Cerita Pendek Tragic Love Romance & Novel Mistress Cheating

For 20 years, I've used the fact that Nigel Jackman and I grew up together as an excuse to stay glued to his side. Everyone knows I'm the one nuisance he can never shake, always finding some new way to get on his nerves. But the day he picks up his new car, I suddenly stop making a fuss and become so quiet I'm practically invisible. Even he isn't used to seeing me like this. Late that night, he rushes back to our apartment through the rain. For once, his voice softens as he tries to explain. "I didn't let you ride in my car tonight because Ruby's a clean freak. She can't stand the smell of the pizzeria on your clothes. It didn't look like it was raining that hard, so I drove her home first. Can you stop giving me the silent treatment now?" Of course, it's Ruby Barnett again. Apparently, even the smell of a restaurant kitchen is too much for her. I just smile. "It's fine. I don't mind." After all, I'm leaving for Valenne in three days to study at its top culinary academy. Soon, no one will have to put up with me smelling like the pizzeria anymore.

My wife of three secretly married years, Izzy Presley, threw a welcome-home dinner for her childhood friend who'd just returned to the country. A sharp-eyed coworker noticed the wedding ring on her finger and teased her about it. "Izzy, does this mean there's a wedding on the way?" Izzy didn't deny it. Instead, she traded a smile with Sebastian Wood, the friend she'd grown up with, and made her answer loud enough for the whole room to hear. "Yes. Sebastian and I are getting engaged." She handed out cash gift cards to everyone in the room as she said it, me included. Someone who'd had a little too much to drink called out. "I've watched Stevie and Izzy come and go together for three years straight. Honestly, I thought you two were the real couple." I kept my head down and tightened my grip around the stem of my glass. On my phone, the chat thread with Izzy was still open. That 200-dollar cash gift, the exact same amount she'd given every other guest in the room, burned behind my eyes. Then her voice drifted over, light as air. "My assistant Stevie is good at his job. Work is work, and feelings are feelings. Let's not confuse the two." The teasing only got louder after that. Through the whole party, everyone celebrated for her. No one knew that Izzy and I had already been married for three years. This marriage was like a deal struck in the dark, the kind that could never see daylight. Because I loved her, I'd gritted my teeth and held on for three years. But now, I was ready to let go.

After getting back together with Peter Palmer, I stopped caring about where he went or what he did. He spent all our savings on Julia Sharp, and I didn’t even bother asking why. Maybe he realized something, because before leaving me once again to be with her, he said, “Julia’s leaving to live abroad tomorrow. She won’t be coming back. Once she’s gone, we’ll get married.” I gave a casual reply. After all, I was leaving too.

While shopping at the supermarket, my daughter, Rebecca Westcott, stared longingly at the frozen fruit bars in the display case. I checked my bank balance, then reached for one. The steep price made me freeze. The sales clerk cheerfully explained, "You get what you pay for. This is the flavor kids love most." Seeing how awkward I was, Rebecca quickly spoke up. "Daddy, I don't want one. I was just looking. One of my classmates had one before. It wasn't anything special." My chest tightened with bitterness as I reluctantly started to put it back. Then a cool, unfamiliar voice spoke behind me. "It's the holidays. Let the kid have something that makes her happy." I turned in shock. A young man dressed head to toe in designer clothes dropped the frozen fruit bar into my cart. I immediately tried to refuse, but he ignored me and started filling my cart with all kinds of snacks. "You've got to be a little more generous as a dad. You can't be the kind of parent who ruins the fun. Relax, man. I've got it. I'll pay for everything." At the checkout, the man pulled out a black card and reassured me, "Don't feel pressured. It's a family card. This amount is nothing to my wife." I froze. A week earlier, I had seen an identical card in the pocket of my wife, Madeline Westcott.

