Cerita Pendek Familial Bond Romance & Novel Regret

“Camille, I’ll love you forever!” Jameson let out a low, agonized growl. Just as he was about to climax, his phone suddenly began to buzz. He ignored it, of course. Now was hardly the time. However, his phone lit up again. The moment he saw the text on the screen, his body froze. Camille heard him answer the call. “Hello?” In the deep silence of the night, the voice on the phone cut through the stillness, clear and unmistakable. “Jameson, did you know that Sylvia—” Jameson switched languages and cut in with a sharp command, “Keep it down. It's not a good time.” The other person switched languages too, though he was still loud. “The hospital results came in. Sylvia is in the final stages of cancer. She only has a month left! Her last wish is to become your wife. Can you grant her that before she passes?” Jameson’s expression changed immediately. “What?! Wait for me!” He ended the call and turned to Camille. “Camille, something urgent came up. I need to step out for a bit. Be good and stay home. I’ll be back after you’ve had some sleep.” Before she could respond, he rose to wash up, changed his clothes, and left without looking back. Moments later, her phone buzzed. Sylvia: [Camille, you lost. I told you—Jameson has always been mine.] Right above it was a message from three days ago: [If I tell him I have cancer, do you think Jameson will leave you and come to me? I bet he will.] Camille’s gaze slowly shifted from her phone screen to the open bedroom door. What Jameson did not know was that she had already picked up a new language. She understood every word of that call. After a long moment, a faint, bitter smile appeared on her face. “Yeah, I lost...”

The day my sister Sophie got into the magnet high school, my parents threw her a huge celebration party. That same day, I got my SAT scores. 1580. Top fifty in the state. When a neighbor asked about my college applications, my mother smiled and said: "Renee's applying next year. Today is Sophie's day—don't steal her spotlight." She didn't even remember I'd already graduated high school. That night, the graduation gift money a neighbor gave me was taken by her too—to buy Sophie a new laptop. I didn't argue. I just went to my room and submitted my Stanford application on that old, slow laptop. A few weeks later, my parents moved close to Sophie's magnet school. They left me alone in the old house. When the Stanford offer arrived, I left it in the most visible spot in the living room. My mother covered it with Sophie's new bedsheets and said: "What's this junk mail? Throw it away." I took back my offer letter—and with it, the last shred of hope I had for them. They thought I'd stay behind, waiting for them to come back. They didn't know I was about to leave this house. For good.

I'd never had a life of my own. I'd spent it trying to be my sister. All because I missed her last call before she supposedly took her own life. My parents blamed me for her death and made me live as her from then on. I copied her handwriting, her voice, her mannerisms, and even her hobbies. But my parents were never satisfied. "We gave you the answer key, and you still failed the test." Then I met Arthur Whitman. He told me I could be myself. The night before our wedding, someone sent me a hotel key card in Arthur's name. When I pushed the door open, I found Arthur clutching my sister, Clara Hale, who'd supposedly been dead for years. His eyes were red. I froze where I stood. I couldn't stop my hands from shaking. My parents rushed in. One held me back while the other shielded Clara. "Your sister was Arthur's first love. You're just a stand-in. Without her, Arthur wouldn't have looked at you twice. "Now she's back. You should've given your sister her life back a long time ago!" Hearing that, something in me died. I took off my engagement ring and threw it at Arthur's feet. From now on, I'd live for myself.

"Mommy, can I stop being a Lawson?" My daughter has a peanut allergy. We always kept an EpiPen at home. But on her birthday, my husband took the only one and gave it to his first love's son. He said, "Tommy's school has a field trip. Serena's worried something might happen. What's the big deal about lending it?" Later, my daughter accidentally ate peanut butter. Her face turned blue and she couldn't breathe. I rushed her to the hospital and called my husband seventeen times. He didn't answer. His first love's son had just won first place in a speech contest. He was in the audience, taking photos of the two of them. When my daughter woke up, her first words weren't "Where's Daddy?" She just clutched the hem of my shirt and whispered, "Mommy, can I stop being a Lawson?" I looked at the needle marks on the back of her hand and nodded. "Yes." "From now on, you'll have Mommy's last name."

