Cerita Pendek Male POV Romance & Novel Marriage

Anya Sawyer and I have been married for eight years. In that time, she brought 99 men back home. One day, I found myself looking at the 100th young man she had brought home ever since we got married. He shot me a taunting look before turning to Anya. "Ms. Sawyer, is this your useless husband?" Anya leaned into her seat and replied with a lazy yes. The young man patted my cheek with a grin. "Tonight, I'll show you what a proper man is capable of." … That evening, I was forced to sit in the living room and listen to their moans all night long. The next morning, Anya ordered me to prepare breakfast for her as usual. I refused. She seemed to have forgotten our marriage was by contract. That day just so happened to be the third-to-last day of our contract.

To help her childhood sweetheart, David Middleton, take my place studying abroad, my wife, Sharon Griffin, destroys my records and deliberately fills in false information, ensuring that I'm permanently denied a visa. She even severely injured my hands before sending me to the Behavioral Reform Center. My mother-in-law, Paula Brown, who has always treated me with affection, takes Sharon's side. "Kyle is so ungrateful. We gave him everything, and he still wanted to get a PhD abroad to find his biological parents. Who's going to take care of me if he's gone?" Sharon snorts. "He's just vain. When he found out I'd turned down Westbridge's offer of admission, he gave me the silent treatment and threatened to divorce me. If I let him go abroad, he'd think he could do whatever he wanted. "As my husband, he has everything he could ever need, yet he still wants to take David's opportunities away from him. Maybe the Behavioral Reform Center can teach him to appreciate what he has." A semester later, Sharon goes to the airport to pick up David, who's returning from his studies abroad. For the first time in a long while, she asks her assistant, Adam Norris, "It's been so long. Has Kyle learned his lesson? Tell him he can come home for the winter break." She doesn't know that I've already died on the very first day she sent me to that reform center.

When I was in a car accident, my fiancee, Celeste Quinn, was celebrating her first love's birthday. I was barely alive when I called her. All I got was her impatient voice. "Ryan Sheridan, what kind of stunt is this now? Are you ever going to stop? "Good. Die, then. Stop bothering me." I didn't die though. I decided to give her and her first love what they wanted. I stopped bothering her. Later, when she finally remembered me, she begged me to come back. I handed her a marriage certificate instead. "Sorry. I'm already married."

Seven years into my marriage, my wife’s assistant Jonah Johnson showed off a multi-million dollar racecar on his social media. The caption was, “I love my job, but I love my boss even more!” As soon as I liked his post, I was blocked from it. My wife immediately called to yell at me. “Jonah just signed a huge contract, so I gave him a little reward. Did you have to scold him on social media over something like that? Don’t push your limits just because I’m kind to you!” I heard Jonah blaming himself and my wife Nia comforting him on the other side of the phone. Before I could say anything else, she hung up on me and blocked my number. The next instant, Jonah posted a screenshot of a million-dollar transfer. I knew that was Nia’s way of consoling and compensating him. This time, however, I did not care anymore.

I'd made plans to spend New Year's Eve with my fiancee, Sophie Bennett. I'd even rushed home with a custom cake I picked up just for us. However, my smile slipped the second I walked in. A photo of Sophie and me that was hanging on the wall was being used as a dartboard. Her guy best friend, Sean Hewitt, had one arm wrapped around her waist while casually throwing darts at it. "Oh, hey, you're back?" he said with a grin. "Perfect timing. We're playing Truth or Dare." The words had barely left his mouth when another dart hit the photo—right in my face. My chest tightened as I parted my lips to call him out. Yet, Sean only laughed. "Wow, hit you again? Guess even fate thinks you two aren't meant to be." Then, he added, all fake innocence, "Don't get the wrong idea, alright? It's just a game. Sophie and I are basically bros. You're not seriously bothered by this, are you?" I stood there, completely still. As I stared at that photo completely riddled with holes, I couldn't help but think it looked a lot like my heart at that moment. Sophie gave him a half-hearted scolding. "Alright, cut it out." But Sean just put on a wounded look and kept his arm around her waist. Sophie only smiled helplessly before turning to me with clear impatience. "Sean's just messing around. Don't stand there with that look on your face and kill the mood. It's just a photo. We can print another one tomorrow. Stop being so petty."

