Melodramatic Romance Short Stories & Mistress Cheating Novels

The divorce battle between Adrian Mercer and Claire Bennett dragged on for an entire year, becoming the talk of their social circle. Over the course of that year, they went through three rounds of mediation and court proceedings. Everyone assumed Claire was deliberately dragging things out because she couldn't let go of their marriage. At the first mediation session, she demanded all the original design sketches, patents, and copyrights belonging to their jewelry brand, along with every custom jewelry boutique they'd established together. Adrian knew those designs were the lifeblood of the company. Still, he reluctantly agreed to give her half the stores and half the design copyrights. At the second hearing, Claire suddenly changed her demands. She refused to accept the luxurious riverfront home they'd shared and instead demanded an entire commercial office building worth a fortune that Adrian owned. Even her lawyer advised her that the demand was unreasonable. But he remained patient, promising to compensate her with other assets of equivalent value. During the third round of pretrial negotiations, Claire raised the stakes again. This time, she demanded that Adrian permanently withdraw from managing their jewelry brand and stay out of the jewelry design industry for the next ten years. Everyone thought she was making outrageous demands just to force him into giving in. Yet he refused to turn hostile. He merely explained that he needed time to sort out the company's ownership structure, remaining accommodating throughout the negotiations. At every stage, Adrian had given ground. No matter how unreasonable her demands became, he patiently negotiated each one, acting as though he still cherished their past together and was willing to accommodate her every wish. Some of their industry peers even joked that if the divorce proceedings dragged on much longer, they might eventually turn into reconciliation talks instead.

Only because our son begged to go to the amusement park, my wife, Nyla Frost, a wealthy heiress, ended up in a car accident on the way there, leaving her permanently paralyzed from the waist down. To punish us, she slashed our daily allowance to a mere ten cents. For the past three years, my son and I had no choice but to survive by scavenging through trash every day, even fighting the dogs for scraps. One day, my son was so hungry that he lost all reason. He ate a few crumbs of a cookie that our family doctor had accidentally dropped on the floor. My wife flew into a rage, accusing him of having filthy, thieving hands. As punishment, she made him stand outside in the pouring rain for the whole day before he was allowed back inside. Furious, I marched over to her room to demand an explanation, only to freeze in my tracks. Despite supposedly being unable to walk, she was already standing. She was holding the family doctor's hand, dancing a romantic waltz with him. Her best friend gazed out the window, her heart aching with pity. "Nyla, back then, your kid threw a tantrum because he wanted to go to the amusement park. That's why you missed your first love's last chance to see you. But you've already punished your husband and son for three years. You even found a stand-in to stay by your side and pretend to be your doctor. Don't you think it's time to let it go?" Nyla scoffed, her voice cold. "Failure to teach the son falls on the father. They ruined my seven-year pact with my first love. This punishment is hardly enough. Don't bring it up again. There are still two years left. Once their punishment is over, I'll make it up to both of them." What she didn't know was that I'd been saving every decent meal for our son while going hungry myself. By then, I had terminal stomach cancer. I wouldn't live long enough to see those two years pass. I’d never let my son stay by her side and suffer any longer.

Ethan Carter is an international captain for Delta Air Lines. I'd been engaged to him for five years. In those five years,the only time I ever asked him to indulge me was when I sent him a photo of my mother's flight journal. That journal recorded the route she'd flown on her last trip: Boston to Paris. Her health was already failing by then. I wanted Ethan to mark that route for me, and paste it on the last page of the memorial album. He just replied, "I've got a transatlantic flight tomorrow. Flight safety isn't for humoring people." Last week Ethan came home on leave, and while I was sorting his luggage, I found a waterproof document pouch tucked in a lining. Inside was a full set of simulator debrief materials. A name was written on the cover: Claire Bennett. A young first officer at Delta, the rookie Ethan had personally mentored these past two years as she pushed for her international route certification. I opened to the first page. From takeoff roll to stall recovery to approach deviation, every page carried Ethan's handwritten notes. Red circles, blue underlines, black annotations, the handwriting crisp, just like the man himself. A private recommendation letter was tucked into the pouch. He wrote that Claire had "steady judgment, an exceptional capacity to learn, and the potential to join a transatlantic flight crew." Every word was restrained, and every word was precise. The most recent file had been modified last Valentine's Day. That day I'd booked a restaurant. Ethan said he was prepping for a flight and couldn't have dinner with me. I didn't cry. I didn't ask. I picked up my phone and booked a one-way ticket to Seattle. Seattle's air medical transport program was hiring a lead physician. I used to think the future between Ethan and me was something I had to wait for: wait for him to fly less, wait for him to be less busy, wait for him to finally have a spare moment to glance at my journal. I didn't want to wait anymore.