My girlfriend and I had agreed to marry as soon as we graduated. But after I waited three hours at the registration hall, she registered with my stepbrother instead. He had been in love with her for ten years, and now he was being sent to the deadliest front in space. “He won't survive without me,” she said. “Once he's gone, I'll still be yours.” My father and stepmother told me to be the bigger person. As I looked at their self-righteous faces, I accepted a command at the same front and became my stepbrother's highest-ranking superior. By the time news of my victories—and my wedding—reached home, every one of them had lost their minds with regret.

After Emily Cross died in an accident, I went through three years of absolute hell. This year, on the anniversary of her death, I escaped from a rehab facility overseas just to see her one last time. Stumbling into the cemetery in a daze, I passed a couple walking the other way. The man's voice was laced with annoyance. "You're almost at your due date, and you still insisted on coming to the cemetery. What a hassle." The woman gave a soft laugh. "We agreed we'd come pay respects to your father. I couldn't just back out." That voice stopped me cold. Turning my neck stiffly, I saw the face that had haunted me for three years. Emily Cross, heavily pregnant. And beside her was my mother's illegitimate son, Jake. A chill ran through me. Shaking, I pulled out my phone and snapped a photo. Then I sent it to her forensic pathologist friend. [She's not dead, is she?]

My mom and I work our butts off in order to clear Gregory Hudson, my boyfriend's crippling debt. Because of that, Mom even contracts lung cancer. But when I rush to the hospital to pay off the hospital bills, I find out that she's already taken her life by hanging herself. All she leaves is a suicide note. "I can't hang on anymore, Hailey. You should use the money to pay off the debt. Gregory is a good man. I know he loves you; it's just that he's stepped down the wrong path. "Once the debt is cleared, both of you should stay together and live a good life." After collecting Mom's ashes in an urn, I entrust the 300 thousand dollars—the money that Mom has earned with her blood, sweat, and tears—to Gregory. When I return to the company, I accidentally overhear the conversation between Gregory and a few of his debtors. "Mr. Hudson, Ms. Jackman has already passed all of your trials so far. What other arrangements do you have for her?" Gregory's childhood friend, Sophia Wagner, suddenly speaks up. "Even though Hailey can endure all the suffering with you, we still need to test if she can still handle living a good life with you." Gregory purses his lips. "Next, I'd like to know if Hailey's love for me is pure and sincere. If she doesn't pine for my wealth and doesn't become materialistic after finding out about my identity, I will marry her." As I look down at Mom's ashes, I can't help sobbing like a lost child. Both my mom and I are wrong about Gregory. I don't want to marry him anymore.

For eight years, Damian Caruso kept me as his secret wife. I handled his family's lawsuits, protected his empire, and raised the son he refused to acknowledge in public. Ethan wasn't even allowed to call him Dad when anyone else was around. I told myself Damian had his reasons. Until our son's seventh birthday. Damian promised he would come home. Ethan waited beside an untouched birthday cake until nearly midnight. Damian never showed. Because Sofia Bellini—the childhood friend everyone already treated as Damian's real woman—had the same birthday. And Damian had chosen hers. That night, I stopped waiting. I signed the divorce papers. The next morning, Damian was in such a hurry to rescue Sofia that he signed the documents I placed in front of him without even reading them. He didn't realize he had just given me permission to take Ethan out of New York. Then he moved Sofia into our home—and asked his wife and son to leave so she wouldn't discover we existed. Ethan looked at the father he had spent seven years trying to love and called him "Mr. Caruso." Damian finally looked shaken. But it was already too late. On the day we left, he told me he had to fly abroad to handle a divorce case for a client. I said nothing. Because that divorce case was mine. He was flying across the ocean to finalize the end of our marriage—and he still thought I was just taking our son out of town for a few days.

