Contos de Romance sobre After Death e Romances com Marriage

It was my son's engagement party. However, my husband stopped me from giving my soon-to-be daughter-in-law her gift. "His mother will do the honors. This is not your place." I thought he was joking until he put his arm around his childhood sweetheart and sat down together around the main table. "I know Bianca mishandled your baby, but she had postpartum depression, and it was an accident. "She gave you Jason to make up for her mistake. It's time for them to be a family again. She has atoned for her sins." My nails dug into my palms hard enough to draw blood. Just when I was on the brink of losing it, my son raised a toast to her. "Someone has stolen your place for 30 years, Mom, but you'll never have to suffer again." Right now, my husband and son were like strangers I'd never met instead of my family. A bitter smile curled my lips. We'd spent more than three decades together. Time had left its mark on my graying hair, yet I was treated as nothing more than an outsider in a place I was supposed to call home. Perhaps this home was too small to fit all of us. Since that was the case, someone had to bow out and that someone… was me.

When my ex-wife, Clara Quinton, holds a wedding ceremony with her first love, they put me in a coffin. Sha says this is a new immersive experience at the cultural village and asks me to play along with a staged scene where the ex-husband crashes the wedding. The guests gather around the coffin and cheer. The host grins and calls out, "Bury the ex, and may the newlyweds live happily ever after!" Her first love, Kevin Irwin, is dressed in a suit. His eyes glisten with tears. "Clara, is this really okay? After all, Sam has been with you for seven years," Kevin says. Clara gently fixes his hair and says in a soft voice, "Back then, he was the one who forced you to leave the country. Because of that, you got into an accident that nearly ruined your career. "Today, we're only making him lie in there for a little while." Before they close the coffin lid, I desperately grab onto the edge and scream, "Clara, Max is inside the coffin too!" Everything outside falls silent for a moment. Then, Clara lets out a cold laugh and says, "I can't believe you'd make up something so ridiculous. Max went to Southville with your friend, Noah. "There is a ventilation hose in the coffin. The camera is rolling too. So, stop pretending!" The dirt slowly covers the coffin. From inside the coffin, I hear her coldly order, "Let him out when he admits he was wrong and apologizes."

On Christmas Eve, I giddily wait for my husband, Hunter Gibson, to come home while nursing my eight-month pregnancy. Unexpectedly, Hunter bursts through the front door with his childhood friend, Winter Jones, in his arms. I attempt to help him out, only to get shoved to the floor instead. My belly bumps into a corner of the coffee table, causing pain to shoot up my nerves. Cold sweat soon beads on my forehead, and yet Hunter doesn't even spare me another glance. "Get out of my way! Someone drugged Winnie's drink at the bar! If I don't purge the poison out of her, she'll die!" As I shield my belly, I dig out my phone. "I'll call an ambulance for her—" But Hunter snatches my phone away before hurling it at the floor, breaking it into splinters. Then, he grabs me by the neck angrily. "Are you trying to ruin Winnie's reputation? If word gets out, how is she going to live with her head hung high?" In order to prevent me from "ruining his plan", Hunter decides to trap me on the balcony while disregarding my pleas and the fact that I'm only wearing thin pajamas. "You should take some time to cool off! Once you've finally learned your lesson, you're only permitted entry!" I can only slam my palms onto the glass door desperately with tears running down my face. There, I'm forced to watch as Hunter and Winter go at it like desperate rabbits on the carpet in the living room, with the Christmas songs serving as their ambiance. A heavy snowfall has occurred that night. At the crack of dawn the next morning, Hunter finally remembers that I exist. He calls my number, yet my phone was turned off. Furious, Hunter yells, "Where the hell did you go? Winnie's stomach is in discomfort! Get your ass back here right now and cook her some soup!" What he doesn't know is that I'm right outside the balcony door. The thing is, dead people are incapable of answering phone calls, not to mention Hunter has already broken my phone, to begin with.

It had been six months since I died in a car accident, but my wife, Susan Young, still thought I was throwing a tantrum and waiting for me to come home and apologize. Then one day, she suddenly couldn’t find a watch. Her childhood friend, Julian Lane, gave it to her. When it broke, she asked me to take it to a watch repair shop. She called and said angrily, “Quentin, are you finished making a scene? If you don’t want to be with me anymore, we can get divorced. What are you trying to prove? “Where did you put the watch I asked you to get repaired? “Did you hide it from me? After all these years, you still haven’t stopped being jealous of Julian!” Then my sister’s voice came through the phone. “Congratulations, Susan. Quentin is dead. He’ll never be jealous of Julian again.”

