Mistress Romance Short Stories & Novels

I make my way to the orphanage after receiving my cancer diagnosis, hoping to bid farewell to the orphan, Lillian Lowe, whom I was sponsoring financially. I unexpectedly find my husband, Henry Graham, who is meant to be on a business trip, and my sister, Felicity Sullivan, who is meant to be on a vacation. Their fingers are intertwined, while they use their free hands to playfully pinch Lillian's cheeks. Lillian rushes into their embrace, weeping pitifully. "Can you get rid of that mean lady at home? I just want to go home with Mommy and Daddy." I finally understand, at that moment, that Henry, whom I thought had loved me the most, is having an affair with Felicity. They even have a child together. Mom and Dad urge me to divorce Henry and make way for his new family. Lillian, the girl I once held dearly in my heart, curses me to an early death. Henry, the one who betrayed me, insists on keeping our marriage. It's too late, though. I'm already dying, just as they wished. Lillian, who once cried so much at the orphanage, now lives in a mansion with a father, a mother, and a pair of doting grandparents. Their perfect little life seems like a never-ending fairy tale. It is only when my lifeless body is before them that everyone suddenly loses their minds.

Five years after falling into the abyss of depression, I finally felt like a human being again. I was back to talking, laughing, eating on my own, and my wife Stella Anderson and I were even expecting our second child. During our New Year's Eve family dinner, my wife’s godbrother, Lucian Smith, got trashed and started boasting through his alcohol-slurred breath. "Must’ve been five years ago." He smirked. "I was going through a brutal breakup, so I took my car out for a reckless joyride while the street cameras were down for maintenance." Lucian took a slow sip of his drink, his expression turning into a sneer. "You won't believe it. Right as I floored it, this stray cat flew right out of nowhere and slammed into my front bumper. It squealed once and bolted off into the dark." He shook his head in disgust. "Stupid animal ruined my custom wrap and scared the hell out of me. You guys better keep an eye out. Don't end up like Spencer, dragging home bad luck like a damn plague. Makes me sick just thinking about it." Lucian tossed the story out like it was nothing more than a minor, gross inconvenience. Around the table, everyone broke out in chuckles, nodding along and telling him to visit a church or grab a lucky charm so no evil spirits would haunt him. I stood there right in the middle of the noisy crowd. I looked at Lucian’s smirking face, my mother-in-law Camila Anderson's fond, doting eyes, and the tolerant, helpless smile on Stella’s face. The blood drained from my face instantly. It was as if every single one of them had forgotten. My daughter, Evelyn West, died in a hit-and-run five years ago.

Seavora, Carmoria After seven years of a long-distance marriage, I was finally transferred to Leah Lambert's city. On Valentine's Day, I crossed Carmoria with my transfer papers, a big bouquet of roses, and a new diamond ring hidden in the bouquet. I waited outside her office, ready to surprise her. "Babe, where are you?" The second she walked out, I video-called her. I'd been counting down to this moment for years. Her voice was as gentle as ever. "Just got off work. What's up?" "Nothing. Just miss you. Do you miss me?" "Of course I do." A smile tugged at my lips. Thinking about her reaction when she saw me, I stepped toward her. "Really? Then turn around and—" My voice cut out. I froze. Her arm was wrapped around a man in a suit. Then she lifted her head and kissed the man. "If it's not urgent, I'll call you when I'm free. I have something important to do right now." She hung up. I stood in the cold and heard the man tease, "Babe, what's so important?" The woman I'd loved through college and seven years of marriage didn't hesitate. "Being with you." Tears hit the roses. I stared at the diamond ring nestled in the bouquet and let out a bitter laugh. So that's all I am to you? Someone who only matters when it's convenient.