My wife, Natasha Simpson, cheated on me while she was pregnant, but she ended the affair immediately. Her entire family stood up for her. "She's changed. She knows she was wrong. She's pregnant, and that's your child." Pressure came at me from every direction. Everyone expected me to forgive her and be a devoted husband. However, the disgust I felt after her betrayal drove me into depression. Because she was pregnant, I had to keep my temper under control. I endured the racing heart and sleepless nights and forced myself to suffer in silence. The only outlet I had left was an increasingly obsessive fixation on cleanliness. She always spoke to me gently. "It's okay. I'll follow your rules. Once the baby is born, we'll put all this behind us and live a good life together." From then on, she disinfected everything she touched. She had to wear gloves whenever she touched me, and we slept in separate rooms. Yet she never complained. "It's okay. I'm the one who wronged you..." Then, one day, I complained about a strand of hair on the floor. She finally snapped and tore off the protective clothing she had been wearing. "Enough! I cheated, but I ended it. Do you really have to punish me like this? Look at yourself. Do you even look normal anymore? Am I really that disgusting?" She deliberately trashed the house. She smashed plates and kicked over trash cans, all to punish me for my obsession with cleanliness. With her entire family behind her, she took advantage of the fact that I would compromise for the sake of our child and pressured me once again to forgive her betrayal. Something inside me finally broke. I started vomiting blood and was rushed to the hospital. Strangely enough, I felt relieved. "Let's get a divorce, Natasha."

The day the nationwide serial killer, Landis Grant, was executed, I was the one who escorted him to the death chamber. Right before the lethal injection, he turned his head and looked at me with strange, sudden pity. "You know, I only actually killed seventeen people," he whispered, his raspy voice cutting through the silent room. "I deserve to die, no question. But your hotshot lawyer wife? Her death isn't on my tab." Hearing him mention my wife, Valerie Foster, made a hot surge of rage claw up my throat. Three years ago, she was stabbed dozens of times by Landis while protecting crucial evidence. I drove through the night from out of state, only to find her body completely unrecognizable at the morgue. Grief tore through me so violently that I collapsed, coughing up blood, and spent an entire month confined to a hospital bed. For three years, I chased Landis to the absolute edge of hell, risking everything just to drag him in and avenge her. Following the address Landis had left behind, I made my way to a quiet suburban house. The second I set foot in the yard, I froze completely. Valerie was right there, wrapping her arms around her former mentor, Dylan Reed, kissing him with a tenderness that shattered my heart. A toddler, around two or three years old, was swinging back and forth on a wooden swing right beside them. My head throbbed, white noise roaring in my ears. I took a step forward, but someone grabbed my shoulder from behind. It was my chief, Noah Morgan, the man I respected more than anyone on the force. "Valerie is happy now, son," he said quietly, "Do yourself a favor and just walk away. Let it go." I shoved his hand off my shoulder. Unholstering my service weapon, I aimed into the open air and fired three warning shots. "Valerie Foster, you're under arrest for bigamy," I said, my voice dead and completely cold, "Come to the station with me."

At my father's wake, my wife came in carrying her son. The boy was less than two years old. He was not mine. In front of me, in front of every person there to mourn my father, she opened the urn and held the boy over it. I screamed and lunged for the urn. The Vance security team was on me before I cleared the aisle. They held me on the floor. My father's ashes, mixed with the boy's urine, smeared across my face and into my mouth. I could not stop crying. Stella Vance straightened her skirt. "Zane has been crying every night. Our adviser said the ash of an honored elder will calm a child like that. Good for his health." The taste of metal came up the back of my throat. Before I could move, she was already at the door. "Have his ashes dried out by morning. Zane will need it again tomorrow night." By the time I came back to myself, she was gone. I held the rage in. I sent her one message. "You think you're going to do this to my father. You're insane. The divorce papers are coming." After that, every message I sent was blocked. I turned to the woman next to me, the woman who had stood beside me my whole life. And I said, "I will sign the company over to you. Help me bury Vance Group." Cassia Wynn looked at me a long time. "I don't want the company. I want you." I went still. Then I said, "Yes."

When I finally locate my wife, Annabelle Suther, she happens to be nuzzling against a man. There are freshly used condoms littering around them as well. That's when I recall the social media post made by Annabelle's best friend. "Anna is happy once again!" In the photo, Annabelle can be seen kissing a man with her arms around him as they stand in the center of a heart formed by roses. I've left a comment there. "Make sure to use protection." Annabelle, who has always gone against every word I say, actually takes my advice very seriously this time.

The first thing I do after regaining my memories and finding my family is share the good news with my wife, Christine Blackwell. However, I discover that the woman who has shared my bed for three years is already someone else's wife. The marriage certificate she registered with me three years ago is a forgery. The real marriage certificate is the one she secretly registered with Edison Whitman, the factory director's son. She tells me that Edison comes from a far better background. As a distant relative of the Carrington family in Regalton, he can provide opportunities that I never could. She tells me to stop making a scene. What she doesn't know is that the Carrington family in Regalton which she speaks of… is actually my family.