At my wedding to my longtime boyfriend Adrian Grey, my younger sister Lydia Hastings burst through the doors in a wedding dress and announced that she was carrying his child. My parents shielded her. Everyone urged me to step aside. Adrian held my hand, his voice gentle. "Let her have today's wedding. Go stay at the southern estate. Once the baby is born, I'll make it up to you." He wanted her as his wife and me as the woman he loved in secret. I slipped off the engagement ring I had worn for five years, placed it in his palm, and walked out of the church alone. But yielding only brought an even more brutal reprisal. Lydia locked me inside a burning room, and my parents and the man I loved sent me to prison to take the blame, all to preserve the family's reputation. Lydia even had me tortured. Wearing my navy blue coat with Adrian's brooch pinned to the collar, she smiled at me through the iron bars. "Evelyn, you look pathetic in there." Three days later, my mother finally arrived at the prison with the bail papers. But all the warden handed her was a stamped death notice. "Too late. Miss Hastings is dead."

After my divorce, I went to the southwest mountainous regions to volunteer for rescue work, where two years passed in the blink of an eye. One day, our daughter gets diagnosed with aplastic anemia, and her life can only be sustained through a bone marrow transplant from me. It's only then that my ex-wife thinks of me. She heads to the mountains with a group of bodyguards and searches everywhere, but she can't find a trace of me. She thinks I have deliberately hidden myself from her. "As long as you're willing to donate the bone marrow, I'll promise you visitation rights to see our daughter in the future." However, the townspeople tell her that I have long since passed away. She frowns slightly, her expression full of impatience as she says, "I never thought that, after all these years, he would still play these childish games." In the end, she searches high and low, only to unearth my bones.

My husband, Mason Crawford, is a renowned obstetrician-gynecologist with more thank-you greeting cards from patients than I can count. But when I start bleeding during my first trimester and rush to the hospital to see him, he kicks me out. "Family doesn't get special treatment. Hospital rules. You have to register and wait in line like everyone else." I take his words to heart. I never bother him, not once, for any of my prenatal checkups. That is, until his first love, Vivian Werner, who married and moved abroad, comes back pregnant. That's when everything changes. When Vivian comes in for her prenatal checkups, he personally pulls strings to arrange a VIP room for her. And the checklist of tests he draws up for her is even more detailed than the one he gave me. Vivian says she's scared something might happen to her baby, so he brings in the best medical team to watch over her 24/7. I find this unfair, so I complain to him about it a lot. But Mason simply wipes away my tears gently. "She's divorced and pregnant. She's already got it hard enough. Do you really have to be jealous over this, too?" Since I can't think of a comeback, I have no choice but to bite my tongue and bottle up my feelings. Then, on my way to get a fetal heart-rate monitoring test, I get into a car accident. I call him countless times, but he never comes to sign the consent forms. The surgery ends, and I hold our stillborn baby in my arms. I want him to come see our daughter one last time, but he still doesn't pick up. It isn't until the sun goes down that his buddy calls me with the "good news". "Leah, Vivian's given birth. It's a boy. I've never seen Mason's hands shake like that before. You should go get a gift and bring it here as soon as possible. Mason says he wants to become the baby's godfather." So this is why he hasn't picked up. He's busy delivering his ex-girlfriend's baby.

My husband, Brandon Robinson, threw me a rehearsal funeral for the sake of his first love, Aylin Blessen. He said Aylin had witnessed her family burn to death and had been terrified of death ever since. The cure was to pick someone close to her, put that person through a full funeral process, and then have them reappear on the seventh day. Only then would she be healed. So, Brandon revoked my keycard access to our house, announced my death to everyone we knew, and sent me to a death simulation facility. I was not allowed to contact anyone for seven days. Aylin sobbed as she personally picked out my burial clothes. "Leanna, you only have to be dead for seven days. But this funeral could save my life." Brandon put my phone in a drawer. "You'll be alive and well through the whole process. What's the harm in doing this for Aylin's sake?" On the day of the rehearsal, Aylin shoved me into the facility's old cold storage unit. Then, she went back to the funeral hall and told Brandon I had run away. His expression darkened as he burned my portrait. "Since Leanna won't play along, then for these seven days, she's dead to me." My soul sat in the corner of the funeral hall and watched them hold each other as they "mourned." Brandon did not know it yet, but this rehearsal funeral was no longer just a rehearsal.

My wife's first love crashes his car into me at 75 miles per hour, throwing my body over 65 feet across the road. As I am moments away from drawing my last breath, I use the remainder of my energy to call my wife. Focused on helping him cover up his crimes, she brushes me off before hanging up. "I'm busy—stop bothering me," she spits. Little does she know, the man who was just killed… is me.

