Feel-Good Story Romance Short Stories & Mistress Regret Novels

When my dad, Jake Snow, is on his deathbed, his final wish is to meet my girlfriend of eight years. I call Nancy Miller 67 times, but she doesn't bother picking up. Only after Dad passed away did she finally send a half-hearted text message. "We're in lockdown mode for the project. I can't leave now. Once things ease up, I'll definitely visit Mr. Snow." I hold Dad's hand that has gone cold. My fingers tremble as I type, "Sure." That very night, I come across a video. Nancy is clad in a red dress at a riverside restaurant overlooking the river. She is holding a cake, standing beside another man. The caption reads, "Four years after graduation, I finally get to stand beside you again. Happy birthday, Sean." Everyone is busy congratulating them in the comment section. I even recognize some of the names. Someone asks, "Are Nancy and Sean finally getting their happy ending?" I stare at the screen, my heart clenching like someone's squeezing it from the inside. Then I reply, "Yeah, I guess so. I just didn't know I was the one left out until now."

After Dad’s affair, Mom began sprinkling flour into his underwear every day. “That way, it’s clean, and I can see the truth,” she murmured. Her face was deathly pale. Dad always stood by the bed with his head lowered, letting her do as she pleased. When he left the bedroom, he would catch my worried gaze and give me a gentle smile. “Ellie, your mom’s sick. She’s just playing a game with me.” However, that day, Dad was leaving for an out-of-town business trip. While packing, he quietly pulled out the flour-dusted pair and replaced it with a clean one. The moment Mom saw it, she snapped. She rushed over and grabbed his suitcase. “Why did you switch it?” she shrieked. “Are you going to see that divorced receptionist from your company again? Even after I marked it with flour, you still want to fool around with her. Aren’t you afraid something will go wrong down there?” Dad stumbled as she tugged at him. At last, he shoved her away. “I’m going to the hot springs resort to meet a client. How am I supposed to show up like this? Can’t you stop being so paranoid all the time?” Mom staggered back into the wardrobe, and her tears instantly spilled out. “If you weren’t so desperate that you’d go after anyone, even a woman with a child, I wouldn’t be so paranoid.” Dad’s face flushed with anger. “At least Jocelyn’s child was her ex-husband’s, unlike you, who expected me to raise the spawn of the man who assaulted you. If I’d been pickier, I never would’ve married you!” A sudden clap of thunder cracked outside. Mom went still, and she slowly lowered her outstretched hand. I curled up in the corner of the couch as tears slid down my face. I knew then that Mom had truly reached her breaking point.

On Christmas, I prepare a feast and wait for my wife to introduce me to her family after nine years of being married in secret. Just as I wait with anticipation, my wife walks through the door, holding her first love's hand. Their fingers are interlocked, and their eyes are brimming with affection. "Mom. Dad. This is Henry Cooper, my husband. We've been secretly married for the past ten years." "What a handsome young man. You two look perfect together!" My mother-in-law is grinning from ear to ear. They stand there chatting, looking like a happy family. Then my wife turns to me, her gaze icy. "This is my live-in housekeeper. Come try the food and see if you like it." My wife invites her family to take their seats, but Henry Cooper looks at me with a hint of disdain. "The host hasn't even sat down yet. How can the housekeeper sit first? Where are your manners?"

On the day my wife, Rachel Carter, receives her Ph.D., I rush back from overseas. But when I approach her with a carefully chosen gift, she slaps me in front of everyone. "I'm a married woman with a family of my own. Stop trying to make me your lover!" I watch as she turns away from me and makes her way over to a family of four. "Honey, Mom, Dad, don't mind him. This man is crazy. Let's go," she says gently. Refusing to give up, I catch up to her and grab her arm. "What happened, Rach?" I ask. "Who's this scary man, Mommy?" a child asks. "Why does he keep bothering you?" Rachel yanks her hand away and pulls out her phone. "I've already called the police. Stop harassing me, you piece of trash!" As I stare at her retreating figure, a wave of exhaustion suddenly washes over me. I pull out my phone and make a call. "Notify headquarters, William. Cancel all plans to relocate our global headquarters back to Jekovia." After I hang up, I toss the gift into a nearby trash can and walk away without looking back.

