After Death Romance の短編小説 & Mistress 小説

Ten years after someone supposedly pushed her down a flight of stairs and left her in a vegetative state, Margaret Whitmore, mother of Mason Whitmore, the golden boy of the capital's elite, finally woke up. Practically everyone who mattered in the capital came to visit, each eager to praise Mason for his devotion to his mother. For ten years, he had made the person responsible for Margaret's condition pay for what she'd done. Even though the culprit was his high school girlfriend, he'd shown her no mercy. Margaret listened in silence for a long time. When everyone had finished speaking, she looked around in confusion. "What culprit? Nobody pushed me. I fell down the stairs myself." The paring knife slipped from Mason's hand and clattered to the floor. He stared at Margaret in disbelief. "Mom, what did you just say?" Lily Yates hadn't been responsible for his mother's condition? Panic swept through him. He'd spent every one of those ten years taking revenge on Lily, believing she was the reason his mother lay unconscious. Now he was being told she'd been innocent all along? "Speaking of which, where's Lily?" Margaret asked anxiously. "I didn't want you dating her back then because she came from a single-parent family. I never imagined she'd risk her own life to save me when I fell down. Are you two still together? Have you gotten married? Do you have children?" Each question struck Mason like a sledgehammer. His mouth went dry, and for a long time, he couldn't bring himself to speak. How could he tell his mother that after Lily got out of prison, he'd forced her to be with a blind beggar, and she'd been living that way for the past three years?

Three days after I died, my fiancé got a call to ID the body. He just scoffed. "She's dead, so what? Call me when she's in the ground." The cops, out of options, hit up my backup contact—my childhood friend. He actually laughed. "She's really gone? Not my problem. Burn her or whatever." Then my body hit the internet— And suddenly, both of them looked like ghosts.

The impoverished student I had sponsored, Jacob Murphy, had accumulated a massive gambling debt. When the debt collectors had kicked the door open, my childhood sweetheart, Renee Austin, had shoved me forward instead. Her voice was cold and distant. “He’s Jacob Murphy. Take him away.” In the darkness of an underground casino, they tore out my fingernails, then smashed my ribs one by one with an iron rod. When the searing pain arrived, I groveled on the floor like a dog. I was weeping and screaming, without a shred of dignity. Then, they “mercifully” gave me one chance to call for help. Clinging to the last sliver of hope, I called Renee. Her voice on the other end sounded very cruel. “If you hadn’t set him up, how would Jacob have ended up buried in gambling debt? Even if you die at their hands, you deserve it.” The dial tone after she hung up became the last sound in my world. Later, I really did die, just as she had said. However, there was not the slightest trace of a smile on Renee’s face. It was as if she had gone mad. Her eyes were bloodshot as she searched every underground gambling den in the city. ‘Renee, why were you crying for me?’ I wondered.

The day I decided to file for divorce, Dean Potter couldn’t wait to draft the divorce agreement. Five years ago, he had been forced to marry me, and now he was finally free. On the day we were finalizing the divorce, Dean arrived with his new flame, radiating delight mixed with a hint of mockery. “Veronica Byrd, look at you—you’re miserable.” I watched his figure fade into the distance, my vision blurring. Miserable? In the next life, it wouldn't happen again.

Four years after my death, the true heiress won the Best Actress award, but her sex tape was once again spread like wildfire. My Best Actor boyfriend, Nicholas Jennings, kicked open the rented house where I used to live, hoping to make me clarify once again that it was me in the video, but all he saw was a complete mess. The landlord happened to pass by and, upon his inquiry, scolded him, "You’re talking about Astrid Rhode? She died four years ago! A man saw the sex tape posted online and came here to have some fun with her, but she would rather die than comply. In a fit of rage, he killed her." Nicholas did not believe it at all. He kicked our couple's mugs. "Astrid made you say that, didn't she? She stole Maddie's life just because she looked like her. Did she think that helping Maddie once would atone for her sins? Tell her that none of the children in her orphanage will live if I don't see her clarification video in two days!" He strode away, and I shook my head with a wry smile. The orphanage had long since been reduced to ashes in the fire, and the children had already passed on to their next lives. I had made a deal with Death, wanting to come back and see him one last time. However, now, it seemed that the deal was better left undone.

Savannah Cox was my husband's first love. When she got divorced, my husband, Alex Stewart, was the lawyer who handled her case. Then he moved her into our home after getting rid of Mochi, my cat, because she was allergic to cats. Because she lost a necklace, he forced a pregnant me to jump into an icy pool to retrieve it. By the time I lost our baby and ended up in the hospital, Alex was posting Savannah's prenatal checkup report—the first post he'd made all year. "The cherry blossoms are blooming at Cherrywood Park. She arrived with spring." I quietly liked the post, feeling unwell and numb with grief as I spent the day in silence. Alex only looked at me with disgust, a cruel sneer creeping onto his lips. "Autumn, people like you deserve to lose their children. If you love kids so much, why don't you go die with the baby?" What he didn't know was that I was already dying.

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…"

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.