I am reborn on the day my wife, Courtney Clarke, embezzles company funds to pay off her childhood best friend, Travis Foster's, gambling debts. This time, I, Nathan Turner, don't sell my patents to help her plug her financial hole. Instead, I swiftly file for divorce with the court and cut ties with her. This is all because in my previous life, I had loved her with everything I had for 50 years. I was at her beck and call. She claimed she longed for a platonic marriage, and so I endured a sexless marriage for decades. All this lasted until the day of the shipwreck, when I gave her the last life vest. Yet, after she was saved, she never told the rescue team that I was still trapped inside the cabin. In my final moments, through a crack in the cabin door, I watched her throw herself into Travis' arms. "Trav, I love you. I only love you. From now on, no one will stand in the way of our love." In that moment, I abandoned all will to live, letting the sea swallow me whole. So this time, after being reborn, I choose to step aside and let her pursue her love.

While waiting in line to pick up my prenatal checkup results, a viral video suddenly popped up in my local pregnancy group. The title was shamelessly bold: [How I Got My Ex-Husband’s Wife to Pay $80,000 for My Luxury Postpartum Retreat Without Spending a Dime] In the video, a woman lounged with a sheet mask on her face, grinning smugly at the camera. “My ex-husband gave me his wife’s salary card. He told her he needed it to pay for his dad’s medical treatment. “But I actually used that card to book the most expensive VIP suite at a luxury postpartum care retreat. “That idiot is pregnant and still eating cheap food every day to save money. She really thinks she’s such a devoted daughter-in-law.” When people in the comments accused her of lying, she casually posted a photo of the deposit receipt. I clicked on the enlarged image out of curiosity. Then I froze. The last four digits of the card number were exactly the same as the salary card I’d given my husband. One commenter asked: “Don’t card transactions send notifications? Doesn’t your ex-husband’s wife check her account?” The woman replied with obvious disdain: “My ex-husband blocked her transaction alerts a long time ago. “She went for a prenatal checkup today. I casually mentioned that I was craving fried chicken from Brookhaven. “My ex-husband immediately dropped everything and went to buy it for me. Men are funny. Wherever the money goes, that’s where their hearts follow.” My breath caught. I stared at the man who suddenly appeared in the background of the video. It was my husband. The same husband who had told me he was going to a meeting at the office. He was running toward the woman, drenched in sweat, a bag of fried chicken clutched in his hand.

Seven years into dating, Kirk came to pick me up from work in the pouring rain. I opened the door to the front passenger seat, finding the fabric soaked and a single strand of hair stuck to it. Kirk kept both hands on the wheel, not even glancing at me. “I dropped an intern from the project department off at home. She was drenched since she didn’t have an umbrella with her.” I sat on the damp seat, my heart sinking. “Kirk, you, of all people, should know I have anxiety about certain things.” “It’s just a seat. She’s younger and more interesting than you. Heck, she looks prettier even when she’s drenched. “I’ve been with her, and honestly, she’s a lot more fun. “I’ll still propose to you, but you need to stay oblivious for us to carry on.” The rain battered the windows, yet it was the tension inside the car that left me struggling to breathe.

My wife, Jenna Wilkinson, has severe insomnia. She can't sleep if there's even the slightest noise. So after six years of marriage, I've gotten used to living quietly. Once it's past 9:00 pm, I don't turn on the TV, make phone calls, or even eat. I even tiptoe everywhere around the house. Whenever I watch her sleep peacefully, I always feel like all of it is worth it. That is, until one day, when I go to her office to drop off some documents and find the door slightly ajar. Her secretary, Derek Herman, is sitting cross-legged on the carpet, eating chips while a variety show plays at full volume. As for Jenna, she is asleep on the couch. When Derek tries to turn down the volume, Jenna runs her fingers through his hair with her eyes closed, saying, "Don't turn it down. I actually sleep better with a little noise." Standing outside the door, I think back to the terrible cold I had last month. I was so afraid my coughing would wake her that I buried my face in my pillow to muffle my coughs all night. The next morning, she frowned at me. "Lance, you were breathing so loudly last night that I couldn't sleep a wink. Be more careful next time." As the crunching of chips blended with Jenna's steady breathing, I slowly backed away. It turns out she never needed silence to sleep. She simply needs someone, and that someone isn't me. From then on, I never disturbed her sleep again.