My fiancé, Everett Prescott, spent five whole years designing my wedding dress, and it finally arrived today. Except I couldn't zip it up. It stayed wide open until my best friend, Sienna Hart, slipped into the dress perfectly. The fabric hugged her curves like a second skin. She turned to my fiancé with an exasperated sigh. "Everett, are you serious? You got Leah’s size wrong. Again." My blood ran cold. Over the five years Everett and I had been together, this wasn't the first time he'd conveniently forgotten my measurements. When he bought me pajamas that were a size too small, he just blinked, flashing that easy grin of his. "Oh, wait. I think this is Sienna's size, right? Let's just give it to her. I'll buy you another set." When my engagement ring turned out to be too small, he scratched the back of his neck and shrugged. "My bad. Well, we already bought it, so we might as well give it to Sienna. Lucky her." Our wedding was in two days, and once again, he got the measurements dead wrong. Everett rubbed his nose, giving a weak laugh. "Totally my fault, babe. My bad. I'll just take it back to the shop and get it altered." "Everett, altering a custom wedding dress takes at least six months," I said, my voice barely a whisper. He offered a helpless smile. "Well, you can't exactly walk down the aisle without a dress, right? Don't worry about it. As soon as the dress is altered, we'll have the wedding immediately. We've already waited five years. What's another six months?" Right then, my phone buzzed in my palm. [Sweetheart, the guy you have an arranged marriage with is flying back into the country in two days. I don't care what excuse you have this time. You’re coming home and marrying him!] I stared at the screen for a long time before replying: [Got it. I'll be there.] I spent five long years waiting around for this wedding. I'm not waiting another six months.

Days before my wedding, I received a video of my fiancee, Alice Moore, being violated against her will. By the time I find her, she's covered in bruises, her body bare. She wails as she punches me in the chest, demanding to know why I didn't come to her sooner. She says her life has been ruined. As I hold her close, I make her a promise, saying that I would never scorn her. I even promise to give her 10% of my company shares as a wedding gift, hoping that it will put her at ease. Everyone says I've lost my mind for going to such lengths for a woman who has been sullied by another man. But then, I end up overhearing Alice giggling away with her friend in the bathroom. "That fool actually believed me and thought I'd been abducted. Cole and I went at it for three days in a row. I had the best time of my life! Oh, well. Since I can't marry Cole, my only option is to let him be the first man I take to bed before I get married." Miranda exclaims in shock, "What if Luke finds out about it? Aren't you afraid of that happening?" "He's a complete idiot. He even promised to give me his company shares as a wedding gift!" Alice retorted derisively. "There's no way he'd find out about this. I'm only marrying him because his family is one of the richest in the city. Otherwise, you couldn't even pay me to date him. Who would want a guy as boring as him?" I remain frozen outside the bathroom, feeling like I'd just taken a plunge into icy water. So be it, then. The wedding ceremony will proceed as scheduled, but I'll have to make some adjustments as to who the bride will be.

After Caesar Shepherd went overseas with his lover, Florence Lane, about a month passed with no news about Ivy Rivers. Only then did Caesar realize something was wrong. When he had time, he gave his secretary, Morgan, a call. "How's the wound on Ivy's leg? Is she still angry at me for taking her skin for Florence's skin graft?" The opposite side of the line was quiet for a long time. Then, Morgan said softly, "Ms. Rivers was discharged from the hospital and left the residence a month ago." Caesar finally remembered Ivy's eyes full of despair and determination on the day he protected Florence in his arms when the hotel collapsed. That wasn't sorrow. No. That was goodbye.

Today is my birthday. But my wife, Talia Ford, tells me that she can't spend time with me today. She needs to accompany her uncle, Adam Ford, to his physical checkup. I'm about to convince Talia to stay with me when a row of comments suddenly pops up in front of my eyes. "Stop wasting your breath. Just let her go. "In your previous life, Talia insisted on keeping her uncle company, so you could only return to your research lab to work. But you predicted that the dead volcano located next to Bareyard Village would erupt tonight. So, you forcibly stopped Talia and made her go back to the village to save her grandpa. "But when her uncle went for the physical checkup on his own, he was diagnosed with terminal cancer. Engulfed by despair, he took his own life by jumping off the hospital. "After he died, Talia pinned the blame on you. She bought some potent rat poison and poisoned your food, thus killing you."

