above. “Honey, you really did pass my test.” I was holding some moldy stale bread. I stared at her in bewilderment. It turned out that three years ago, at a class reunion, the school heartthrob she had once dated had suggested it. “I wanted to see if your love is real.”

My wife, Sienna Fairchild, has one ironclad rule. Every Monday, she has dinner with her brother-in-law. During that time, she turns off her phone and blocks every message. Nothing, no matter how urgent, takes priority over their little family gathering. Then one day, our daughter falls down the stairs at preschool and breaks her arm. I call Sienna over a dozen times, but not a single one goes through. With no other option, I call her brother-in-law instead. "Abby got hurt at school. Can you have Sienna come to the hospital?" The other end goes quiet. Just when I think the call has been dropped, Sienna's voice comes through. "My whole day belongs to them. Don't bother me unless it's actually important." The line goes dead. I stand frozen, staring at my daughter crying on the hospital bed. She looks up at me with red, tear-filled eyes. "Daddy, does Mommy not want me anymore?" I choke back the lump in my throat as exhaustion washes over me. Maybe it's time to find my daughter a new mother.

My fiancée, Harper Turner, kept a young lover at her private estate, and his features looked almost identical to mine when I was younger. She bought Dylan Cole limited-edition sneakers, took him to exclusive venues, and made sure he never crossed paths with me. Everyone in our circle knew I was the one boundary she would never cross. She had even bought the coffee shop I frequented simply because I'd once casually remarked, "The coffee here is really good." But this time, her pampered little lover had grown bold. He filmed a private video of himself with my fiancée and slipped it into the promotional video for our wedding. "Mr. Parsons, I know I'm only her kept man, but Miss Turner switched your vitamins with sleeping pills just so she could come see me. "While you two were preparing for the wedding, she kept increasing the dosage and coaxing you into taking them. She only wanted to make sure you were asleep so she could spend the night with me." That was when I finally realized that the woman who once would have stolen the stars from the sky for me had changed a long time ago. I wiped away my tears, closed the video, and dialed a number I hadn't called in years. "Seven days from now, I'm turning our wedding into a funeral. And I'll make sure she can never find me again."

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."

Mom is hospitalized for 20 days with a serious illness. My girlfriend, Nicole Davis, works as a doctor at the same hospital. Still, she doesn't visit Mom at all. On the first day, Nicole takes time off to help her childhood friend, Kevin Shaw, move. On the second, Kevin starts interning at the hospital, so Nicole spends the entire day showing him the ropes and taking care of every little thing for him. The third day passes, then the fourth. Mom's room is on the 13th floor, while Nicole works on the 17th. They're only four floors apart, which means a ten-second elevator ride or a two-minute walk down the stairs. Still, 20 days pass without Nicole ever making it down those four floors. On the day Mom is discharged, I take her to the train station alone. While we're on the way, I finally receive a text from Nicole. "Kevin's dog is getting vaccinated today. I need to take it to the vet first." This time, I finally break my silence. "Okay, got it. Be safe." Then, I smile and add, "And one more thing. We're done."

It was my and my wife Camille’s ninth wedding anniversary. I had rushed home with a fertility specialist in tow, hoping to surprise her. However, when I pushed the front door open, the house was already full of laughter. I walked in, heart pounding, to find Camille holding a little boy by the hand. Her voice was soft and warm. "Today is Miles's first day of school celebration. I want nothing but the best for my baby." Camille heard me come in and turned around. She walked toward me, snatched a pot of hot soup off the table, and flung it straight at me. "How many times do I have to tell you? I'm married! I have a family! Stop trying to get me to have your kids, you freak!" I fought through the pain in my arm and grabbed her, desperate for an explanation. She wrenched free and slapped me hard across the face, then grabbed everything within reach and hurled it all at me. "If you don't get out of here, I'm calling the cops, you psycho!" Then she winked at me, took the boy by the hand, and walked over to the elderly couple nearby. "Mom, Dad, don't worry about him. He's nobody." I stood there, watching the happy family in front of me. I looked down and forced the ring off my finger, the one I had worn for nine years, and tossed the blood-streaked band at Camille. "Camille, deception always comes at a cost."

Three years ago, my girlfriend suffered severe post-traumatic stress after saving my life. She later had a speech impairment that kept her from speaking normally. To cure her, I take on three jobs a day and survive on only bread and water just to come up with the money for her therapy and speech recovery treatment. I happen to be working part-time as a cocktail party waiter one evening when I see my girlfriend, who supposedly has a speech impairment, standing in a fancy dress and being fawned over by the crowd around her. Everyone is calling her "Ms. Holden" and "the heiress of the Holden family". But how can an orphan like her possibly be an heiress?