Five years ago, I lost my memory in a car accident. Eira Jones had claimed she was my beloved. She saved me, cared for me, and we naturally got married. For five years, I managed every aspect of our home for her. As I tended to her every need with unwavering devotion, I was convinced I was the happiest husband in the world. But as I was about to tidy up the study, I overheard Eira and her childhood sweetheart talking. “Eira, these past five years, Vedran Clarus has been utterly devoted to you. He just hasn’t chewed your food for you! I’m getting jealous.” Eira kissed his cheek affectionately. “Silly boy, those chores are his responsibility. I’d never let you do them.” Furious, I burst through the door and accused Reed Harris of being a shameless homewrecker. But to my shock, he showed his marriage certificate to Eira. He declared that I was the third wheel in their relationship. As we shoved each other about, my head slammed into the bookshelf, and my memories returned. Apparently, I was the sole heir to the city’s wealthiest, the Grant family. I watched as Eira ranted accusations at me, and the fair-faced, pretty boy in her arms feigned hurt. I turned and dialed my childhood sweetheart’s number. “Elena Gibson, your fiance is being bullied!”

My husband—one of the top elites of Raventon Street, cold and ruthless to his core—keeps a stray orphan girl he rescued from the slums hidden in an apartment. Rowena Fletcher is clean and fragile, like a newborn creature untouched by the world. And somehow, that innocence softens something in Micah Benson—a man who's spent years clawing his way through the brutal wilderness of capital. He thinks this secret game of his goes unnoticed, but I find out anyway. At the Benson family's charity gala, I smash his favorite antique vase in front of everyone. He doesn't even flinch as he simply signals the bodyguards to clean up the mess and then hands me a divorce agreement. "Sign it, Sabrina. The penthouse in Ashbourne City is yours." I burn the divorce agreement—and that's when he finally shows his true colors. He freezes all my accounts and launches a hostile takeover of my gallery. On the night the storm hits, I get a call from the hospital. My sister, Roberta Slater, has been in a car crash—she needs emergency surgery. In the security footage, he stood there, watching coldly. "Sign the papers, or start planning a funeral." I dropped to my knees and slammed my forehead against the floor, blood trailing down my face as I begged, "Micah, please… don't…" A long, flat beep echoed from the other end of the line, slicing through the sound of rain. Then a voice on the line says, "We did everything we could." However, I have gone back in time—to the day I first found out about Rowena. This time, I no longer cry. Instead, I plan my divorce on my own terms. I call Valebrook Bank that same night and begin preparing for a quiet disappearance. But the moment I truly vanish from his world, Micah loses his mind.

In the seventh year of dating Lorenzo Townsend, he still didn't want to marry me. One day, I said to him, "Lorenzo, I'm getting married." He frowned slightly, not even sure if he heard me right. "The company is going public, and we're swamped. This is not the time to discuss such an insignificant topic," he said. I smiled calmly. Maybe to him, it seemed like I was pushing him to marry me. But the truth was, I was getting married, but not to him.