After three years of haunting forensics, the sadistic killer is finally caught. They question him about whether he's hidden any other bodies. Glenn Harris sits shackled hand and foot, but his eyes gleam with an excitement and madness he couldn't contain. "Of course!" He flashes a sly grin and says, "My sculpture instructor was my very first masterpiece. I encased her in plaster while she was still alive. "Her face had turned purple, yet she was still begging me to spare her children. I wouldn't have won that competition if it weren't for her expression. It looked so real." The detectives fight back their revulsion and demand to know why he did it. A knowing smile spreads across Glenn's face. "One of my juniors wanted her husband. She didn't want to be the bad guy, so I took care of it for her. "And once she'd become his partner, I was able to stay one step ahead of that brilliant detective for three years." In just three years, this detective has caught 20 fugitives who'd been on the run for 25 years or more. And yet, Glenn has slipped through his fingers 33 times. The detective in question is my ex-husband, Tobias Clark.

I died in the year my husband hated me most. Unable to endure his endless silent treatment any longer, I swallowed a bottle of pills and ended my life. At the crematorium, watching the flames roar inside the furnace, he allowed himself a rare smile. “Someone as vile as her doesn’t deserve to be laid to rest whole.” So when the staff handed him the urn, he flipped it over. My ashes scattered across the floor in an instant. All this time, he had believed I was responsible for the death of his first love. That belief was why he had schemed and plotted for years, all for this precise moment of final desecration. When it was over, he stepped over my ashes and walked away without looking back. Though not long after that, he fell to his knees and begged the crematorium to give my ashes back to him.

I made a deal with the Devil. My soul, in exchange for seven days on earth after I died. The eleventh hour after my death happened to fall on our third wedding anniversary. The moment I walked through the door, he had just come home from another woman's place. He had an anniversary gift waiting for me. A set of sapphires. But the card tucked beside them bore another woman's name. I spotted a pale lavender hair tie in his hand. Once, I would have fought him over a hair tie like that, all the way from the front hall to the study. This time, I said nothing. It was him who froze instead, staring at me like I was a stranger. "You didn't used to be like this. I almost miss the way you used to fall apart over everything." He was right. The old me would have thrown a fit over something as small as him forgetting to cut my steak. But ever since the miscarriage, my heart had been dying by slow degrees. When I found out I was pregnant, I was overjoyed. I wanted him to be the first to know. But I couldn't reach him, no matter how many times I called. I lost the baby. I hemorrhaged. That very afternoon, while I lay on the operating table, a photo of him and that woman hit the entertainment headlines. He never even knew I had carried a child. Now there was only one last thing I wanted from him. To drive me up to the northern coast, and bury me with his own hands. But when he realized I had truly vanished from this world, he came undone.

On my birthday, my wife, Selena Zane, slices off my ear. She does it just because her first love, Yale Sullivan, makes some nonsense. I scream and beg her to stop, but she ties me up and lets Yale dump leeches straight into my open wound. "Don't worry," she says casually. "He's a freak who can't feel pain. You can do whatever you want with him." Eventually, I go into shock and die from the excruciating pain. Only then does she regret what she has done. Consumed by remorse, she tortures Yale to death, believing it is the only way to make up for my death.

On the day I found out I was dying, Evan Buck, my husband, came home with a “dating contract” he had signed with his assistant, Cherry Mello. “She threatened to kill herself if I didn’t agree to date her for three months.” He continued with a sincere gaze. “But don’t worry. It’s just indulging a young girl’s wish. You’re the one I love. I promise you, after three months, she’ll resign, and we’ll never hear from her again.” I knew that when Evan made up his mind, there was no talking him out of it. Just like how I had long seen the unmistakable longing in Cherry’s eyes when she looked at him. However, he said I was overthinking and refused to dismiss her. Looking at the man I had loved for ten years before me, I quietly slipped the terminal diagnosis behind my back. Three months. What a coincidence. That was exactly how much time I had left.

My wife had such a compassionate heart that she brought the young homeless man outside our apartment home for dinner, then demanded I give up my room so he could stay there. She spent the entire down payment I had saved on designer clothes for him and took him to five-star restaurants. She said she was only helping him and told me not to be so petty. Then, I got sick and ended up in the hospital. I called my wife and asked her to use the emergency funds in our bank account to pay for my surgery. She agreed right away. Despite that, I waited an entire day and missed the surgery, and the doctor told me I had only one month left to live. She never brought the money. Instead, I saw the photos she had posted on social media during her travels. My wife leaned against the homeless man in front of a famous landmark, smiling like she had everything she wanted. The caption read, "Wyatt said he's never been to any famous landmarks, so even if I have to spend every last cent, I'm going to take him around the world so he won't have any regrets. Also, someone was so afraid I'd spend money on Wyatt that he lied about being sick. He has no compassion at all!" Only then did I realize her so-called sympathy was just an excuse for falling for someone else. In that case, I did not want her anymore.