Sophia Wilson is the youngest chief of cardiothoracic surgery in Greenley. Everyone says she has the steadiest hands and a heart made of stone. But I know she isn't incapable of feeling. It's just that her tenderness is never reserved for me. The day after our engagement party, Dad suffers a sudden stroke and gets rushed into surgery. The nurse tells me I need a second person to sign off on the surgery, so I call Sophia right away. The phone rings for a long time before she finally answers. Through the line, I hear a man's weak, ragged breathing. It's her ex-boyfriend, Harrison Cross. Sophia drops her voice to a whisper. "Harrison's having a severe panic attack right now. I'm staying with him. Just tell the hospital staff to bypass the paperwork for now." I clutch the pen so tightly that my knuckles turn white. "The doctor says it's a massive emergency. You're the only person I have right now." She falls silent for a second, her voice remaining steady. "Don't be so dramatic. The hospital has procedures in place, but they aren't going to just let someone die." On her end of the line, Harrison murmurs, "Sophia, don't let me keep you from Conrad. Maybe you should just leave. I can handle this on my own." Sophia shoots back immediately, "Stop acting tough. I'm not leaving." The line goes dead just as the nurse presses me one more time. Looking down at my ring finger, I stare at the engagement band Sophia personally picked out. She tells me that it's always foggy at the dock, but if the diamond is bright enough, she'll always be able to find me at a glance. But that day, the harsh white lights outside the operating room are so blinding, and I'm standing alone in the fog, yet she doesn't show up. After Dad is finally out of danger, I spend the entire night sitting outside his room. As dawn breaks, a text from Sophia finally lights up my screen. "Harrison's asleep. How is your dad doing?" I look out the window at the ferry moored at the dock. The fog has completely cleared, and it's time for me to leave.

The nurse's hands are trembling as she hands me the "Body and Cornea Donation Consent Form". She asks, "Mr. Stone, is Stellan's mother coming?" I gently wipe the blood from my son's lips and slowly shake my head. "No. She's saving someone else's child." My son, Stellan Stone, is born with a complex congenital heart defect. My wife, Sharon Claude, is the youngest cardiothoracic surgeon in the country. Five years ago, she tells me she's going overseas to study the most advanced surgical techniques so she can come back and perform Stellan's operation herself. For the past five years, she has sent home research papers, case studies, and handwritten surgery plans. She always says, "Just wait a little longer. Wait until I'm absolutely certain I can do it." So, I wait. I wait as Stellan grows from a little boy who can run and laugh to a boy who can only lie in the ICU, breathing with the help of machines. Today, I see the latest issue of a medical journal in the hospital lobby. On the cover, Sharon is smiling gently as she holds a little boy in her arms. The child is Aiden Ford, the son of her first love, Chris Ford. In the interview, she says, "He's just a child. I can't bear to let the one I love most face even the slightest risk." But our child is just a child too. I sign my name on the consent form and gently tuck Stellan's cold little hand back beneath the white sheet. I whisper, "Sharon, you safeguarded someone else's heartbeat, but you denied our child a chance to live."

Early in the morning, I'm doubled over with unbearable stomach pain, so I ask my wife, Mandy Sanchez, to drive me to the hospital. Downstairs, just as I reach for the passenger door, she presses her hand against it, stopping me before I can pull it open. "The passenger seat is Sam's. No one else sits there," she declares. I just stare at her, wondering if I heard her right. I paid 300,000 dollars for this car. And now she's telling me I can't ride shotgun because that seat is reserved for another man? Mandy pulls open the back door and shoves me inside. "What difference does it make where you sit? Your stomach hurts, right? Let me just get you to the hospital." Somehow, the cramping in my gut doesn't feel as sharp anymore. No amount of physical pain can match the ache in my heart. The moment we pull up to the hospital, Mandy gets a call from her childhood best friend, Samuel Carter. She walks away, leaving me behind without a single backward glance. As I watch her go, I suddenly come to my senses.