Being naturally competitive, I must take first place in any game. So, when someone on the yacht suggests playing the no-looking-back game, everyone laughs and says I'm sure to win. The rule is that I stay where I am and can't turn around. If I do, I lose. My girlfriend, Selena Hodge, and good friend, Ivan Motley, stand behind me. Meanwhile, my older brother, Mack Carson, is in charge of finding a way to trick me into looking back. Not long after the game starts, Mack suddenly shouts, "Chuck, Selena is holding Ivan's hand!" When Mack sees that I don't even bat an eye, he says with a smile, "You're really not going to look back? Those two are already hugging." I remain unmoving. That is, until Mack says drily, "Chuck, they're kissing." Even though I know it's a trick to make me turn around, I still do it anyway. Ivan's head is bowed, while Selena's face is tilted upward. The two of them are indeed kissing. My mind goes blank, and I walk over to pull the two apart. Ivan's face instantly goes pale, and Selena too falls silent for a long time. In the end, it's Mack who finally speaks up. "Chuck, the two of them must have just acted on impulse. Besides, we all thought you'd never look back for the sake of winning. Who'd have guessed you actually did?" Only then does Ivan speak. "Chuck, I'm not going to lie to you—Selena spent four years chasing me. We just don't want to look back on our four years in college with regret." I have always known that Selena spent four years chasing a guy in college. During those four years, I watch her get drunk over that guy and comfort her as she curses him for having no taste. However, I never know that guy is Ivan. Yet, everyone knows. Only I am always the one kept in the dark.

I've been married to the prince of the underworld for ten years and have endured countless life-or-death situations by his side. My hands, once trained to play the piano, are covered in calluses from holding guns and stained with blood. But at 28, my husband ends up falling for a young woman from the slums. She's as delicate and pure as a chamomile. She's his well-kept little secret—until I run into them at the woman's prenatal appointment one day. I storm up to him, demanding an explanation, only for him to nonchalantly hand me divorce papers. "Sonia is a devout follower of the church and can't have a child before marriage. I must make an honest woman out of her. Sign these, and you'll get 40% of the company's shares." I refuse to do as told, so he corners me. In the end, he has my crippled younger brother tied up and forced under a hydraulic compression machine. "Sign the papers, Maeve, or watch your brother become a human mince pie. The choice is yours." I fall on my knees and beg him to stop. As the machine turns on, my hands fly to my aching lower belly, and I scream as I lose consciousness. When I wake up again, I'm back in the hospital, in the same spot where I ran into my husband and his mistress at her prenatal appointment. This time, I don't confront him. Overnight, I make arrangements with a sanatorium abroad, get divorced, and run away from home. Yet the moment I truly disappear, my husband loses his mind.

I am a law student, and I save Andon Garner from a terrible car accident. The Garners see me as his lifesaver, so they tell me to marry him. Ten years into our marriage, my heart condition flares up. However, my husband, Andon, pours out the medicine that can save my life. He scoffs as he watches me struggle in pain and says coldly, "Elise Fulton, go and keep Sasha company." When I wake up again, it is the day of the car accident once more. Andon lies in a puddle of blood, and near him, his first love, Sasha Wilson, cries hysterically.

My girlfriend, Sophie Anderson, and I are long-distance, and she keeps her mask on every time I visit. Whether we're out shopping or taking pictures together, she keeps her mask on. Even when we kiss, she never takes it off. We've been long-distance for three years and seen each other 12 times, but I've never once seen her face. The last time we see each other, we go hiking over a holiday weekend. I ask Sophie to take off her mask so we can get a picture together. Yet, she swats the camera out of my hand and says, "My job makes things complicated. I can't have people seeing my face. "Are you here to see me, or are you only interested in seeing my face? When the time is right, you'll get your chance." Sophie even stops video-calling me, hoping I'll eventually stop caring about seeing her face. Wanting to smooth things over, I drive to Marlfield over the long weekend to see her. The moment I arrive at her apartment complex, I spot her standing there with no mask on. My heart leaps. She must have decided to show me her face. I'm just about to wave when I see Edward Brown, my former best friend, holding Sophie's hand. "You know the rules. You can't let anyone outside the organization see your face," he says. Sophie beams at him. "You're different. You're not just anyone." My chest tightens with a stabbing pain. So, she can take off the mask after all. But I'm the one she considers an outsider, while Edward—who once came between us—gets to see her face. Without hesitation, I toss the bouquet I'd brought for my proposal into the trash. That night, I accept a transfer to Himara. From then on, Sophie and I go our separate ways.