Albert Shearer, who was cold to intimacy, satisfies his physical needs while looking at photos of his female mentee, Ellie Jett. I immediately suspect that he's developed feelings for her. Later, Ellie's act of showing off in the operating room leaves my mother, Bernice Lourd, paralyzed. I give Albert two choices—send her to prison or divorce me. Albert spends the entire night on the balcony with the cold wind blowing against him. The next day, he submits evidence of Ellie's grievous medical misconduct. From then on, he becomes known throughout the medical community as a whipped husband, and our marriage returns to the way it was before. That is, until I discover I'm pregnant. Wanting to surprise Albert, I secretly attend the awards ceremony at his hospital. But the moment I step inside, I see a young woman standing onstage, holding a trophy as she delivers her acceptance speech. A chill spreads through my entire body. It's Ellie, the very woman who should be behind bars.

Julian Ashford, the golden boy of the city's elite, had his left leg broken by his father with a golf club -- all because of me, a scholarship student. He was stripped of his billion-dollar inheritance and cast out of the family. For three years, he dragged that ruined leg around an auto repair shop, doing backbreaking labor just to scrape together enough for my college tuition. Everyone said I was the luckiest girl alive -- that I'd brought the untouchable heir of a financial empire to his knees, made him willing to live on scraps in the worst part of town. Today was our three-year anniversary. I was carrying the freshly signed Holloway Group inheritance confirmation documents, ready to finally tell him my real identity and pull him out of this misery. I walked down the corridor of The Grand Pavilion, holding a box of vanilla shortbread -- his favorite. Through the half-open door of a private suite, Julian Ashford stood tall on two perfectly healthy legs, dressed in an immaculate tailored suit, sliding a rare pink diamond ring onto the finger of Victoria Sterling -- the city's most celebrated socialite. "Victoria, I used that scholarship girl as a shield to survive three years of my old man's relentless arranged marriage schemes. My body's completely untouched. You've always been the one I was going to marry." I looked down at my own hands, cracked and raw from the cold, and tore the inheritance documents to shreds.

After six months overseas, I had finally secured a hundred billion contract with a partner in Aurelune. I returned to the home my fiancee, Rebecca Holden, and I had bought for our married life, only for the smart lock to keep repeating, “Unrecognized visitor. Please step away.” After ten failed attempts to recognize my face, the system automatically alerted security. A security guard struck the back of my knee with his baton. Pain shot through my leg as I crumpled to the ground. Through gritted teeth, I explained that this was my home. The guard looked me up and down before he scoffed and said, “You can’t even get through the front door! How do you have the nerve to pass yourself off as Ms. Holden’s husband? “Everyone knows she’s head over heels for Mr. McGraw. She picks him up and drops him off every day. She showers him with sports cars and luxury watches. As if her husband would look as broke as you do!” His words knocked the wind out of me. For a moment, I could only stare at him. Then, I saw my childhood friend, Kirk McGraw, step out of the passenger seat of a luxury car that had just pulled up. Rebecca got out with his suit jacket draped over her shoulders. She lifted his son out of the back seat. The front door slid open automatically as Kirk approached. An electronic voice announced, “Door unlocked. Welcome home, Mr. McGraw.”

On my birthday, my husband, Adrian Grant, suddenly showed up with my adoptive younger sister, Bella Reed, and her child, Tia Reed. When it was time to head out, he naturally arranged for Bella to sit in the front passenger seat. Then he turned to me and said calmly, "Tia gets carsick easily. The back seat is full of stuff. Since you're healthy, just take the bus." Our friends immediately chimed in, one after another, "You're the older sister. Taking care of your niece is only right." Four cars were heading out, yet not one seat was left for me, the supposed main character of the day. I sat on the bus, swallowing my grievance, and saw Adrian and Bella interacting ambiguously in the group chat. They were even talking about topics I knew nothing about. When I opened the newly sent video, nothing except leftovers remained on the table prepared for me. Adrian even treated the birthday cake I had carefully prepared as dessert, spoon-feeding it to Bella and her daughter. Someone finally couldn’t stand it anymore and asked whether this was appropriate. Adrian, who was carefully wiping Bella’s mouth, didn’t even look up. "We’re all family. Julia won’t be angry." At that point, our seven-year marriage came to its end.