The pair of pink diamonds I've had my eye on for the longest time is finally auctioned off for a staggering price. Outside the auction hall, the young woman who won the bid is talking sweetly to someone on the phone. "Babe, you really don't have to come all the way here. Margot will be with me, so I'm good… Okay, fine. Love you!" I watch her with slight envy. Those pink diamonds are supposed to be my fifth-anniversary wedding gift. Before the auction, I've called my husband, Gabriel Hudson, and asked if he could come with me. But he said it was a trivial matter and that I could handle the bidding myself. The woman was on the phone earlier, and from what I could make out, they're planning to have dinner together to celebrate. My rideshare arrives. I'm about to leave when the woman suddenly shouts excitedly, "Margot, over here!" I follow her gaze. The person approaching is none other than my housekeeper, Margot Lawrence.

The day after my twin sister died in an accident, I married her fiancé, the man who was supposed to be my brother-in-law. That very day, Mark Zeller printed thousands of copies of my sister's death report and told everyone I was the real murderer. Because of this, everyone despised me, and my parents immediately disowned me. After we got married, he was constantly in the tabloids with his flings and brought countless women home. He'd make me stand by the bedroom door, listening to them making love. Then, after he was done, he'd make me take photos of him and his lovers in bed. I silently endured it all. My only request was to have a baby with him. Mark scoffed. "Gloria Hale, how can you be so shameless? If you're so desperate to sleep with a man, just go out and find one. Instead, you're begging for it at my feet like an animal. Aren't you disgusted with yourself? "You think having my baby will make me change my ways? Let me tell you, never!" To crush my hopes, he went even further and spent a fortune to build a castle in the suburbs. Every single room in that castle housed one of his lovers. The people in our social circle said, "Mark's mistresses are way lovelier than his wife at home who only knows how to wag her tail like a dog." Three years later, Mark's mother sent me a text to remind me: "Gloria, remember our agreement. Three years are almost up. You have one more week to sort everything out."

On the very first day of our marriage, Jasper Clarke, a renowned gynecologist, laid down his terms. "My time can mean life or death for my patients. You can't afford to waste it. I may not be able to be there for you day to day, but I'll set aside half a day every month just for you. That's the most I can offer." I understood how demanding his job was, so I nodded and agreed. From then on, I ate alone, went to doctor's appointments alone, and spent my days in an empty house. I never once disturbed Jasper. That changed in my third month of pregnancy, when I began showing signs of a threatened miscarriage. For the first time, I booked a specialist appointment with Jasper. The moment I pushed open the door to his office, his smile froze. "What are you doing here? Get out! Don't take up a spot another patient needs!" Before I could say a word, he called in the next patient. A young pregnant woman walked in behind me, carrying a bouquet of white jasmine. She sat down beside Jasper. As the door closed, I saw him stand up, his left hand resting at her waist and his right hand covering hers as he took the bouquet. I waited outside for four hours, but Jasper never called in another patient. A nurse came over to inform me. "Ms. Wells is Dr. Clarke's VIP patient. He saves every Wednesday for her. If you're not feeling well, I can help you make an appointment with another doctor." My phone lit up with a calendar reminder. The half-day I had been looking forward to all month would be over in five minutes. My hand stilled against my lower abdomen. Suddenly, I could not feel the pain anymore. After a long moment of silence, I spoke softly. "I'd like to schedule an abortion."

