Mistress Romance Short Stories & Marriage Novels

At a yacht party, someone suggests we play Two Truths and a Lie. The rules are simple. If someone calls your bluff and proves that you are lying, you have to take a penalty shot. When it's my turn, I look across the deck at my girlfriend of eight years, Claire Sullivan, and smile. "I'm getting married this year." Before anyone else can react, my best friend, Daniel Parker, raises his hand. "Bullshit. That's a lie. There's no way you're getting married this year." Laughter erupts around the table, and everyone turns to Claire, waiting for her response. Instead, she calmly picks up a glass of liquor and slides it across the table toward me. "You lost. Drink." Without hesitation, I pick up the glass and knock it back in one swallow. The liquor burns all the way down my throat, and my heart aches along with it. Then it's Daniel's turn. He leans back with a smug grin and says, "I got married this year, too." I call his bluff, but Daniel merely raises an eyebrow. Instead, he reaches into his bag, pulls out a marriage certificate, and passes it around for everyone to see. Daniel lets everyone take a look at it. My eyes drop to the names: Claire Sullivan under Bride and Daniel Parker under Groom. For a few seconds, I can't move. Then everyone bursts out laughing. "Julian lost again!" "We knew he would!" "So double shot this time!" Claire looks at me with what almost passes for an apologetic smile. "We lost a bet last time," she says casually. "The punishment was getting married, so… we did." I stare at the woman I've loved for eight years, then at the man I've trusted as my best friend. My blood runs cold. It seems that Daniel hasn't just won the game; he's won Claire, too. And the worst part? They've both forgotten one thing. I always keep my word. I said I would get married this year, and I will, but Claire just won't be the bride.

After we got married, my husband, Mason Callahan, handed over his debit card and told me to treat myself, no limits. Then his mom ended up in the hospital. The second he asked me to transfer the money for her treatment, I told him that there was none left. He flew into a rage. "I give you ten grand a month! How the hell can you have zero dollars left? "I said you could treat yourself, but you actually blew through every cent? You didn't save a dime? God, how did I end up marrying such a wasteful woman?" I didn't bother arguing. I simply asked for a divorce.

The sixth time photos of him cheating surfaced, Leander Prescott snatched the knife from my hand and brought it down hard. Stroke by stroke, he carved the name "Seraphina Vale" into his thigh. "Happy now? Can you leave Celeste alone?" I stood frozen, staring at him as if I suddenly didn't recognize the man in front of me. For ten years, we had tortured each other over Leander's infidelity. Every time he crossed the line, I carved my name into his flesh. Wrist-cutting, kidnapping, even hanging Celeste Waverly from a helicopter to threaten her—every scar on his body had a bloody story behind it. He had never been this calm. … Seeing the confusion in my eyes, a flicker of tenderness passed through his hate-filled gaze. "Celeste is pregnant. As long as you promise you won't confront her again, you can carve as many marks into me as you want. "This is the ninety-ninth mark. Ninety-nine is a good number. Let's make things work between us from now on." My throat suddenly felt dry. "Make things work? Do you really mean that?" He looked at me with a mixture of pain and mockery. "Sincere?" "My body already belongs to you. Stop coveting what belongs to Celeste." Watching him close his eyes in numb resignation, I suddenly understood. Ninety-nine wasn't his way of saying he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me. It meant he had finally resigned himself to his fate. He was willing to sacrifice his entire life so that another woman and her bastard could live out the rest of theirs in peace. A bone-deep sorrow flooded my heart, chilling me to the core. A lifetime was too long. And suddenly, I no longer wanted to sacrifice mine for him.

It was Christmas Eve. I had flown home in a hurry, hoping to surprise my wife. But the moment I stepped inside, I heard Nancy Summerson say gently, "Dad, Mom, this is Ronald Riverton. We've been secretly married for years." She heard the door open and turned around. The second she saw me, she walked over and slapped me across the face. "You thieves are getting bolder by the day. Breaking and entering during Christmas Eve? Get out now!" I stared at her, my eyes red. I grabbed her hand tightly, hoping she would give me an explanation. She flung my hand away and took a phone out. "I've called the cops, and they'll be here very soon! They'll arrest you, thief!" Then Nancy turned back to her family and took Ronald's hand, intertwining their fingers as though I were nothing more than an unwanted stranger. "It's just a thief. The cops will handle him. Ignore him." I stood petrified. The four of them looked so happy together. As for me, all I felt was exhaustion. Without another word, I turned and left. Then I tossed the share transfer agreement I had brought for her into the bin.

