Cerita Pendek Melodramatic Romance & Novel Marriage

The day my parents traveled all the way from home to discuss the wedding arrangements, the Miller family—led by Grayson Miller—showed up late. After my third call went unanswered, my mom forced a smile and tried to comfort me. "Maybe they're stuck in traffic. It's no big deal. Your dad and I don't mind waiting." And wait we did—for three hours. Their expressions slowly shifted from eager excitement to quiet sorrow. My dad kept tugging at the stiff, ill-fitting suit he rarely wore. Finally, he couldn't hold it in anymore. His eyes reddened, and his voice trembled as he asked, "Sweetheart… does it have to be him? "I'm not trying to break you two up. It's just—you'll be thousands of miles away from us. If you ever get hurt, your mom and I… we won't be there in time to wipe your tears." My nails dug into my palms. Still, I smiled, helped my parents to their feet, and said: "Dad, Mom, let's go home. Forget the engagement. I don't want it anymore."

I was born naturally dazed, living every day as if I were tipsy. So when Adrian Blake forced his way into my life, I thought he was only playing with me. Every time I failed to run away and he caught me again, I gave him a thumbs-up. "Your hide-and-seek skills are improving fast. I only hid for half an hour and you already found me." And just like that, I muddled through three years of a game where I ran and he chased. Until today. I found out I was pregnant after nausea and vomiting, and I took the report home, wanting to tell Adrian Blake, whom doctors had diagnosed as infertile. But then he got into a car accident and lost his memory. His childhood sweetheart cried as she blamed me. "If he had not rushed back to celebrate your birthday, none of this would have happened." "He has forgotten you completely. I am begging you. Stop clinging to him, okay?" I slowly walked away for a while, my lower belly aching faintly. I had the feeling I had forgotten something. Forget it. I would think of it when I remembered.

In the fifth year of my marriage with Lionel Kruger, I suddenly develop an ability to see everyone's ranking system. To my mom, I'm ranked first. To my best friend, I'm ranked second after her daughter. Even the owner of the breakfast cart in the neighborhood views me as his sixth favorite person in his life. Delighted, I rush off to see Lionel's ranking system. His mom ranks first, whereas Natalie Cooper is ranked second. That's me! I'm ranked second! That piece of news makes me smile throughout the day. That is, until I see an unfamiliar name taking up the sixth spot—Lindsay Sloan. I tell myself that it's fine. I'm ranked second, while she's ranked sixth. But the next few days, I witness Lindsey's name climbing slowly up the ranks to the point she's almost reaching my rank. That evening, Lionel comes home and hugs me as usual. "I missed you." As I stare at the ranking system above his head, I notice that Lindsay, who's now ranked third, is slowly climbing upward as he speaks. "Lionel, who's Lindsey Sloan?" At that moment, Lionel freezes up while hugging me.

Since my bone cancer is already terminal, my doctor asks me if I wish to receive an amputation. My breath is lodged in my throat. After hesitating for a few moments, I end up texting my husband, Jordan Parker. "If I undergo the amputation surgery, I'll get to live for another year. Do you want me to take up the surgery?" One minute before I'm scheduled to undergo the surgery, my phone finally buzzes. "Best wishes." It's the same response as the one I've been receiving for every message I've sent him over the past three years. Of course, Jordan has responded by transferring me money and a note that says "best wishes". I put down my phone quietly. Ever since I've borrowed 500 thousand dollars from him on our wedding night, Jordan has already determined that I'm a gold digger, just like what his friends have been saying about me. That's why Jordan transfers me money when I go through a miscarriage. When I beg him to attend my dad's funeral, he gives me money as well. Half a year ago, I'm diagnosed with bone cancer. The thought about having to live my life with tubes inserted into various parts of my body while lying on my sick bed and waiting for Death to grace me with its presence in the near future triggers a mental breakdown immediately. With tears rolling down my cheeks, I send 97 long audio messages to Jordan. In return, I've received 97 money transfers. Now, I'm about to get amputated just so I can extend my life span, and here Jordan is, fusing beads with his childhood sweetheart, Camille Laurent. As I stare at Camille's romantic social media post and the barrage of comments that wish her and Jordan well, I pluck out the needle with a bitter smile on my face. There is once when Jordan has told me in a tone filled with hatred and resentment that his biggest regret is his decision to call off his engagement with Camille over a gold digger like me. Well, I hope that this time, he won't have any regrets anymore.