The night before the design competition, my husband took my design draft, promising to secure a patent to protect my work. In the intense competition, my work stood out and won first place. During the award ceremony, I walked on stage wearing the necklace that my daughter and I had made together. Suddenly, my seven-year-old daughter rushed up to the stage, screaming, "Mom, how could you steal Veronica's necklace? That's horrible and embarrassing. Just come down and go home with me."

On my birthday, my wife, Iris Lockwood, has ordered a few workers to carry a dust-covered second-hand air conditioner home as my birthday present. She points at the air conditioner while gushing excitedly, "This is a big brand, you know! It might look dirty on the outside, but the insides are brand new! "Remember, we're scrimping all the pennies we can get in order to move into a penthouse in the future. That way, we'll be able to live comfortably as a family of three!" I'm very understanding toward Iris, seeing as it's very difficult to earn money nowadays. So, I endure the pain that's flaring from an old hip injury I've sustained during my early days as a manual laborer as I crouch on the floor and clean the air conditioner for two long hours. But as soon as it's turned on, chemical powder sprays from it, soon filling the whole apartment. Because of that, our three-year-old son, Flynn Holt, goes into shock immediately from the severe allergy. With red-rimmed eyes, I yell at Iris to take Flynn to the hospital. But she quickly leaves after taking a phone call. "Crap, my biggest client is met with a car accident! I need to deal with it right away! You can flag down a cab and take Flynn to the hospital on your own!" That midnight, I head over to Quantum Heights, which is known as the most luxurious residence in the city, after receiving a phone call regarding the wrong address. In the corridor, I see Iris embracing a young man. She has nothing but love and affection for him. "There's no need to save money, you know. Young men at your age love new and branded goods, don't you?" Right… To Iris, a useless husband like me who didn't have an educational background only deserved to use second-hand things. But even the most saintly man will revolt one day once his patience is worn out. Besides, I've been faking my nice, understanding personality all along.

When Wendy Chance's father, Josiah, was rendered speechless, I was the only one he wanted to go to speech therapy with. Every time Wendy and I wanted to go out, Josiah would clutch the corner of my shirt. Once again, Wendy would stuff an unused train ticket in my hand and pat my shoulder apologetically. "Treat my dad well, and I'll make it up to you on another trip. Evan can accompany me on this business trip instead. Don’t overthink this." Evan Striker was the secretary she claimed knew his place. I had collected 27 unused tickets over the past three years. They were from unrealized trips to the mountains, historical towns, and the beach. Every ticket turned into a post on Evan's social media accounts. I thought Wendy was just busy with work until one day, I overheard Josiah speaking clearly in the study as I brought him some water. "Did Evan have fun this time?" Wendy laughed. "You're a pretty good actor, Dad. Joel doesn't suspect a thing." Through the crack of the door, I could see Wendy and my best friend, Eli Conway, sitting at the table. Eli was holding up his phone to remind everyone about something. "Joel is supposed to accompany Wendy to the celebration party tomorrow. Remember to follow the plan and be sick tomorrow, Mr. Chance. That should stop him from attending the party and embarrassing Wendy." Everyone laughed, agreeing with the plan, and Josiah even started practising vague hand gestures. I lowered my head to look at the latest ticket in my hand. I had been duped, doing my best to make these schemers’ web of lies come to life. The ticket fell from my hand, and I no longer wanted to wait for Wendy to finally keep her promises.

After Lyra Beaumont, a financially disadvantaged student I sponsored, was sexually harassed at work, she came close to taking her own life. I paid to open a pottery shop for her so she could run her own business. When Forrest Croft found out, he spoke with open disdain. "There's no smoke without fire. Why do you insist on bringing someone like her into our lives? Don't blame anyone else if you end up getting hurt." I stared at him in disbelief. "Forrest, how can you say something so cruel?" After that argument, I left the country in a huff and spent two months abroad. There were 58 ceramic mugs in the display cabinet in our living room. During a video call, Forrest proudly announced what he had been up to. "Honey, I've been stopping by her shop every day to support her business. You must be happy now, right?" Seeing the tenderness in his eyes, I suddenly felt a little guilty for being so stubborn. I changed my ticket to the earliest available flight and rushed home, hoping to surprise him. But the moment I opened the front door, I heard wet, squelching sounds coming from our bedroom. "Forrest, you take a mug every time we're done. My hands are getting sore." "That's barely anything. I'm going to fill that cabinet." I stared at the 58 mugs in the cabinet, and suddenly the whole thing seemed absurd. Two months. Sixty days. Fifty-eight times. He had not just been supporting her business. He had been sleeping with her in my bed too.