When my husband, a college professor, suddenly asked to sleep in separate rooms, I knew he had developed feelings for one of his female students. Then that student hit our seven-year-old son with her car, leaving him paralyzed. I gave Cedric Langley two choices. Either send her to prison, or make sure she never graduated and force her to spend the rest of her life paying for what she'd done. But when Cedric came home, he dropped to his knees beside me, his eyes rimmed red. "She was so ashamed that she took her own life. I'll never betray you or our child again." He smashed the student's gravestone, burned everything connected to her, and became the devoted husband and father he had once been. Three years after our son was paralyzed, I happened to see a file open on Cedric's computer. "100 Reconciliation Coupons: Usage History." "Coupon No. 100: Forgive Elara for her unintended mistake and help her evade legal punishment." A loud buzz exploded inside my head. Elara Beaumont—the woman who should have been burning in hell for what she had done—was actually his teaching assistant, Evelyn Montrose, living under a new name. One reconciliation coupon was enough for him to completely forgive the woman who had left our son paralyzed. But there was something Cedric did not know. That very day, the last reconciliation coupon between us had just been used up.

The day Ken Bowen and I finalized the divorce, I walked out wearing only the outfit I had worn on our wedding day. I let Ken keep the house, the cars, the money, and the kids. He looked genuinely surprised, then let out a mocking laugh. "Are you sure about this? You raised the girls yourself, and you're just giving them up? If you really don't want anything, then you won't need to pay child support either. That's fair, right?" I signed the papers without hesitation and said calmly, "Yeah. That's fair." Ken paused, then slowly signed his name. "If you regret this later, you…" I lifted a hand and cut him off. I didn't look back as I walked out. Ken used to say I married him for money and status, that I used our three daughters to tie him down. Whatever. The day he saw my dead body, he would finally understand.

A tsunami was coming. My wife was the captain of her ship, and she gave her true love the only chance at escaping, all to protect him. I begged her to save me first, or else I would die in this disaster. She told me impatiently, “Drop the act. Everyone knows you’re a first-rank seafarer. We’d be better off if selfish souls like you really do die!” She had forgotten one thing. I could no longer go into the sea. Not after I developed thalassophobia from saving her.

Seven years after my death, an engagement invitation from my ex-girlfriend arrives at my house. Back then, I had broken up with her in my lowest, most desperate days and married someone else. Now, she has reinvented herself as a rising powerhouse worth hundreds of billions, driven by revenge and eager to see me regret everything and beg for mercy. Unfortunately for her, I am not the one who shows up. She looks around in open contempt, convinced my absence means guilt, shame, and fear. When I finally appear, all she sees is an urn.

The night before our engagement, my fiancée, Yvonne Gomez, died. The police said her car had crashed through a guardrail and plunged into the river. All they found was a bloodstained watch. The entire Gomez family blamed me. "If she hadn't gone out to buy you a wedding ring, none of this would've happened!" "You're a living curse! Wasn't getting your parents killed enough? Now, you've killed your fiancée too!" Ernie Young, a junior she had gone to school with, played her final voice message as he cried. "Don't die for me. Go live a good life." I held her watch and kept vigil at the funeral home for three days. On the fourth morning, I put on the white suit she liked best and went to the river alone. Then, I downed a bottle of poison. "Yvonne, I'm coming to marry you." I had just climbed over the guardrail when cheers erupted under the bridge. Ernie ran up to me, clapping and laughing so hard that tears rolled down his face. "I won! I knew he would come! Yvonne, he fell for it! He was really going to jump into the river to keep you company!" The crowd parted, and Yvonne stepped out holding a bouquet of roses. Her white dress was spotless, and it hurt to even look at her. She turned to Ernie first, her voice indulgent. "Happy now? No more games after this." Ernie put an arm around her shoulders and asked smugly, "Don't I get some credit for testing how much he loves you?" "Of course." She smiled and nodded. "You liked the wedding ring I picked out, didn't you? You can borrow it for a week." Only then did she hand me the roses. "Surprised? Ernie was just upset. He felt like you were taking me away from him, so I went along with it this one time. You don't mind, do you? You've proved you love me. Now, we can go back and get married." I finally understood everything. The accident was fake. So was the recording. It was all a prank Ernie had come up with to appease himself. And Yvonne had personally allowed him to put my life on the game board as a bet. I shook my head as a sharp pain shot through my stomach. "It's fine… There's no going back…"