As I casually opened the online forum, a trending post at the top caught my eye. [Share the wildest thing you’ve ever done.] I clicked on the second comment, which seemed to contain just one line. [Without a doubt, it was the night before my buddy’s wedding when I had his wife come over for a “quality check.”] However, the poster kept adding to the thread. [That night, the woman tricked that idiot into thinking it was a bachelorette party, but she actually spent the whole night at my place. [She said she didn’t want to sleep with just one man forever and needed one last wild night before tying the knot. [By the end of the night, her throat was nearly raw from all the screaming. [We kept going until sunrise, right there in the wedding car her husband was supposed to pick her up later that day.] [Not only that, but even after they got married, this fool kept bringing his wife over to my place for dinner. [He’d help me in the kitchen while I pinned his wife against the fridge and kissed her. [He’d be glued to the game in the living room while his wife knelt in the bathroom and took care of me. [One time, when he passed out drunk on my couch, his wife and I had our own fun on the carpet beside him. [Every time he rolled over, we’d both jump. It was the thrill of knowing we could get caught at any moment.] The image loaded, revealing the familiar interior of the wedding car. The lucky charm I had given my wife dangled from the rearview mirror. My fingers momentarily stiffened, and I nearly dropped my phone. A wave of nausea rolled in my stomach as a chill crept up my spine. Just then, a hand appeared in my field of vision, waving in front of me. “Calvin, what are you zoning out for? You’re at my place, and you’re still on your phone. Come on. Dig in while it’s hot.” Wyatt Preston, my friend, grinned at me. Yet, his eyes kept straying toward my wife, Queenie Jennings, who was sitting beside me.

When we try to get our marriage registered for the 18th time, Derek Hubbard has forgotten to bring his ID again. The thing is, I reminded him to bring his ID three times last night. He told me, "Got it. This time, I'm definitely marrying you. There won't be a problem throughout the registration." But as soon as we arrive at the city hall, Derek searches through his pockets. In the end, he calls Lessie Davenport with a frown. "Lessie, did I leave my ID with you?" As I sit in the waiting area, I suddenly let out a soft chuckle. Half an hour later, Lessie arrives at the city hall. She hands the ID over to Derek with red-rimmed eyes. "My stomach hurts a lot, Derek…" Derek's expression changes drastically. He quickly supports her and steers her toward the exit. "Wait for me here, Celine. I'll be back soon." I nod in response while watching Derek walk away from me, just like how he did for the past 17 times. When Derek's silhouette disappears, I dig out my phone and send a text message to someone else. "Are you here yet?" Three minutes later, a man walks into the city hall. He hands both of our IDs through the hole in the counter. "Hi, we're here to register our marriage."

My husband, Harrison Knight, was a workaholic. When stomach pain landed me in the hospital, he had his assistant send me medication. When my mother underwent surgery, he was abroad negotiating an acquisition. In seven years of marriage, he'd missed three of my birthdays and five of our anniversaries. He always said, "The company's still getting off the ground. I can't afford to slow down." I understood. Years ago, his first love, Celeste Foster, had left him because he was poor. Afterward, he'd sworn he would make something of himself. He went on business trips, had late nights, and worked himself to the bone. For seven years, Harrison had pushed himself relentlessly, going from a penniless nobody to a CEO everyone looked up to. I'd grown used to him always being in a rush. I'd grown used to work coming before everything else. Until the day I returned from negotiating a billion-dollar deal and saw Celeste's latest post. In the photo, Harrison stood outside the airport terminal. He'd canceled his three o'clock board meeting to pick her up himself. He was even bent down in front of her, tying her loose shoelace. Her caption read: [After all these years, you're still the best.] I stared at the photo for a long time. Then suddenly, I almost laughed. So it wasn't that Harrison couldn't slow down. He just wouldn't do it for me. That night, he called. "Celeste just got back. I'm not coming home tonight. Don't read anything into it. She's just an old friend." "Okay," I said quietly. Then I opened my laptop and messaged my attorney: [Send me the divorce papers tonight.] If he could stop for an old love, then it was time I stopped too. After seven years of running myself ragged for him, I was done.