I've been married to Joel Hoover for three years. But whenever we go out with my best friend, Cynthia Marsh, people assume they're the couple. At the mall, sales associates hand them the gifts meant for couples. At restaurants, servers ask if they want to take part in the couples' promotion. When we travel, strangers compliment them on what a great couple they make, then hand me a phone to take their picture. At first, it makes me uncomfortable, but Joel never corrects anyone. Cynthia always laughs it off. "Maybe we just happen to look like a couple. Don't read into it." She says it so casually that every time, I tell myself not to make a big deal out of it. Then Joel tells me he's finally taking me to meet his family at a holiday dinner. I spend three whole months getting ready. But the moment we walk in, his mother grabs Cynthia's hand, beaming. "Just look at these two. Don't they make a perfect couple?" The relatives immediately start teasing them too. "You two must kiss a lot. You're even starting to look alike!" The whole room erupts in laughter. I stand there, watching Joel. He doesn't correct anyone. He just reaches over and tucks a loose strand of Cynthia's hair behind her ear. That's when it finally hits me. Joel isn't staying quiet because he can't be bothered to explain. He just doesn't want me to be his wife.

On their wedding day, right as Elena Emerton and Kyle Fenton were about to exchange rings, a woman rushed Kyle with a knife. Elena moved on instinct, throwing herself in front of Kyle. The blade sank into her chest, and she crumpled into Kyle's arms. As the woman was dragged away, she screamed, "Kyle Fenton, we're not done! How dare you get married?" That was when Elena recognized her. Allison Smyth. Kyle's sworn enemy for the past six years. Before anyone could react, Allison broke free and held the knife to her throat. "Kyle, I'm tired. Let's end this." Kyle's eyes went wide. He dropped Elena and rushed to Allison, catching the blade with his bare hand. Elena hit the floor hard. Blood spread across her white wedding dress. Kyle held Allison tight, terrified she'd hurt herself. When Allison passed out, he scooped her up and rushed right past Elena. Not once did he look back.

I plan on ordering some food using my husband's phone, yet I've noticed a remark that's been saved on the delivery app. "The food is for a pregnant lady. Please make sure to be hygienic and use less oil and salt when making the dishes." I can feel my heart sink. I turn my gaze toward the bathroom, where my husband is. I can't figure out why my husband, who's been firm about not wanting a child, has been ordering meals for pregnant women. After a moment of hesitation, I scroll through the delivery app's order history with shaky hands. Numerous orders have been placed with the same restaurant, one that specializes in making exquisite dishes designed for pregnant women. Each of these food orders costs more than ten thousand dollars. My husband's company address has been chosen as the delivery address, and he's also the recipient. … After exiting the delivery app, I sit on the couch and stare into space. As I look at my husband's well-defined muscles, I recall how he, who's about to hit 40, is suddenly quite invested in getting in shape over the past year. I blurt out asking, "Have you been ordering food to your office often lately?" My husband freezes for a split second. Then, he fixes me with a gentle gaze. "I do that once in a while. Why are you suddenly asking about that? By the way, I haven't had the sweet and sour meatballs you make in a long while. Can you make some for me so that I can bring them to the office for my lunch tomorrow?" I smile at him and agree to his request. Still, I toss and turn in bed as the remark about the pregnant lady in his phone keeps gnawing at me that night.