My husband, Michael Grant's mistress, Lucy Lovelace, is demanding a break-up with him once again. Heartbroken, he drowns his sorrows with alcohol to the point that he has to get hospitalized due to stomach bleeding. Still, Michael keeps mumbling, "She's the only one who has the guts to treat me like this." Then, he grabs my hand and says, "Darling, you're a woman too. Tell me, how should I appease Lucy this time?" Well, Michael has cheated on me so many times. Lucy is the only one he's ever fallen for so far. My phone buzzes at that moment. It's a text from Lucy. "Mrs. Grant, please keep your husband in check! Don't you have any pride as a woman? Tell him to stop bothering me already!" I just smile mockingly. As always, I don't bother responding to Lucy. On the fifth day of Michael's hospitalization, he spams my phone with countless calls. When the latest call goes through, he questions me emotionally, "I'm hospitalized, you know! Why haven't you shown up at all? Do you even care about me as your husband?" I reply calmly, "I'm worried that if I do show up, you'll fall in love with me again."

I went to the bank to report a lost debit card. The teller casually asked, "Sir, there's a recurring patent royalty payment under your name. Would you like to link it to your new card?" Stunned, I froze. "What patent royalties?" The screen revealed that one of the accounts showed a quarterly deposit of $300 thousand in patent royalties. My mind went blank for a full three seconds. Then I remembered that, five years ago, my wife, Danica Pearson, had handed me a stack of documents, saying it was part of the company registration process. She said I "only understood technology, not business", effectively turning me into a figurehead consultant. I took a deep breath and told the teller, "Link it to the new card. From now on, transfer every payment directly to my personal account." That night, while Danica was overseas on a business trip, she booked the earliest flight home. At 2 a.m., she pounded on my bedroom door.

Ethan Hale was the name every pilot at North Ridge Air Base looked up to. I was Ava Morgan, his wife and his only flight partner. To earn my ace qualification, I had to complete three final evaluation missions within the review period. I failed all three. I refused to accept it as coincidence, so I followed the access logs, flight records, and maintenance files until every abnormal detail pointed to one person. Chloe Bennett. When I took the evidence to Ethan, I heard him arguing with his deputy, Liam Reed, behind the office door. "You are putting Chloe forward for the ace-track recommendation? She can barely hold steady in a back seat," Liam said, his anger barely restrained. "Ava is my wife and my flight partner. Chloe is different. She has nothing." Standing outside the door, I suddenly laughed. Then I turned around and accepted the return offer from the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. Before I left, I gave Ethan three things. And he would regret them for the rest of his life.

At the County Clerk's Office, Logan Dunne's adopted sister folded our marriage application into a paper airplane and launched it across the room. For the ninth time. I was done. Then she went nuclear. "I just don't think you're good enough for Logan! Like, what are the odds you got pregnant five times and lost every single one? Maybe they weren't even his. Maybe you got rid of them on purpose! You're just a used-up tramp!" The whole lobby turned. Every stare hit like a slap. Even the clerk who'd just been calling Raine out now looked at me like I was trash. I started to snap back, but Logan's mom, Claudia, cut me off. "Raine's only acting out because she can't handle Logan leaving her. She was abandoned as a child. She's suffered enough. Be patient with her. "And you're Logan's fiancée. You should understand. Be the bigger person." I looked at Logan. He was smiling, patting Raine's head like she'd stolen a cookie. "You little troublemaker. Don't do that again." Then he faced the clerk. "Could we get another form? She'll behave this time." I slapped my hand over his. Be the bigger person? Big enough to let her trash my name in public? Big enough to let her wreck our marriage license appointment? Fine. I'd be generous. I'd give Logan back to her. I didn't want him anymore.

Yvonne Foster, my wife from an arranged marriage, is a control freak who loves me to her core. From business operations to the smallest details of daily life, she takes charge of everything herself. If someone dares to target me in business, their company is shut down for investigation the very next day. Women who set their sights on me always disappear without a trace. Yvonne always acts as if she can't stand me, but I know she is the kind of person who acts tough on the outside but cares deeply on the inside. This goes on until my parents find their true biological son, and I turn out to be the fake heir. The real heir, Fabian Madden, has spent his whole life in the countryside. I hear that he has an honest, simple personality. But when every bone in my body is shattered, and I'm thrown into an abandoned factory with my mouth stuffed full of blood-soaked dirt, he stares down at me haughtily. "You darn parasite living off a woman! You stole more than 20 years of wealth and privilege that should have been mine. Die! Just die already!" He buries my body in the garden and uses it to nourish a vast bed of roses as a birthday gift for Yvonne. Pointing at the sea of roses, he says ingratiatingly, "Yvonne, do you like this field of roses?"