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

My lawyer husband, Chester Stratton, and our five-year-old son were kidnapped. By the time I arrived, the bomb had already detonated, and they were reduced to ashes before my eyes. My older sister, a prosecutor, had tried to help me track down the culprit, yet even she was captured and tortured to death. Everyone said my ruthless methods had earned me too many enemies, that they had suffered because of me. They said I should have been the one to die. Even the Criminal Investigation Division stripped me of my position. For three years, I secretly hunted for the mastermind. Until one day, my investigation led me to a restaurant. There, I saw my husband, my son, and my sister—the three people who had supposedly died three years ago. They were all sitting together, celebrating a little girl's birthday. Friends and relatives surrounded them, smiling as though nothing had ever happened. Fury surged through me, and I was about to storm over and demand answers when my best friend grabbed me from behind, refusing to let go. "Audrey, I know you can't accept this, but they're husband and wife now. If you make a scene, how are you any different from a homewrecker? Phoebe got pregnant with Chester's child three years ago. Everyone knew how ruthless you could be. Faking their deaths was the only way they could escape you." Beside her, my mother fixed me with a warning look. "It's good that you found out. For the past three years, Phoebe and Chester have been forced to move from place to place with their two children. It broke my heart to watch them live like that. Now, their family of four is finally happy. If you just walk away, everyone will forgive you." The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. I looked at the people before me and laughed until tears streamed down my face. So Chester and my sister had never died. While I had spent the past three years drowning in grief, they had been living peaceful, happy lives. And everyone had known the truth. Everyone had conspired to keep it from me.

On my way home from work, I realized a man I didn't know was following me. I called my husband, Cassian Bellamy, for help, hoping he could come pick me up. Instead, he sent me a few cold voice messages. "Can you stop acting like you're being followed all the time? We live in a society governed by laws. Where's this creep you're talking about?" "Also, if someone really is following you, what do you think he's going to do? You're a married woman. I'm busy right now, so take a cab home yourself." I hid in the corner of a 24-hour convenience store, trembling from head to toe. It wasn't until a torrential downpour began that the creepy figure finally left. I ran home in the dark, soaked to the skin and covered in mud. The moment I got home, a post from Cassian's childhood friend, Celine Marlowe, popped up on my phone. "This is why having a childhood friend matters. I couldn't get a ride home in the rain, so he drove across half the city just to pick me up from work." The photo showed Cassian's familiar Land Rover, with a warm cup of coffee in the passenger seat. Celine's pinned location was a full 18 miles from our home. And Cassian's car would have passed right by the street where I'd called him for help. In that moment, all the strength seemed to leave my body. Maybe I didn't need this miserable marriage after all.

My boyfriend Zane Shaw's ex, Mia Zimmer, has another sleepwalking episode and shows up at our door in the middle of the night. Zane doesn't even hesitate. As if he's done this countless times before, he leads her straight into our master bedroom, settles her into our bed, and gently coaxes her back to sleep. I stand in the doorway, watching the tenderness in his expression. "Zane, what's the excuse this time?" He doesn't even turn around. After a brief silence, he answers impatiently, "You'll get used to it." So this time, there isn't even an excuse. I'm simply expected to get used to another woman showing up at our home in the middle of the night and to my boyfriend's ex sleeping in our bed. Mia was diagnosed with a sleepwalking disorder three months ago. Ever since then, she somehow ends up outside our door every single night, calling Zane's name in her sleep. The first time, Zane lets her in. "Winnie, it's pouring outside. It's not safe for her to be alone. She'll sleep on the couch. I'll send her home first thing in the morning." The second time, he takes her to the guest room. "The couch is not comfortable, and no one's using the guest room anyway. It's just for one night." First the couch, then the guest room, and now she's sleeping in our bedroom. I turn around and return to the guest room without saying another word. In the middle of the night, I get up for some water. That's when I hear voices coming from the master bedroom. "Mia, you don't actually have a sleepwalking disorder, do you?" Mia sniffles. "I'm sorry, Zane. I didn't want to lie to you. But I really can't sleep when you're not there." A long silence follows. Then Zane finally speaks. "Don't let Winnie find out." I stand outside the door, frozen. I don't know how long I stay there. Eventually, I take out my phone and type a message. "I'm accepting the overseas transfer." If Zane wants to keep playing along with Mia's lies, that's his choice. But I'm done playing with them.