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

The college girl I was sponsoring, Yasmine Reed, texted me that she was pregnant. She asked me what to do. She was only a sophomore. I told her to focus on her degree. Before my message was even sent, she blocked me. A few weeks later, I twisted my ankle. My best friend, Clara Barnes, brought me to the clinic. Clara pointed at a young couple standing outside the maternity ward. "If your husband were in town, he would pamper you just like that," Clara sighed. "I still don't get why he insisted on taking that project that faraway." I stared down at my phone. "Julian is doing it for our future. As long as he loves me, I don't mind." As we walked out, the couple turned the corner. The man held the girl close, kissing her forehead. "Be good, Yasmine. Right after this ultrasound, I'll buy you that designer purse." My blood ran cold. My feet froze to the floor. The man holding her was the same man that was supposed to be faraway. He was standing right in front of me. It was my husband, Julian Drake. And the girl in his arms was Yasmine Reed, the student I was funding.

After I fail my mission, the system grants me three days to say goodbye. For the first time, I become the perfect husband in Kristen Snowe's eyes. I stop waiting up for her when she doesn't come home. I stop fighting with her over the money she keeps giving to her childhood friend, Jake Leigh. On the first day, she scoffs at me. "If you'd acted like this from the beginning, I wouldn't feel so sick and tired of you!" On the second day, she starts to get suspicious. "That's it? You're not mad? You're not up to something, are you?" By the third day, she's the one falling apart. "Honey… Why aren't you jealous anymore?" I smile. "Isn't this exactly what you wanted?"

I had been with Elias, a renowned astrophotographer, for five years. With that said, I had never asked him to take me on a shoot with him, all because he once told me, "The first rule of astrophotography is to avoid any kind of light pollution. Even a flicker of your phone screen can ruin an entire night's long exposure." This was why I never even dared to send so much as a text to ask him if he had arrived at the location. I was afraid of ruining his work. All I did was wait at home. Whenever he went to the snowy mountains or the wilderness for a shoot, I would fold a paper star. In each of these paper stars, I would write down the things I did not get to say to him because I did not want to disturb him. [Make sure you layer up.] [I'll wait for you to come back.] I accumulated a thousand and ninety-six origami stars over five years, filling three glass bottles. He never opened a single one of them. Just last week, he was shortlisted for an international astrophotography competition. I was happy for him and went to the website to see his entry called “Light.” Framed at the center of the image was his assistant dressed in a red windbreaker. She was toying with a sparkler and laughing cheerily. The judges' comment read, "In this submission, the photographer voluntarily passed up the chance to capture a once-in-seventy-years comet. Instead, he dedicated the shot to the figure in the image who exuded all the light for him." This whole time, his world was never devoid of light. He simply wanted to snuff out my light. That same night, I poured all of the stars out of the bottles. I opened them one by one, to read the messages within to myself. Then, I burned them all. At dawn, after washing the three empty glass bottles, I had them neatly arranged next to the box he used for his camera lens. There were tens of thousands of galaxies in the universe. There was no reason I should linger outside the frame and wait for someone's light to bleed into mine.

At the party, friends teased us, asking when Rosalie Diaz and I would finally get married. I looked at her, smiling. She said nothing, and stiffly changed the subject. The friend who'd started the teasing glanced at me awkwardly, apology in his eyes. My smile didn't waver. I took a sip of my drink. I've always been a bit of a procrastinator, though not a hopeless one. So I decided to let Rosalie go. And to let myself go, too.

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."