My mother was critically ill, and I drove five hundred miles back to my hometown alone. At a rest stop, I saw a video online. A young man had posted: "First day driving long-distance as a nervous beginner. My ex followed me for three hundred miles, all the way until I got home safely." In the video, a familiar black Mercedes followed a white car the entire way. The top comment came from a burner account: "I'm the driver's ex. No other meaning. I just couldn't stop worrying. "He's timid, but always tries to act brave. I was afraid something would happen to him. "Please don't overthink it. Don't bother him. I'll feel bad." The internet exploded. "What kind of once-in-a-lifetime devoted ex is this? Get back together already!" I stared at that Mercedes. The plate number was GB-8860V. It was my fiancee Vanessa Tomlinson's car. That morning, she had canceled the plan to drive home with me. She said her company had an emergency project and she could not get away. I had sent her dozens of messages, and she had not replied to a single one. Yet she had time to escort the man she never truly let go of for three hundred miles. My phone buzzed. Vanessa had finally texted me: "Is the interstate jammed? Drive safe."

On Valentine's Day, my wife gave her late sister's widower a fifty-two-thousand-dollar Rolex. "Marcus, my sister may be gone, but that does not mean you should go without the things other men have." Marcus took the watch with barely hidden excitement. "From now on, my son and I will depend on you." My wife thumped her chest and promised she would be his and his son's support from now on. I watched the two of them cling to each other and said calmly, "Ines Sutherland, I want a divorce." She frowned at me. "It is just a watch. What are you jealous about this time?" I smiled faintly and handed over the divorce agreement. "Sign it. Then you can take care of Marcus with a clear conscience."

My younger sister, Noelle Lynch's 18th birthday wish is to personally give me the wedding bouquet at my wedding. That's why throughout the five years of Noelle getting tormented by polio, the sentence that I utter to my fiance, Jeremy Morgan, the most is, "Wait a little longer." I want to wait till Noelle is fully recovered and can give me the wedding bouquet. Only when that time comes will the wedding be held. At first, Jeremy keeps arguing with me over this matter. "You're marrying me, not Noelle! Is it that important for her to attend our wedding? My mom really wants us to have a child! If we're not getting married by this year, then we might as well break up!" Things between us have soured since that day. When Noelle finally recovers from polio at the end of the year and wins the pageant as Miss Global Winner, I specifically give myself a long vacation. Then, I secretly contact the wedding planning company in hopes of moving the wedding date forward. But the staff member asks me in shock, "Didn't Mr. Morgan hold his wedding last month?" She even digs out the backup video from the wedding on her computer. In the video, Jeremy can be seen wearing a white suit. With red-rimmed eyes, he slides a ring onto the bride's finger. Shockingly enough, this bride is Noelle, the very same person who keeps claiming that I'm her salvation. I feel as though I've plunged into an icy abyss. Subconsciously, I log into Noelle's social media account. The first thing I see is a barrage of messages from Jeremy. "Honey, I already told her that I'd go on a business trip for a month. We'll meet up at the airport right on time. "By the way, remember to bring the black lace stockings that I've given you. I'm already looking forward to seeing you wearing them…" I clutch my phone tightly at the sight of the messages. Then, I hail a cab and rush to the airport immediately.

The battery in my artificial heart is about to run out, yet no matter where I look, I can't find the spare battery. When I turn around, I realize that my wife, Tracy Maddox, has installed it in a streaming camera. She is using it to livestream a fundraiser for her sick first love, Gavin Spade, who has a cold. "Come on, everyone. Send more gifts! Gavin feels terrible because of his cold. Once we raise enough money, I'll take him to get the most expensive imported cold injection available!" I am so enraged that my vision darkens for a moment, like I'm about to pass out. I shout, "Tracy, you know exactly what happens if my heart loses power. Are you going to just watch as I die?" Covering the microphone, Tracy turns to me and shouts back, "Gavin has a fever of 102.2 degrees Fahrenheit! Your heart is just out of power. Can't you just wait a little while? Once the livestream is over and we've raised enough money for his injection, I'll give the battery back to you!" Using the last of my strength, I activate the emergency communication system inside my artificial heart and contact the R&D center. "The artificial heart is about to stop permanently. Activating the black box... Uploading evidence of murder in real time..."