Just because Tristan Whitfield wants to know how long I can hold my breath, Celine Harper kicks me straight into the pool. I go pale, screaming for help, but nobody pulls me out until I've already blacked out. Someone nearby whispers, "Don't you think Celine went a little too far?" But she just scoffs, not the least bit worried. "Relax. Gavin's a pushover. Give him a plane ticket to go somewhere fun, and he'll forget all about it." When I come to, I do exactly what she predicts. I get on the flight to Ridgemont and never return. Two weeks later, Celine can't stand it anymore and flies out after me, furious. "You're really holding a grudge over that?"

Every year on my birthday, my wife Nicole Weston breaks her promise. The first time, she stays up playing video games with her mentee, Finnegan Holt, and never shows up to the movie. The second time, she bails on our candlelight dinner to teach him how to cook, and every dish goes cold and straight into the trash. The third time, she shuts off her phone and takes him to a spa resort while I'm stranded alone at a beach house during a tsunami warning. I spend three days drifting at sea. When I'm finally rescued, the first thing I see on social media is a photo Finnegan posted. Nicole is in a bikini, giving him a back rub. The caption reads, "With a mentor like this, the world is mine!" I screenshot it and drop it into the company group chat. "Quite the mentorship. Might as well make it official." Nicole calls me immediately, screaming. "You're being ridiculous. Finn's in tears because of you! So I took him to a spa. What's the big deal? You see something dirty in everything! Delete that message right now and apologize to Finn in person!" I scoff. "I'll pass on the apology. I've already drafted the divorce papers. Don't forget to sign." After seven years of bending over backward for her, I'm truly done.

I spent three years winning the heart of Audrey Levingston, a woman everyone thought was untouchable. I gave up my entire career just to marry her and willingly became a stay-at-home husband. When she told me she was afraid of childbirth, I underwent a vasectomy the very next day. Everyone who knew us believed we would grow old together and love each other for the rest of our lives. But on our fifth wedding anniversary, I decided to file for divorce. My best friend and divorce attorney, Evan Chauncey, asked me again and again, “Are you sure? Back then, you turned down an offer from Vogue without hesitation just to marry her, and now, you’re telling me you want a divorce?” I swallowed the ache in my chest and replied, “Just draft the divorce agreement. The sooner, the better.” “Why?” he asked, clearly bewildered. My gaze fell on the exquisitely wrapped bouquet of black roses sitting on the dining table. After a long silence, I finally gave him my answer. “Because of a single bouquet.”

Six years after my divorce from my ex-wife, Enya Taylor, we meet again in a courtroom. She sits at the prosecution table, representing the prosecution in the case brought against me. I stand in the defendant's dock, accused of five counts of murder. The moment Enya sees my face, her eyes widen in shock. "Eric?" Her reaction doesn't surprise me. After all, no one would ever imagine that Eric Beckett, the man known for his gentle nature, and Ezra Beckett, the serial killer, were the same person. Tears well up in her eyes, and she clenches her jaw so fiercely that it trembles. "Six years. Five lives. Five families destroyed forever... Eric, how could you do something like this?" A low chuckle escapes me as I watch her. "Not just five, Ms. Taylor. Ryan White, your fiance and my former best friend, has been missing for a week, hasn't he? Care to guess where he is?"