When I was ten, I suddenly gained the ability to see threads connecting people above their heads. And only two people who had slept together would be connected by these impossible-to-hide threads. Over the years, two more threads had appeared above my father's head, and my mother had threatened to divorce him again and again. Because of what I had witnessed, I practiced celibacy after reaching adulthood. When choosing a wife, I placed loyalty above everything else and eventually chose the chaste, aloof genius with not a single thread above her head—Madeline Woods. During my bachelor party the night before the wedding, my closest friends played a game of whoever lost had to let everyone else look through his phone. When it was Oliver Sutton's turn, he clutched his phone tightly and said smugly, "Don't look at mine. She asked me for it eight times last night. The photos aren't exactly fit for public viewing." Everyone immediately started hooting. "You? Eight times in one night? Your girlfriend's pretty desperate. Come on, hand it over and let us have a look." "You're being awfully secretive about your relationship. Has anyone here even met your girlfriend?" I was about to smooth things over when I saw one of the four threads above Oliver's head stretch through the crowd and connect directly to my fiancee, Madeline. But when I had driven her home the night before, there had been nothing above her head. Even half an hour ago, she texted me. "Our wedding night is tomorrow, Flynn. We can finally belong to each other. I love you!" I looked at Madeline standing outside the door, gazing at me with deep affection. Then, I looked at the exhausted Oliver. I raised my glass, forcing down my fury as I lightly clinked it against his. "Oliver, does your girlfriend happen to be someone we know?"

In the fifth year of our bland marriage, I receive a message that my husband has booked a hotel room with a woman. Within the next second, seductive pictures of me show up in the work group chat. In the pictures, I seduced my husband but failed. My colleagues in the group chat mock me by saying, "She gave Mr. Reed an ultimatum and forced him to marry her. He was forced to break up with the woman he loves." "Mr. Reed put up with her for five years. It only makes sense that he could no longer resist and decide to reunite with his lover." My sick father dies out of shock, yet my husband does not show up to his funeral. That night, I inform Belinda that I wish to divorce her son. "Back then, you told me that I'm Caleb's blessing in life. You said that he'd have endless success if we were to marry. "As long as I married Caleb for five years, you promised to pay for my father's medical fees. Now that the time is up, you should let me go too."

Every year on my birthday, Yale Jensen would find some excuse to disappear into his study and write a letter in secret. The first time I caught him, he refused to let me read it. He only smiled and said, "After we're married." So I assumed the letters were for me, some grand romantic gesture he was saving for our future together. And every birthday, as another letter joined the rest, I kept waiting for the day he'd finally hand them over. That day came sooner than I expected. The night before we were supposed to get married at City Hall, Yale came home drunk from a business dinner. Barely coherent, he murmured, "The letters... have you read them yet...?" I took that as permission. It wasn't until I opened the first envelope that I realized I'd been waiting all those years for letters that had never been meant for me. [Yana, does it really not bother you at all that Tessa and I are together?] The second was worse. [Yana, I made Tessa a birthday dinner today. Thinking about you being overseas and missing out on all of this made me feel awful.] Then the third. [Yana, what am I supposed to do when I keep thinking about you every time I kiss Tessa?] ... I was Tessa Sinclair. Yana Cater was my best friend. The most recent letter had been written two months ago. Unlike the others, it contained only a single line, heavy with regret. [I'm sorry. I'm going to marry Tessa.] The paper crumpled in my fist. Then Yale's phone rang, and I picked it up. "Yale Jensen! You said you used a condom! How the hell am I pregnant?" Yana's hysterical voice came through the phone. I looked down at the letter still clenched in my hand. "He's asleep," I said. "You can call back tomorrow. Unless there's something you'd like me to pass along?"

Back in my hometown, the women would brew wine at a young age for their future husbands. Since college, Jake Sanders and I had left our hometown for a brighter future in a city far away, and we finally returned in glory. I was finally able to open my vat of wine, which had been kept for 28 years. I knew that Jake was quite particular about hygiene, so I changed my wine to store-bought wine during the town celebration, even though I knew it was taboo. When I was about to share this secret with him, I heard his conversation with his buddies. "Are you sure you're going to drink Erica's wine? You'll have to marry her according to tradition if you do that. Won't Cassie be mad?" "Yeah. Cassie has already opened her vat of wine. If no one drinks from it, she can't marry." Jake laughed with indifference. "She won't be able to leave me. She's even willing to change that vat of wine for me. Besides, her wine has been left for 28 years. Who would want to drink that? Erica's wine is only 20-years-old, and I heard wine is sweetest at this stage. "Even though I've chosen Erica, I'll still make sure to treat Cassie well. I'll marry her if no one will." It felt like my heart had been cored out and a cold wind was gusting through it, but I decided to let this go because I was not an unwanted woman, and Jake was not the only man in this world. I replied to the text that was sent to me every year: [Will you marry me?] He replied right away: [Wait for me.]