My husband's true love developed acute kidney failure, and I was the only matching donor. To save her life, he forced me to terminate my pregnancy at six months. Despite his gentle tone, he said the most heart-wrenching words, "Can't you be a little kinder? You're just losing a child, but she's losing her life." I resisted with every fiber of my being, but he threatened his own life to force my hand. On the operating table, both my child and I died. Meanwhile, his true love's transplant was a success, and she lived. Although the outcome was exactly what he wanted, he spiraled into madness upon hearing news of my death.

It's my third year living with ALS, and my 11th day since losing the ability to speak completely. My wife, Renee Sutton, bursts into my hospital room with a lawyer and a notary in tow, gripping a so-called expert report that concludes all of my symptoms can be faked. She throws it onto my bed. "Miles, you're really a hell of an actor," she says. "You had me fooled for three years. Today, you're finally going to tell the truth." I look at her and open my mouth, but no sound comes out. She shoves a divorce agreement in front of me. "Sign it. Admit you faked your illness to swindle marital assets. You're not walking away with a single cent." I look down at the pen, then at my right hand lying motionless on the sheet. Her eyes hold nothing but a cold sneer. "Still faking? Fine. Keep faking. "Back then, you told me you didn't love me anymore, and I believed you. You said you wanted to marry that older woman, and I believed that too. "Now you've circled back and landed flat on your back, needing someone to take care of you. Did you really think I'd go soft on you again?" A nurse rushes in from the hallway and forces a writing board into my stiff left hand. "Ms. Sutton, he had a tracheotomy just yesterday! This board is the only way he can speak!" Renee stares at the board. Her expression slowly shifts as she lowers her head to look. Scrawled across it, in two shaky words, is my answer. I pour the last of my strength into every stroke. "I'm sorry."

In the fifth year of our marriage, my firefighter husband, Mike Anderson, who never had the time to have a wedding ceremony with me, suddenly found time to do so. On the day of the ceremony, I could not contact Mike at all. It all became clear when I saw the video that had been sent into the firefighter family members’ group chat. His junior, Mia Scott was holding his arm as he received a heroic award from the mayor. Everyone in the group chat was making envious remarks. [Chief Anderson’s wife is so beautiful. She doesn’t look like a regular house wife like my husband claimed to be.] [That’s right, she looks so elegant and poised. She must be a great wife to Chief Anderson.] My rough hands were trembling. I was just about to tell them I was Mike’s wife, when I heard a loud explosion from my kitchen. As the searing heat consumed me, I called him for help. However, he interrupted me impatiently. “Why are you bothering me? I lied to you about the wedding ceremony because I was afraid of you coming up with such nonsense. “Mia’s father died because he saved me, so I let her accompany me to receive the award as my wife. Isn’t that reasonable?” I was stunned. Then, he hung up on me.

My fiancé sent me overseas and immediately burned my wallet, threw away my phone, and tore up my visa. He did it all to make sure I couldn't return home and ruin his wedding to his first love. His friends tried to warn him. "Don't go too far. What if your fiancée really gets angry?" But my fiancé didn't care at all. "She's gotten too spoiled because I've always treated her too well. I'm just teaching her to be more understanding. Besides, Yvonne and I aren't really getting married. I'm only doing this so her dying grandmother can pass away without regrets. Nothing will happen between us. Once the wedding is over, I'll make it up to Winnie." The moment his wedding ended, he rushed to find me and apologize. But he never got the chance to see me. Later, he even took my documents and planned to register our marriage first as a way to make it up to me. It seemed he truly had no idea that I had already died the night he sent me overseas.

As my due date approaches, my husband's precious mistress falls into the water at a banquet. After being rescued, she immediately accuses me of pushing her. To "avenge" her, he throws me into a modified stainless steel water tank. I beg him, pleading for the sake of our unborn children. But he only sneers. "Don't try to use the babies to guilt me! You've still got a week before you're due. I know exactly how vicious you are—any child of yours would be just as rotten. Stay in there and reflect on your behavior. I'll let you out when you finally admit you're wrong!" Five days later, my husband returns home from a night out with his mistress, calling for me to come downstairs and serve them, as always. He doesn't know that my babies and I have already rotted beyond recognition.

My wife, Caroline Bailey, was a forensic pathologist. For her first love, Ian Lawson, she was willing to break every rule she held sacred and allowed him into the autopsy room to observe. She even let him throw acid onto a corpse's face. That was, until Caroline took on a new case. As she stood over the disfigured body on her operating table, she began to fall apart. The acid-burned face was starting to look more and more like mine.

To save her first love, who suffered from uremia, my wife, who was a judge, used her influence to pressure the hospital into awarding one of my kidneys to him. I explained to my wife that I had kidney failure. Transplanting another kidney would mean certain death for me. However, my wife yelled at me in disgust, “His illness is serious, and you’re still acting jealous and competing for my attention? Do you even have a heart?” With the lawyer she hired, she won a court ruling that sent me to the hospital for the kidney transplant. In the end, my kidney failure worsened. I died alone in a forgotten corner of the hospital.