At the height of my career, I became the youngest law professor in the field and married my childhood sweetheart, Daisy Reid. We were known as the "golden couple of the legal world," and in the eyes of many, we were the perfect loving couple. In the tenth year of our marriage, my mother took my son, Caleb Davis, out, and they were involved in a car accident. The driver had been speeding while intoxicated. My mother only had enough time to shield Caleb in her arms before she died on the spot. To my surprise, my wife, Daisy, appeared and sat next to the murderer, James Benton, as his defense attorney in the courtroom. "Our client was just driving normally when the deceased suddenly rushed out in an attempt to stage an accident, which ultimately led to the accident. The deceased party should bear the main responsibility for the accident." Upon hearing that, I stared at her in disbelief. Soon after, anger surged within me. My eyes bloodshot, I growled, "My mom would never stage an accident! I have a witness!" However, the ten-year-old Caleb, who was to testify as a witness, grabbed James' arm and said, "I testify that Grandma was trying to fake an accident by purposely crashing into Mr. Benton's car. Dad even tried to make me lie. I would never hurt Mr. Benton." The moment those words left his mouth, my heart sank completely.

I've used my status as Rachel Drew's childhood friend to cling to her world for twenty years. Everyone knows I'm the headache she can't shake, the one who's always finding some new way to make her life difficult. But the day she picked up her new car, I suddenly reined in every last one of my moods and turned as silent as a ghost. Even Rachel found the change unsettling. She drove back to our shared apartment late that night through the rain, and for the first time ever, softened her tone to explain herself to me. "I didn't let you ride with me tonight because Dennis has a thing about germs. He can't stand the smell of grease and smoke that clings to you from the stew house. "The rain wasn't bad, so I just dropped him off first. Can we please not do the silent treatment again?" So it was Dennis Collin's precious germ phobia again, the one that couldn't stand a whiff of anything that smelled like real cooking. I gave her a thin smile. "It's fine. I don't mind." Not that it mattered. In three days, I'd be leaving abroad for the Le Cordon Violet culinary school in Dufonce, and after that, neither of us would have to worry about who smelled like what.

After I was rescued from a staged kidnapping, my wife, Vanessa, moved out of our bedroom on her own. No matter how I explained, she insisted I had been attacked because I had cheated. Even when I tried to touch her, she screamed and threw up on me. Friends and relatives looked at me with more and more pity. Everyone told me, "Vanessa's a good woman. Stop tormenting her." Even my son snapped, "You're so filthy. Why do you have to force Mom?" From then on, I was branded a cheater and a lunatic. I spent the rest of my life in misery and despair, and in my old age, I ended that wretched life by throwing myself into a lake. Only after I died did I learn that the kidnapping had been staged by Vanessa herself. She used my guilt to make me take care of our son and her father. Meanwhile, she kept herself "pure" for the man she'd never gotten over and lived a carefree life with him. When I opened my eyes again, I had returned to the day I was rescued.

On our seventh wedding anniversary, my wife, Faith Richmond, slapped me in front of everyone. "It's Bridger's birthday. Who do you think you are, showing up here and ruining the mood?" The mockery in her eyes told me she had deliberately invited me here just to humiliate me. Inside the lively karaoke room, I was treated like a servant, ordered around to queue up songs and open bottles while I watched my own wife make out passionately with Bridger right in front of me. After everyone left, a drunk Faith waited for me downstairs. "Who gave you permission to disappear for seven days? This is your punishment. If you ever do it again, get the hell out of the Richmond family! Be careful. After serving me for seven years, you might not get a single penny for it!" The farewell I'd been about to say caught in my throat. I clenched the critical-condition notice in my hand. After a moment's thought, I decided not to take it out after all.

My girlfriend, Madison Carter, claims that men's hearts will rot when they start gaining wealth. Out of love toward her, I give her all of my money. But on my birthday, my severe illness has relapsed due to me not bearing to spend money on medication. So, I can only borrow money from Madison, who's also a CEO. But she begins berating me without asking me the reason why. "You really are an ingrate! I've been sustaining you for so long, and yet you never pledge your loyalty toward me! All you care about is money!" Naturally, Madison refuses to lend me even a single cent. But the next day, she doesn't hesitate to give her first love, Lucas Whitfield, a few million dollars just so he can start a business of his own. I feel my blood turn into ice as I stare at the woman I've loved for ten years. Only now do I realize that she has never loved me before.