My fiancee, Bianca Milas, had a peculiar quirk. She never answered my phone calls after 9 p.m.. Even during our honeymoon phase, she would hang up on me without hesitation as soon as it was 9 p.m.. Once, I came home late and realized that one of my enemies had sent killers after me. In a panic, I had called her. When she finally answered, she simply said impatiently, “Grow up. Ever heard of respecting someone’s routine?” That night, I was slashed three times and nearly lost my life. One day, while using her computer, I accidentally saw a call log synced to her phone showing a call from 9 p.m. to 9 a.m.. Every single night, for five years, she had been engaged in twelve-hour calls. I recognized the number. It belonged to her mother’s student, Derek Steadman. Derek worked as her teaching assistant. My whole body sagged, and fatigue washed over me. I sat there motionless for a long while, then called off our marriage license appointment. She never answered my calls, so I did not see the point in answering hers any longer.

Five years into therapy, my doctor pushed a consent form across the desk. "Electroconvulsive therapy is the most effective treatment available. But there's a strong chance you'll lose a significant portion of your memories." I stared at the form for a long moment, then picked up the phone and called my wife, Celeste Kendrick. As always, the call was routed to her company's front desk. "I'm sorry, Mr. Hartley. Ms. Kendrick is in a meeting." The receptionist's response was brief and professional. The whole exchange lasted less than three seconds. Five years ago, my mother died in an accident on the same day as our wedding. I left Celeste at the altar. After that, we were married on paper and strangers in every way that mattered. When I called to ask if she was coming home, the call would go straight to the front desk. When I needed a family member's signature for surgery, the call would go to the front desk. Even when I was falling apart and just needed to hear her voice, all I ever got was the receptionist's rehearsed reply. I opened our message history. She had read every single message and never replied to one. Yet just one minute earlier, she had posted on social media.

I was two hours late the day we went to see the wedding apartment. By the time I rushed over, Serena Dupree had already signed the purchase agreement and was leaning her head against Ryan Hale's, deep in discussion about the renovation. They'd gone from debating a gaming room to a nursery, and now they were arguing over whether the master bathroom needed a bathtub. Nearby, a middle-aged couple watched with amused smiles and teased Ryan. "You two are clearly decorating a newlywed home, young man. In a marriage, the husband listens to the wife." Ryan coughed, awkward, and glanced at Serena, whose face had gone faintly pink. "Fine, fine, whatever she wants." I stood a little way off, watching Serena and Ryan go back and forth, settling every detail of my own future home between the two of them. The three of us had grown up together. When we were kids, they were the ones who decided which school I'd attend, then let me know afterward. When we grew older and Serena and I started dating, they were the ones who picked the restaurant for every date, the destination for every trip, and told me where we were going. This time, even the wedding apartment, apparently, all I had to do was wait for them to tell me. Over the years, I'd turned into the shadow of the two of them. A shadow doesn't get a voice. It just keeps its head down and follows along. But even a shadow gets tired. Even a shadow can stop dead on some overcast day and refuse to take one more step forward.

I had been dating a photographer for seven years, yet I didn't have a single decent photo of myself. "I only photograph scenery, not people," Nina Jensen said. She even said her last relationship ended because her ex-boyfriend kept asking her to take pictures of him. So for seven years, I stayed quiet. I never asked or brought it up. That was until today, when I came across the latest post from my influencer friend, Julian Locke. [Let me show off my photographer. She's been taking amazing photos of me for seven years for free!] One of the top comments is: [It's an honor to photograph my muse.] The profile picture was completely white. The tone felt familiar, and it sent a chill through my entire body. Turns out, it wasn't that Nina didn't take photos of people. She just never wanted to take mine. 'Nina. If I don't exist in your viewfinder, from now on, you don't exist in my world either.'

Gianna Connor and I make plans a month in advance to take my parents on a trip. My parents arrive in Havenport the night before the trip, worried they might miss our early departure and keep Gianna, their future daughter-in-law, waiting. The next morning, my parents and I wait downstairs early, but Gianna never shows up. Worried that something has happened to her on the way, I call her more than a dozen times, but she doesn't answer. On the 20th call, she finally picks up. "Everett's mom has a follow-up appointment today. I need to take her in for a full checkup. We'll have to do the trip another time." Before I can say anything, she hangs up. Dad smiles, trying to comfort me. "We'll just go another time." But Mom can't hide how much she's hurting for me. "Jayden, this isn't the first time she's stood you up for some old classmate. Are you sure you want to spend the rest of your life with a woman like that?" Dad shakes his head at Mom, then rests his hand on my shoulder and gives it a gentle pat. "Your mom and I will always have your back. We'll never stand in your way. Follow your heart and make the choice that's right for you. Whatever you decide, we'll support you." I look down at the engagement ring I've worn for eight years. Gianna, can I still trust you?