To help my husband, Julian Parker, pay off the debt from his stock-market losses, I agreed to sell one of my kidneys. But on the day of the surgery, our six-year-old daughter, Ella Parker, ran to the clinic all by herself and frantically called Julian for help. Julian sounded conflicted. "Mom's only having one kidney removed. It'll get Dad out of this mess for good. But if she doesn't do it, Dad's whole future is ruined." Ella kept begging him to stop the surgery, but Julian simply hung up. Then he hurried toward a private hospital suite nearby, his face filled with worry. Inside lay Claire Morgan, the woman he'd never gotten over. Her face was deathly pale. "Don't worry. We've got a kidney for you. You're going to be fine." He lowered his voice. "And don't feel guilty. I'm the one who chose to lie to her. She's still young. She can live just fine with one kidney." Claire's transplant was a success. Julian was in such a good mood afterward that, for once, he even suggested taking Ella and me on a trip, calling it a belated honeymoon. But he had no idea I was already dead. After my kidney was removed, I couldn't even afford $9.90 for the antibiotics I needed. The wound became infected, and I died. And Ella finally gave up on her father, too.

My grandfather, Terry Sims, suffered from bipolar disorder and was prone to anger and mood swings. My mother, Catherine, was his only chill pill. On the day they were hunted down by enemies, my mom went into early labor and lost her life in an attempt to save him. Devastated, my grandfather could not see a way out of his disorder and poured all his love into me. He would pull out the tongues of those who mocked me and fed them to the dogs. The families of those who hurt me would meet their end. It was known to the people of Mistvale that the granddaughter of Terry Sims was untouchable. Due to my congenital heart disease, he reluctantly sent me abroad for medical treatment. After my surgery, I rushed back to his side for his birthday, thinking of giving him a surprise. However, I was mistaken for a gold digger by a carer and locked in the basement. “Of all the things you can do for your age, you throw yourself at men. Since your parents won’t restrain your behavior, I’ll have to do it for them.” She pulled out my tongue, dumped acid all over me, and dug out my snewly transplanted heart to give as a birthday gift to my grandfather, who had been waiting for my return. “Mr. Sims, the skank tried to impersonate Ms. Sims, but I got everything sorted out for you.”

After being diagnosed with cancer, I look at the last meager 1,000 dollars left in my bank account and have no choice but to buy myself the cheapest casket for later. My boyfriend, Aaron Olsen, rushes back from out of town upon hearing the news. Then, he sells his car, takes out a loan, and uses all of the savings that he accumulated from his Uber deliveries to send me back to the hospital. He holds my hand tightly while I'm in the hospital bed, looking at my skinny figure while choking down a sob. "Let's make a bet, okay? Viola, let's make a bet to see if you'll get any better. Even if you lose, I'll still stay with you! "After all, the casket you bought is big enough to fit both of us." I chuckle and call him a fool for even saying that. However, the heavens decided to have mercy on me, and I successfully beat cancer for the first time. Later on, Aaron proposes to me in the same year, and I accept it. However, on the day before we are supposed to register our marriage, I catch him cheating on me inside the casket that I prepared for myself. Aaron's first reaction upon being discovered is to use his body to shield the woman's body from me. Tears blur my vision, and I lower my head, letting out a bitter laugh. "How can you do this to me, Aaron Olsen?"

The day my boyfriend, Ashton Grant, ends up in the hospital, I find his will. Or rather, 214 of them. They're written on different dates, but every single one names the same beneficiary. And it isn't me. It's his first love. My hands go cold. I can't even confront him because Ashton is lying unconscious in a hospital bed. "Mr. Grant is addicted to extreme sports. The more dangerous, the better," his assistant explains. "He writes a new will before every trip. But only the most recent one was ever made official through his lawyer." I already know the answer before I ask. "And I'm still not in it, am I?" The assistant falls silent. After six years together, Ashton still disappears for weeks at a time, leaving me terrified that he won't come home one day. And all this time, whenever he risks his life, he's making sure that another woman is taken care of if he dies. His first love. If she's the one he thinks about when he might not make it home, then why should I be the one waiting and worrying when he leaves?

After my family went bankrupt, my husband, Felix Skye, paid the price. The debt collectors drowned him in the river. To pay off the debt, I took a job at an underground casino as a human punching bag. Every punch I took earned me five dollars. Then one night, I was sent to deliver drinks to a private room. Through the crack in the door, I saw Felix, my husband who was supposed to be dead, sitting at the head of the table and slowly savoring a glass of fine red wine. "It's been more than three years since I last saw Avery. I wonder how she's doing." My supposedly bankrupt mother, Ivy Schotz, sat there dripping in gold and jewels. She sighed. "She'll just hide away and grieve for a few years. Once she's over it, she can remarry. "No matter what," Mom went on, "as long as she believes you're dead, you and Riley can finally live in peace." Riley Mackenzie was the daughter my mother had with her first love. Every face in that room was familiar, including my best friend and the very "enemies" who had supposedly killed Felix. It had all been an act from start to finish. The only thing real was the three years of hell I'd lived through. Holding twenty bottles of beer, I smiled and shook my head. Once I scraped together enough money for my coffin, they would all be free.