In our most loving year, Hugh Thorne and I make a pact that neither of us will ever ask for a divorce—because whoever does will end his or her own life. I immediately grab a pair of scissors and stab him in the neck when he first tells me that he wants to give Beatrice Lane, my heartbroken best friend, a home. He repeatedly brings up divorce over the next two years, while I repeatedly refuse to let him go. Then, after his 99th attempt to get a divorce fails, Hugh jumps into the river. Everyone claims I am a madwoman and a jinx who killed her husband. Mom and Dad cut ties with me and take in Beatrice as their goddaughter. I am completely on my own after that. I work three jobs a day to make ends meet and raise Nicholas White, the child Hugh and I share. It is the third year after Hugh's death, and I receive a call from a former classmate of mine. "Are you coming to the class reunion this weekend, Mia? Hugh will be there too." In that instant, my mind goes completely blank. I can barely hold the phone because my hand is shaking so hard. It turns out that Hugh is still alive! My former classmate excitedly explains over the phone, "We're doing something different this time! Everyone has to bring something that will surprise the others, and whoever loses has to pay for the meal!" I have to bring something that will surprise everyone, huh? I hang up the phone and instantly arrange for someone to draft a divorce agreement for me.

After a car accident wipes my memory, my mind is stuck ten years in the past—right after I get down on one knee to propose to Angeline Stone. I tear through every app on my phone, desperate to find any proof that Angeline is actually my wife. But all I see in my contacts are numbers I don't recognize, and my WhatsApp chat list is empty. I have no choice but to call my buddy, Rick Tate, to ask him whether Angeline accepted my proposal. To my surprise, he explodes on me like a lit firecracker. "Did a donkey kick you in the head, Caleb? Did she accept your proposal? You're about to divorce her!" My first reaction after hanging up is—damn, I'm a legend. I actually managed to land an ice queen like Angeline. My second reaction is to stare blankly at the handwritten divorce agreement on the nightstand. Who wants a divorce? Me? Am I out of my mind?

I was accompanying my mother-in-law to our family-owned hospital for a follow-up appointment. She had developed a lifelong gynecological condition from complications during my wife's birth. A muscular man passed by, recoiled in disgust, and shuffled to the other side of the aisle before shouting for a nurse. "What kind of hospital is this? You just let any filthy person sit in the waiting area? This old hag reeks. Is nobody going to do anything about it?" The nurse hurried over and recognized my mother-in-law. She held up her hands. "Sir, this patient is here for a scheduled follow-up. We can't turn her away." The man lost it. "What part of that don't you understand? Take this old hag and get out! My wife is Giselle Bedford, the CEO of Bedford Medical! You think people who sell themselves for a living can afford to cross her? "One word from me, and she'll have every last one of you blacklisted. That old hag can rot from her filthy disease, screaming in agony, and not a single doctor in this city will dare touch her!" I stood frozen. Giselle Bedford? The same woman who had texted me half an hour ago? Giselle: [Does Mom need me to send a driver for her appointment?] When did she become this man's wife?

Before Lily's surgery, the nurse slid the consent form across to me. I called my husband, Ethan Reid, eleven times. When the twelfth call finally connected, the first voice I heard was his first love, Claire Bennett, on the verge of tears: "Ethan, the zipper on my wedding dress is stuck. Don't leave yet." I looked at my daughter, white with pain in the hospital bed, and said, "Lily's waiting for you." Ethan was silent for two seconds before saying, "Just sign it. I'll get there later." Later, Lily studied the lone guardian's signature on the form and asked, "Mom, can I leave Dad off the school forms from now on?" I said she could. From that day on, she stopped leaving room for Ethan anywhere a father's name was supposed to go: emergency contact forms, open-house sign-in sheets, birthday wish cards. As California's six-month waiting period for our divorce neared its end, Ethan promised to take Lily to the Monterey Bay Aquarium. Then Claire called, and once again, he left. Lily didn't cry. She snapped her dolphin headband in two and said, "Mom, let's go. I can grow up without a dad."

At eight months pregnant, Esther Rivera went to the mall to buy a duffle bag and stock up on supplies she would need when she went into labor. She was once again mistaken for a mistress and was assaulted by Summer Moreno. To protect the baby in her belly, she could not fight back at all. Summer grabbed her hair and slapped her several times, even nearly tearing off her clothes. At her wit’s end, Esther called the police. Both of them were taken to the police station. Each of them claimed to be Jasper Clarke’s wife The police officer, John Hayward, called Jasper to verify the truth. When Jasper learned about this, he went to the police station. Summer swiftly took out a mirror to touch up her makeup before looking at Esther smugly and saying, “Esther, do you think Jasper will say I’m his wife just to protect me? “I bet he will.”