My parents fly across the country for the tenth time to meet my girlfriend, Sienna Holloway, yet she's nowhere to be found. She doesn't answer my calls or reply to my texts. Somewhere between my third and fourth cup of coffee, I see a new post from my buddy, Nolan Prescott, on my feed. It features eight photos of snow-covered mountains, and the last photo shows two hands laced together. The caption reads, "She joined me for the tenth trip. A perfect ten." I nearly crush my phone in my fist, my veins standing out across my knuckles. After 27 unanswered calls, Sienna finally picks up. "Where are you?" Wind crackles through the speaker, and her voice comes back distracted and flat. "Out. Why?" "Why? This is the tenth time. My parents are too old to keep flying out here, and you—" She goes quiet for a second, then sighs. "God, relax. Nolan and I are having fun skiing up at Ridgeline Pass. I just forgot. "Tell them to wait three more days. I'll come see them when I'm done here." Before I can get another word out, she hangs up. My reflection stares back at me from the dark screen, my lips pressed into a thin line. After that, I smile at my parents and say, "Since she won't show, let's set me up with someone new."

Six years into our long-distance relationship, I've finally saved enough to buy a house. I want to surprise my girlfriend, Madeleine Petty, so I secretly travel to the city she's living in, planning to propose. When the receptionist hears that I'm looking for Madeleine, she beams and hands me a box of wedding favors. "You're here to drop off a gift, aren't you? Our CEO, Ms. Petty, is getting married today, so these favors are for you." I'm just about to explain that the Madeleine Petty I'm looking for is just a low-level employee when a familiar figure steps out of the elevator—Madeleine's college roommate, Tara Diaz. Seeing her dressed in a bridesmaid's gown, I ask her in earnest, "Who's getting married today? Why didn't anyone tell me?" Just then, Tara's phone rings, and my childhood best friend's voice crackles through the speaker. "Why aren't you here yet?" Sid Beale huffs. "Madeleine and Richard's wedding is about to start! The bridesmaid can't be late!"

While tidying the house, I discover that my newly bought pack of sanitary pads has been opened. Without any hesitation, I contact my lawyer to have him draft up a divorce agreement and send it to Lucas Gardner. It doesn't take long before Lucas calls me. "This again? What's your reason this time?" Biting my lower lip, I answer, "There's one less pad in my drawer."

When Meghan Gregory struts home with a young male model and announces that she is pregnant with his child, I do not smash things or cause a scene as I did on previous occasions. I even personally cook chicken soup for her to help keep her healthy and give up the master bedroom to that man. From that day on, I become the laughingstock of Halston's high society. Those men who want to climb the social ladder all see me as an easy target. They all want to walk all over me. Meghan's close friends make fun of me, saying I am a useless man who cannot live without the Gregory family. Later, Meghan's baby bump grows bigger. She looks at me with a smug smile as I iron the baby's clothes. "Sweetheart, no matter how exciting the other men are, they're only for fun. "Don't worry. As long as you behave and do not cause trouble, no matter how many other men I have, you will always be my husband." Everyone thinks I put up with all of this because I cannot live without Meghan's money. Only I know the real reason—that I have signed a prenuptial agreement with the Gregory family. The agreement states, "Regardless of the wife's faults, as long as the husband maintains the marriage for five years, he will be entitled to 10% of Gregory Group's original shares." Now, the five-year term is over. Half of Meghan's fortune, worth tens of billions of dollars, now belongs to me.