I stumble across a shared document titled "Honeymoon" on my wife, Talia Smith's, computer. I assume she's finally making good on the promise she's put off for five years. Overjoyed, I click it open, only to find the itinerary is completely different from what we originally agreed on. The original schedule overlaps with my business trip, so I postpone the trip by two days. Since there's no aurora in Glacieland during this time of year, I change the destination to Kjeldsland. Then I remember we're trying to conceive, and our expenses are piling up, so I downgrade our tickets from first class to business class. Just then, another account suddenly appears and changes everything I've edited back to its original state. Immediately after, a line of text pops up in the document. "Mommy, we agreed to go to Glacieland, so we're going to Glacieland! If not, Daddy will be upset!" That catches me off guard, and I assume someone's playing a prank on me. Talia has appeared behind me at some point. "He's the son of my foster brother and me. Next time, I'll definitely go on our honeymoon with you," she explains calmly.

Shane Floyd and I have been dating for seven years, and my parents keep pressuring us to get married. However, Shane keeps saying the same two words. "Let's wait." My parents think we aren't financially ready, so they prepare a generous wedding gift for us. They even buy us a car and a house. However, Shane still says the same two words. "Let's wait." I have no idea what Shane is waiting for, but I decide to wait with him. At our class reunion, I bring out a cake I have prepared for Shane. "Today's Shane's 30th birthday." My classmates start gossiping at once. "I just remembered something. Shane Floyd and Amelia Wood made a pact that if they were both still unmarried at 30 years old, they'd get together!" Amelia Wood smiles shyly. "His wife is right here. Let's not bring that up." Shane simply glances at me. "We're not married, so she's not my wife. I promised I'd wait for you until you turned 30 years old. I didn't break my promise." My heart lurches as I hold the cake. Now I finally know what Shane has been waiting for. As the crowd teases him, Shane leans in to blow out the candles and make a wish. "Here goes my first wish. I wish Amelia is still single." That's enough. I gently set the cake down without making a scene. As the crowd exchanges awkward glances, I turn and leave with my dignity intact. Downstairs, a cab driver is calling out to passersby. "Miss, do you need a ride? Are you waiting for anyone else?" I open the door and get in the cab. "Let's go. I'm not waiting for anyone."

On the morning we were supposed to leave for our elopement trip to the stunning Calistia Mountains, my girlfriend, Jeanie Portman, was nowhere to be found. Worried something had happened to her, I drove to her family's house to look for her, only to find the whole neighborhood strung with wedding banners and streamers. A big outdoor reception was underway, the tables loaded with food. Jeanie stood there in a white gown, leaning into my foster brother's arms as she poured him a toast. Relatives showered the two of them with compliments, calling them a perfect match, while my father sat at the head table, grinning so wide he could barely close his mouth. I nearly lost it and started toward them, but my mother yanked me into a corner before I could get there. "What's gotten into you, making a scene like this? His birth parents died saving your father and me. Handing Jeanie over to him is the least we can do to pay that debt back." My voice shook as I demanded to know why no one had told me sooner. My mother just gave me a flat, dismissive look. "Because you're a teacher, and you've got too sharp a tongue for your own good. If we'd told you ahead of time, you'd have blabbed it to the whole world, and then how were the two of them supposed to have a proper wedding? "That's enough. Don't make a scene. "You've got a stable job. You won't have any trouble finding someone else. Don't ruin our family peace over some woman." I looked past my mother, toward the red carpet where Jeanie and my foster brother stood glowing with happiness, then at the relatives cheering beside them. Something inside me went hollow.