On my 30th birthday, my husband, Miles Harrington, was out of town on a business trip. To make it up to me, he had a cake delivered. What arrived at my door was a Superman cake that looked like it belonged at a three-year-old's birthday party. I was about to call him when my phone rang. "Honey, you're not gonna believe this. That bakery messed up my order and sent you the wrong cake." I didn't think much of it. Instead, I posted the story on my social media account as a funny little birthday mishap. Comments started pouring in almost immediately. [Was it really the bakery's mistake, or does your husband have a kid somewhere?] I laughed it off. Miles and I had been together since college. We dated, got married, and built a life together. Other than not having children, we were the kind of couple people envied. But as the post gained traction and the comments kept coming, I decided maybe it was time to delete it. Before I could, I got a direct message from the bakery. [Hi there. I wanted to clarify, the delivery driver didn't mix up the orders. Mr. Harrington bought two cakes. He accidentally swapped the delivery addresses.]

On the day I decide to divorce Evan Beckett, I still make lunch and deliver it to him in person. After he takes a sip out of the soup, he widens his eyes in surprise. "The soup's pretty decent! I'll have it again tomorrow!" I nod in response. "Sure thing. I'll teach the housekeeper how to cook it later." That's when Evan lifts his head to look at me. "You got something going on tomorrow?" "Let's get a divorce, Evan." I sound very calm; so calm that everyone, including Evan, thinks that I'm throwing another tantrum. But what they don't know is that I'll be traveling to the ends of the earth with a research team, where we'll be based in for eternity, in 12 hours.

When the property manager calls me, I'm in the middle of picking out the curtains for my new home while sitting behind my desk. "Ms. Grant, the moving truck hired by your partner is stuck in the underground garage of the apartment. Do you need help dealing with this incident?" My hand, which is clutching the mouse, freezes at that moment. I haven't even received my keys to my new place. How can I possibly be moving my things there now? "But Matthew showed up with the permission slip that you signed and claimed the keys. Right now, he's carrying the bed into the master suite. "He told me that you've given him permission to let your relative, Ms. Rosalie Sullivan, and her child move into the apartment." Rosalie Sullivan. That name makes my head buzz loudly. I have practically worked myself to the bone for ten years to secure the internal allocation that got me this subsidized apartment in the city center. In fact, I've only received the notification that I'll be receiving this apartment yesterday. To think that Matthew Lowe actually has the audacity to receive the keys behind my back and give the apartment to someone else! As for Rosalie, she's the poor widow left behind by Matthew's best friend. She and her child are also the very same people whom I've personally supported out of my pocket and looked after for three years. I clutch my phone tightly at that moment.

My son had a high fever that would not break, so I called my wife. She said I was using our son to make her jealous. Then she turned around and took her first love's son to the hospital over a scraped finger. I looked at my son's pale face and asked, "Do you want a different mom?" My son nodded. Twice. "Mom doesn't like me, so I don't want to like her anymore." Later, I really did give him a different mom, but my wife refused to accept it.

After I get detained in the police station, my husband, Gavin Pratt, specifically comes over to bail me out. But I grip a policeman's arm without letting go. "I'm the one who did it! Hurry up and arrest me!" In my previous life, I was surrounded by the family members of a car crash victim. A bar owner and a saleswoman who sold cosmetics were there as well. They claimed that I had gone into a drunken frenzy and stole perfume from the store. On top of that, I even ran a red light and hit someone with my car. I kept explaining the truth to everyone, yet no one believed me. Instead, they all had me surrounded and beat me up till I died. When I wake up again, I've returned to the day I'm detained inside the police station.

I begged my husband 304 times before he finally agreed to spend a birthday with our seriously ill daughter. We waited until the cake on the table melted and the warmth slowly left our daughter’s body, but he never showed up. Then, his first love shared a photo on social media. In it, my husband had one arm around her and the other holding her child. Behind them stood a towering birthday cake display. Our daughter had waited five years for a birthday cake that never came. Yet another child received it without even trying. The caption read: The promised tiered cake is finally here! I quietly liked the post. Soon after, he texted me, demanding an explanation. [How many times do I have to tell you? Miranda’s daughter is dealing with depression, and I need to be there for her. Don’t call me unless it’s urgent.] I looked down at the child in my arms, whose body had gone completely cold. “Alright,” I said softly. “I won’t do that again.”

The delivery-app price war ended up being the smoking gun that proved my husband was cheating. A man who drank nothing but premium craft coffee somehow had a Dunkin’ iced coffee bag sitting in his car. After catching me staring at it, he explained, “The new receptionist at work gave it to me. She said there was some promotion going on and the drinks were ridiculously cheap, so she bought too many and offered me one. I only accepted it because I didn’t want to be rude.” I looked at him with amusement. “Is she pretty?” Hearing the sarcasm in my voice, Carter Freeman snapped. It was out of character. “If you’re going to keep acting jealous for no reason, get out of my car!” It seemed that so much time had passed that he had forgotten that the “Freeman” behind Freeman Group was not Carter Freeman, but me.