Yvonne Sharp, my fiancee, and I are at the city hall, intending to get our marriage certificates for the 27th time. The staff member has just called our number when Aaron Sutton, Yvonne's stepbrother, suddenly bends over and grabs his stomach. "My stomach is killing me, Yvonne…" Yvonne immediately supports him, saying, "I'll take you to the hospital right now." Aaron quickly shakes his head. "You don't have to do that. It's a very important day for you and Charlie, so I'll just tough it out, Yvonne." He keeps a tight grip on Yvonne's sleeve despite saying so. Yvonne furrows her brow and says, "You don't have to tough it out. I'll take you to the hospital this instant, Aaron." She hands me the queue ticket after saying that. I look at her and say, "It'll only take ten minutes to register our marriage. Is that too much to ask for?" Yvonne doesn't even spare me a glance. "You've already waited for this moment 26 times. What difference will one more make?" I let out a sudden chuckle after hearing how casual she sounds about it. It turns out that she has always known all along—she has just never taken my waiting seriously. "If we don't register our marriage today, there won't be a 28th time, Yvonne." Yvonne helps Aaron along. She doesn't even bother to look at me as she says, "That's enough, Charlie. I'll go take care of Aaron first." I look down at my phone and pull up the contact information of someone I haven't reached out to in a long time. "Grab your personal documents and get to the city hall within ten minutes."

Jocelyn Nicols was celebrated as the police department's genius detective. I'd spent ten quiet years at her side as her assistant, unnoticed by anyone. By her eighth year on the force, she still hadn't cracked the decade-old cold case that had haunted her career. "You know the rule," she told me. "I won't marry until this case is solved." I didn't say anything back. I just packed her bags for another out-of-town assignment and wished her a safe trip. What she didn't know was that the moment she finally cracked the case and became a household name across the country, I'd just received a notice from the hospital. It told me I was going to die.

I had been dating a photographer for seven years, yet I didn't have a single decent photo of myself. "I only photograph scenery, not people," Nina Jensen said. She even said her last relationship ended because her ex-boyfriend kept asking her to take pictures of him. So for seven years, I stayed quiet. I never asked or brought it up. That was until today, when I came across the latest post from my influencer friend, Julian Locke. [Let me show off my photographer. She's been taking amazing photos of me for seven years for free!] One of the top comments is: [It's an honor to photograph my muse.] The profile picture was completely white. The tone felt familiar, and it sent a chill through my entire body. Turns out, it wasn't that Nina didn't take photos of people. She just never wanted to take mine. 'Nina. If I don't exist in your viewfinder, from now on, you don't exist in my world either.'

At my wedding reception, one of Patricia Ferguson's friends suggests a party game to liven things up. She keeps the rhythm, then points at me. "What's something you see at a wedding?" I look at Patricia beside me and point to myself, beaming. "The groom." My friend, Gordon Palmer, shoots me a knowing look before saying with a smirk, "A pathetic bed warmer." I freeze. I'm about to demand an explanation when Patricia's older sister, Amelia Ferguson, gives me a pointed look and sneers. "The side piece." As the color drains from my face, Patricia gently pats my head. "The truth is, Marvin and I got married last year. If your mother hadn't begged me to take care of you before she died, I wouldn't even be going through with this wedding. "Brad, I know how much you love me. Don't get all hung up on what you are to me." The moment Patricia finishes speaking, my half-brother, Marvin Sawyer, steps onto the stage holding a marriage certificate. Behind him, the screen lights up with an explicit video of me. It's not censored at all, and the audio is loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. Marvin says, "Bradley, your mother was the other woman, and you've followed right in her footsteps. But thanks for throwing yourself at Patricia and keeping her company in bed while I was abroad getting treatment. "All you have to do is get on your knees and beg. Then I'll make it official. I'll let you be Patricia's side piece." My friends exchange mocking glances, smiling as they watch me being humiliated. Turns out every last one of them has known about this, but they've been keeping me in the dark. Their game has reached its grand finale, and I'm the only fool in the room.

I'd just put the condom on when someone started pounding on the door. My wife, Jocelyn Gill, shoved me aside, panic all over her face. I shot a glare at the door. Her adopted brother, Calvin Tyler, stood there, flushed, staring at her. The bulge in his pants wasn't subtle. "Jocelyn, please help me. I feel awful. I think I'm having an episode!" Seeing him like that, nothing like before, my temper snapped. "Then go get treated. Why are you barging into your sister's room? You got no shame? You can't even get married because of this, so now you're wrecking mine?" Jocelyn rushed over and slapped me. "Finley, how can you say that? Calvin's still a kid. How could he think something that disgusting? Before his parents died, they asked me to take care of him. I'm a psychiatrist—if I don't treat him, how do I face them? You're acting nothing like a brother-in-law. Apologize to Calvin right now, or we're getting divorced!" In two years of marriage, I'd lost count of how many times she'd pulled that card over Calvin. Back then, I'd risked my life just to win her. She thought I'd never leave. She was wrong. This time, I was done loving her.