A day before my wedding, my fiancee, Claudia George, was suddenly required to go on a business trip to North City. “There are some issues with the project. The issue should be settled by tomorrow morning, and I’ll return immediately. I won’t delay the wedding at all.” She was afraid that I would overthink the situation, so she video-called me right after she landed. In the video call, she was wearing the down jacket that I had bought her. Behind her was the white wall of the hotel. It was snowing heavily outside the window. She showed me the entire room. There was one pillow on the bed, and one set of toiletries on the sink. She even opened the closet for me to have a look. I nodded with a smile and urged her to go to sleep early. However, after she hung up, my tears trickled down my cheeks uncontrollably. It was a super El Nino year. No snow was supposed to fall upon North City.

After the car accident, my best friend, Isla Mercer, and I were both rushed to the hospital. My husband, Adrian Cole, an ER physician, arrived in a hurry, but instead of coming to me, he went straight to Isla. My leg had gone numb after being crushed beneath the mangled car door when I tried to save Isla. Isla only had a cut on her arm, yet my husband didn’t even look back as he chose her. I endured the pain and begged him to treat me first. But my brother, Caleb Whitaker, arrived late and immediately refused. “Adrian is the only attending physician available right now. You’re his wife. If he treats you first, what will people think of him? “Stop being so selfish. Just endure it. It’ll pass.” When I woke up again, excruciating pain shot through my empty right leg. Tears streaming down my face, I demanded an explanation. “I was clearly more seriously injured. Why didn’t you save me first?” Caleb’s eyes were filled with nothing but blame. “Natalie, there’s a limit to how selfish you can be! “Isla was already in the terminal stage of cancer before she was brought here. How could you even try to take away the last bit of peace she has? Don’t you have any conscience?” Beside him, Adrian didn’t defend me. He simply lowered his head and silently accepted everything Caleb said. I lay on the hospital gurney, staring at the ceiling, and suddenly felt like laughing. So it wasn’t that they couldn’t save me. They simply didn’t want to. Fine. They had no idea that the cancer diagnosis belonged to me. And I didn’t need any of them anymore.

On the day of the wedding, I wake up at four in the morning, waiting for the stylist and the cars that are supposed to take me to the venue. But seven o'clock comes, and no one shows up. Panicking, I call my childhood friend, Heath Zeller. His laughter comes through the phone. "Julian, how can you be this careless? We were told last minute that the cars aren't going to pick you up today. Everyone went straight to the hotel instead." I grab my custom-made wedding suit and rush to the hotel. By the time I arrive, drenched in sweat, the place is completely empty. Just then, Heath calls again. "I was just messing with you," he says, barely able to hold back his laughter. "You didn't actually run all the way to the hotel, did you? "Destination weddings are all the rage now. We moved the wedding to Isla Verde ages ago. Everyone's waiting for you at the airport." I drag my heavy garment bag from one terminal to another. But no matter how thoroughly I search the departure hall, I can't find a single one of them. Then Heath sends me a video, laughing so hard he can barely stand. "You're too slow! We've already left. There was never a destination wedding. We just wanted to spend a week on Isla Verde. We'll throw you the wedding when we get back." The camera shifts. My fiancee, Lydia Bennett, is pulling his suitcase for him. My parents stand behind them, grinning even more happily than they did in our family photos. When Mom sees how pale I look, she frowns instead. "It's just a joke. Why are you taking it so seriously? Heath is so much more fun than you. You've always been so dull, even as a kid. You take everything too seriously." Lydia hands Heath his coat before finally turning toward the camera. "Go home and wait for me, okay?" she says. "I'll marry you when I get back." Looking at all those smiling faces on the screen, I suddenly realize that even confronting them is pointless. I'm not angry or heartbroken. I'm simply numb. I pick up my phone and message the wedding planner to cancel everything. From this moment on, I'm done playing along with their lies.

I'm reborn just as Jasmine Maynard asks for a divorce for the 108th time. Her weary voice rings in my ears. "There's nothing between us anymore, Noah Hardin. Dragging this on will just exhaust the both of us." In my past life, I had stubbornly refused to let her go and divorce her because I still wanted to be her husband. But then she got pregnant with someone else's baby, and I made a huge fuss about it, which caused her to lock me up in a psychiatric hospital. She only came to see me once right before I died. She said, "If I knew how obsessive you'd turn out to be, I would never have married you in the first place." So, in this lifetime, I realize that my obsession with her doesn't matter more than staying alive. "Dexter has a heart condition. You can demand whatever else you want from me aside from keeping your position as my husband," Jasmine says, rubbing her temples impatiently. "But it you don't agree, then we'll keep negotiating until—" I interrupt her and say, "There's no need to wait till the 109th time. I'll agree to the divorce."