At the end of the year, I went to the spa and discovered a stranger had been using my VIP card. When I logged into my personal profile, the last three treatment records were not under my name. The preference section listed specific details about someone else. She was allergic to rose essential oil, preferred lavender, and her heating pad temperature could not exceed 108 degrees Fahrenheit. Her menstrual cycle fell around the 15th of each month, so no waist or abdomen treatments during that time. I stared at the screen, my palms turning cold. Only my husband, Zachary White, knew this password. At the time, he said he needed it to check the balance and renew my membership. I scrolled down and found a system note at the bottom: [Birthday treatment reserved for December 30, prepared according to Ms. Anderson's preferences.] Today was December 30. My phone vibrated. Zachary had sent a message: [Working late tonight. Won't be home.] Familiar laughter drifted from the hallway. Through the glass door, I watched Zachary walk into the adjacent room with his arm around a woman, the beautician hurrying forward to greet them. "Mr. White, we have Ms. Anderson's birthday treatment ready, just as you requested."

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.

I gave up the home my fiancé and I were supposed to buy together, and the realtor stares at me in surprise. "You've already paid the deposit. Don't you want to wait until your fiancé gets back before you make it official?" I smile and set the keys on the desk. "No. He's busy taking his first love skiing." Julian Harrow and I have been together for five years, and every winter, he goes to Valeria. He always calls it a business trip, but the photos he posts are of the snow-covered peak of Mount Veyra. Whenever I ask when he's finally going to take me there for our honeymoon, he always gives the same answer. "Next time." Then yesterday, I found the old camera he left at home. Inside were hundreds of photos of the same woman, captured in the same careful compositions against familiar backdrops of cherry blossoms, snow, and Mount Veyra. In five years, the only time Julian and I ever travel anywhere together is to the neighboring city to look at the house we're supposed to make our home. With my arm tucked through his, he tells me, "We don't need all that sentimental stuff. We're building a real life together." Now I stand inside the house I've spent months getting ready for us, and something inside me finally breaks. I burst into tears. The realtor cautiously holds out a pen. "Do you still want to back out?" "Yes." I wipe away my tears with a smile. My resignation has already been approved, and tonight is my last night in this city. Mount Veyra might not be coming to me. Even so, I can still walk away.

Bertrand Callum was a well-known lawyer in our circle and my fiancé. We had agreed to go on our honeymoon right after registering our marriage. But he broke that promise again and again. He took his secretary to every place I had dreamed of visiting. On my birthday, he brought her to Saltorlini, the place we had planned to go together. Later, he gave up our marriage registration just because she had sprained her ankle. Even when I was in a car accident and on the verge of death, he hung up on my call for help because of something she said. After I recovered, I went alone to Acreatic, a place I had always longed to see, and moved out of the home we once shared. A week after I left, Bertrand called to scold me. "Annie, you need to stop overreacting. Are you really going to divorce me over something so trivial?" I wanted to remind him that we had never actually registered our marriage. But ultimately, I shut up and said nothing. After all, there was nothing between us anymore.

I had just returned from a business trip. The moment I stepped through the door, I scooped my wife into my arms and rushed her straight to the bathroom for a steamy shower together. We were kissing passionately when, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something: the toilet seat was flipped up. I froze. Seven years ago, my wife had read a post online claiming that when men pee standing up, bacteria splash onto the seat. She begged me to sit down to pee for the sake of her health. I have kept that promise. For seven years of marriage, that seat has never been up. A knot formed in my stomach, but the bathroom was spotless, so clean it looked staged, not a single stray hair anywhere. Then I noticed the shower temperature. It was set five degrees lower than her usual 43°C. Men like cooler showers. Women like them hotter… At that moment, I knew, Ruby Lynch had cheated on me.