Before my mother died, she arranged a marriage for me. My bride-to-be was Rosalind Young, Kingsford's most formidable financial tycoon. Before I married her, I added three clauses to the prenuptial agreement. First, no feelings. Our marriage was purely business. Second, she could live her life however she pleased, while I'd live mine. Third, I would step aside immediately if her true love ever came along. Nevertheless, I would be getting double the alimony. Rosalind was quite pleased that I knew my place. Our marriage was a peaceful one until the day a teenage girl who bore a striking resemblance to her knocked on the door of our mansion and calmly said, "Sir, I'm Rosalind's daughter. She raised me elsewhere. I'm 17."

On our wedding day, Ingrid Walton and I each fold 50 paper stars that have our wishes on them and drop them into the same glass jar. We promise not to open them until our fifth anniversary. And today is our fifth anniversary. She says she's got a meeting at work, so we'll celebrate when she's done. As I can't wait any longer, I twist open the lid and start unfolding mine first. "I hope we celebrate every anniversary together." "I hope I'll always be the number one person in her heart." "I hope we grow old together." Still smiling, I start on hers. The first one says, "Remember to buy him an almond milk latte every Wednesday afternoon." The second one says, "Remember, he has a sensitive stomach. Don't get anything spicy for him." As for the third one, it read, "Remember, he's afraid of thunder. Stay with him whenever there's a thunderstorm." I'm allergic to almonds, so I've never touched an almond milk latte in my life. I love spicy food, and she has never once asked if my stomach's okay. For the past five years of our marriage, every time there's a thunderstorm, she always says the company needs her before leaving me at home. After unfolding all of them, I realize that not a single one out of all her 50 stars has my name in it. As for the almond milk latte, the stomach problems, and the fear of thunder, all of the details point to my friend, Charlie Barker. I hear a key turning in the lock of the front door. Ingrid walks in carrying a cake. "Happy fifth anniversary…" She freezes when she sees the unfolded notes spread across the table. I look up from the pile of paper. "I'll make your wish come true. Go be with him."

My mother, Dahlia Everson, falls seriously ill and has to undergo emergency treatment. The hospital has issued five critical condition notices for her. While fighting back tears, I call my wife, Nina Jeanes. I tell her, "Mom might not make it. Can you come and see her? She has always cared about you the most…" I hear only the sound of someone typing on the other end. After a long while, Nina finally replies, "Death comes for everyone. It's nothing. I have a court hearing tomorrow, so remember to get me breakfast from that restaurant I frequent." Her indifference makes my heart ache fiercely. After ten years of marriage, she remains as cold as ice. She's always this cold and detached, whether toward me or anyone else. Even when Mom is at death's door, she's thinking of tomorrow's breakfast as if the situation doesn't concern her at all. The only time she's ever shown any visible mood swing is when she had an miscarriage a few years ago. I saw her caressing her stomach sorrowfully in the bedroom. Back then, I naively assumed that she wasn't naturally apathetic but simply didn't know how to express herself. One day, I'm on the way home when I see her tussling with a restaurant owner's wife without a care for her image. She looks nothing like an elite lawyer. I hear her yell, "How do you have the nerve to betray Will when he treats you so well?" It's the first time in ten years that I've seen her looked completely unhinged. In that moment, I realize something—her coldness had always been reserved only for me.

After five years of building a business with my wife, Jane Fletcher, our company finally goes public. Right after I close a big business deal, I head home in high spirits, ready to take her to meet my family. She transfers me 100 dollars with a hint of annoyance and says, "Buy yourself a decent shirt to wear for the financial conference on the day after tomorrow." The next day, Ansel Meyer—the underprivileged student she sponsors—shows up in a custom suit worth two million dollars. He says apologetically, "Mr. Crane, please do not be mad at Ms. Fletcher. She just wants to give me the best. Maybe she thinks you are used to these things, so she only gave you 100 dollars." I call Jane, but she replies impatiently, "It is just a suit. Why are you being so petty?" All of a sudden, I no longer want to continue this marriage. So, I make two calls decisively. "Hey, Mitch. I am not going to go through with that 50-million deal." "Mom, hold on to the 300-million wedding gift you prepared for your daughter-in-law."

It was the seven year of our marriage. I found my wife's prenatal test report. She was three months pregnant. After seven childless years, I should have been overjoyed. Except I'd had a vasectomy. I confronted her with the report in hand. She barely reacted. "Is that all the grace you have? This child is innocent. If you choose me, you accept him too. Can't you even make room for one child? No wonder you'll never make anything of yourself." I saw the contempt in her eyes. And just like that, I gave up on her completely. Seven years of marriage, seven years of deferring to her in everything, and all I got in return was betrayal.