The day I catch my fiancée, Autumn Freeman, in bed with another man, the guy on top of her deliberately slashes his own face. Autumn throws herself in front of him, refusing to budge. Even as I fall apart right there, she refuses to let me get a clear look at his face. She turns to me, her voice breaking as she pleads through her tears. "This is all my fault. I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. I only ask that you leave him alone, Clark Ballard." After that day, Autumn gives up her privacy. She hands me her phone every day and installs hidden cameras in her car herself. Even when patients text her, I grill her about it. She accepts everything without complaint, doing whatever it takes just to win me back. But when I go to pick up my suit three days before our wedding, the clerk gives me a puzzled look. "Mr. Ballard, you already picked up your suit this morning. I just came across a video of your wedding online." In the video she pulls up, Autumn's close friends, who were calling me Autumn's husband just yesterday, are handing rings to the newlyweds. Our mutual friends are standing right there, too, and Autumn looks absolutely radiant with happiness. Blushing, she gazes at the groom and softly calls out to him. "Kev." Hearing the groom's name, along with seeing a face that looks exactly like mine, leaves me rooted to the spot.

For five years, I had stood by my girlfriend as she worked her way from a tiny street stall to a successful chain of stores. Three times, I waited for her to finally give me a home. The first time, she bought a one-bedroom apartment. I packed my bags, ready to move in, only for her to hand the keys to her childhood friend, who had just gone through a divorce. "He's raising his daughter on his own. It isn't safe for them to live somewhere else," she told me. "Just stay with me in the basement for a few more months." The second time, she bought a two-bedroom apartment. I had already bought new sheets and gotten everything ready. Then, by some twist of fate, her childhood friend's apartment caught fire. She gave the new place to him and his daughter, then took me back to the cramped room behind the store. When I told her I wanted to leave, she hugged me with tears in her eyes. "Just wait a little longer. Once we buy a three-bedroom place, I promise I'll finally give you a real home." I stayed with her for another two years because of that promise. Finally, the day came when the new house was ready. I rushed over with the suit lookbook I had kept for so long, only to find her childhood friend already there, holding his daughter's hand as they picked out bedrooms. My girlfriend stopped me and lowered her voice. "He's fighting his ex-wife for custody. He needs a stable home if he wants a chance of keeping his daughter. Stay at the store with me for one more year. Once he gets custody, I'll bring you home right away." The suit catalog slipped from my hands and hit the floor. That was when I finally understood. It was not that she had never been able to give me a home. It was that every time, she chose someone else. This time, I was not waiting anymore. I no longer wanted the "home" she spoke of. I would leave her to care for the one person she had always wanted to protect.

It's the third year since my wife, Joyce Sinclair, cheated on me. I spread her intimate photos with her male assistant, Bryan Long, on the internet. Then, I doused myself in gasoline and threatened to drag everyone down to hell with me. Bryan's so scared that he flees the city that very night. I think I've won. However, to settle my lawsuit and cover the damages, my older sister, Rachel Lovett, sells her house and takes out high-interest loans. In the end, the burden becomes too much for her, and she jumps from a high-rise building. Her voice is hoarse in the recording she leaves me. "That's enough, Ray. We've lost everything. Mom and Dad have aged overnight, and I can't take it anymore..." Mom clutches Rachel's belongings and cries until she passes out. Dad's emaciated hands clamp around my neck as he demands at the top of his lungs, "How many more lives do you have to destroy before you're satisfied?" Tears silently trail down my cheeks, and I finally come to my senses. I no longer neurotically look into every single man around Joyce, and I stop badgering her with questions about the scent of men's cologne on her. Even when I walk in on her staring at a photo of her and Bryan and reminiscing about the past, I take the initiative to bring him back. It all comes to a head when Bryan wishes to become Joyce's lawfully wedded husband on his birthday. Without the slightest hesitation, I print out the divorce agreement, sign and seal it, and deliver it to him. To my surprise, Joyce rips the agreement to shreds. She grips my chin and demands hysterically, "Raymond Lovett, what happened to the stubborn man who'd rather die than divorce me? Where is he now?"