Penelope Rivera's little boy toy, Theodore Schneider, is throwing another tantrum. She slides the divorce papers across the table toward me. "Just sign them for show. It's to keep Teddy happy." I clench the cuff of my suit and nod in silence. I sign my name in one swift stroke. As I'm walking out, I hear one of her girlfriends teasing, "Samuel's way too easygoing. Does he actually do everything you say?" Penelope takes a graceful sip of red wine and smirks. "Wanna bet?" They bet that I will quietly go through with the divorce at the courthouse, even if my eyes are red with tears. Listening their laughter, I rub my thumb over my phone screen and reply to the message I've just received. "Will you marry me?" it says. "I will."

My fiancee, Winona Ziegler, moves her childhood sweetheart, Caeden Gardner, who has just come back from abroad, into our future marital home. When ordering takeout, I add an eight-dollar omelette and a five-dollar caramelized onion soup to the order, but Winona deletes them all in disgust. "Caeden can't stand the smell of onions. Do you want to make him throw up? Can't you just have some plain water?" Moments later, she orders a seafood feast worth a thousand dollars for him, complete with king crabs and a premium seafood boil. Holding a glass of plain water, I watch her fuss over Caeden with endless concern. Then, my phone vibrates. My bank account has just been charged 1,000 dollars. She uses my money to spoil her childhood sweetheart, yet refuses to even buy me an omelette that costs eight dollars. Five years of love completely fall apart in that moment. This time, I don't argue or beg like I used to. I simply pick up my phone and press "Freeze Authorized User Card".

On the day of Claire Brooks, my wife's funeral, a grieving stranger arrived carrying white lilies. After placing them beside her portrait, he walked straight toward me. "I've envied you for thirty years," he said. Confused, I frowned as his eyes lingered on her photograph. "For thirty years, she gave me everything—her love, her time, her money. She never held anything back." He paused before looking at me with quiet resentment. "The only thing she forbade was letting you know I existed." My heart skipped a beat. "What are you talking about?" He let out a bitter chuckle. "It means that while you were married to her for thirty years, she was with me for thirty years too." Then he walked away, leaving me frozen beside her coffin. I stared after him, struggling for breath. Thirty years of betrayal and lies. The shock sent my blood pressure surging, and I collapsed in the middle of the funeral hall. When I opened my eyes again, I had returned to the day Claire and I were supposed to be married. "Nathan Brooks, will you spend the rest of your life with me?" After a long silence, I took the ring from her hand and, without a moment's hesitation, threw it down the drain.

I have a poor sense of direction. I can go to the same place ten times and still not know how to get there. So, Aimee Thornton spends an entire week putting all the streets around school into a hand-drawn map for me. There are no directions on the map, only places named "The Convenience Store With the Yellow Dog at the Door" and "The Old Man Who Sells Terrible Tacos". She ruffles my hair and muses, "How is this one going to survive without me?" But everything changes when our friend, Dean Sullivan, comes home from abroad. During our trip, Aimee tells me to get out of the car and check if we've skidded. My feet have just touched the ground when the car speeds off. She texts me the next second. "There's a rest area about three miles ahead. Dean and I will wait for you there. Dean has a point. You'll never get over your poor sense of direction if I don't give you a push." I end up trekking through the torrential downpour for an hour, desperate and panicking. Aimee suddenly sends me a hand-drawn map with an arrow, and she's added a cute smiley face beside it. "Follow the map, and you'll be there in 20 minutes." Alas, I walk until my calves ache, only for the road to narrow and cut off in a dead end. I call Aimee, but Dean's lighthearted laughter greets me instead. "Hey, man, congratulations on taking the wrong way! "I made a bet with Aimee that you wouldn't notice the arrow she'd drawn on the map was deliberately pointing in the opposite direction. As it turns out, I know you better than she does. "And that means I'm the only one she gets to hang out with for the rest of the trip, since having you tag along will be too much trouble." I hear Aimee's indulgent laugh going off beside him. "A bet's a bet. Whatever you say goes, Dean." The price of codependency is too much for me—so much so that I'll be lost if Aimee decides to up and leave me. I wipe my tears dry. I want to find my way alone this time.