At the yacht party, everyone watches as Sophia Montgomery falls overboard by accident, whereas I dive in after her to save her. When I reach her, she clings to me, dragging us both under. Jack Harrison doesn't hesitate to jump in. He pushes me away before pulling her into his arms. Up on deck, the crowd erupts in cheers, applauding the hero for saving the damsel in distress. Camera flashes go off endlessly. Meanwhile, I struggle alone in the freezing ocean to reach the ladder. No one notices me. The next morning, still burning with fever, I place a document in front of him. "I want a divorce," I demand, my voice hoarse from swallowing seawater. Jack frowns. "Just because of last night? Sophia can't swim, and it was an emergency. Since you can, you could make it back yourself." A laugh escapes my lips. Of course. I can only rely on myself. I've been doing it for the past five years. He only has eyes for Sophia, so, of course, he doesn't care whether I live or die.

My daughter Mia's congenital heart condition had worsened. She desperately needed the one-of-a-kind miniature artificial heart I'd spent five years developing. The night before surgery, my wife Victoria stole it from the cold storage unit. I rushed to the hospital like a madman, only to find her at the bedside of her first love Dominic Forsythe's son, prepping him for surgery. "Mia can hold on for another six months. Dominic's son can't wait." "What kind of father are you, being this selfish?" Victoria stood there, righteous indignation written all over her face. I looked at my daughter lying in her hospital bed, barely clinging to life, and dialed the overseas number I'd refused a dozen times before. "Professor Ellsworth, this is Nathan Hartley." "I'll accept your offer. But I need you to arrange a medical transport—immediately—to bring my daughter to your facility. Her heart needs emergency intervention." I spent five years developing a life-saving heart for my daughter. Victoria stole it overnight and gave it to Dominic Forsythe’s son. “Mia can hold on for another six months. Dominic's son can't wait.” She had no idea I held all the core patents for that heart. That same night, I took my daughter aboard a medical jet and fled the country. The next time we met, you would be on your knees begging me.

【What should I do if I’ve fallen in love with my sister’s fiancé?】 I came across an Instagram post from an account with a default profile picture on my flight back to New York. The comments were brutal, each one harsher than the last. Then I saw a reply from a burner account: 【Don’t blame her. I was the one who led her on.】 【She acts tough, but she’s more fragile than anyone. I just can’t help feeling sorry for her.】 My finger froze on the screen, because the profile picture on that account was the cat my boyfriend, Vincent, had given me. With trembling fingers, I opened the poster’s profile. There was only one video on it. In the video, a woman had her back to the camera as she bent down to water a nearly dead plant, a silver bracelet on her wrist. It was the matching bracelet mom had left for my sister Clara and me before she died. For a long moment, I could barely breathe. Suddenly, I thought back to the first time I brought Vincent home to meet Clara. After one failed relationship, Clara had decided all men were the same. She looked at Vincent coldly and said, “He’s no different from the rest. One day, he’ll betray you too.” Vincent held my hand then and said, each word clear and steady, “If I ever betray Nora, may I lose everything.” Clara only scoffed, “Then we’ll see.” But if all of this was true, I was caught between the sister who had raised me and the man I had loved for five years. What was I supposed to do?

My mom was a computer genius with a PhD who works in Silicon Valley. Shortly after I was born, she created an AI robot sister modeled after me. Mom said my AI robot sister was equipped with the world's most accurate child behavior evaluation system. The moment I made a mistake, it would detect it. From then on, my AI robot sister became the judge of my life. Whenever she issued a warning, even when I had done nothing wrong, all I received was punishment. I tried to defend myself before. But Mom said the robot she built with her own hands could never make a mistake, and she became even more convinced that I was an inferior child. On my birthday, Mom took my sister and me to participate in an Outstanding Children Competition. When I saw the rock-climbing challenge towering dozens of meters high, I shook my head desperately and refused because I had a fear of heights and a heart condition. But my AI robot sister coldly pulled up my medical data report: “She is completely healthy. This is a lie she created to avoid participating in the competition.” Mom's face darkened instantly. She grabbed my ear and dragged me toward the climbing wall. “You're still lying? Today, you're going up there!” Trembling, I began climbing upward. My breathing grew faster and faster. The moment my foot slipped, the pain in my heart felt as if it had been torn open by a blade. I fell into the foam safety pit, and slowly, my breathing stopped. Meanwhile, outside the arena, Mom was still cursing me for my terrible performance. Mom, I'm dead. From now on, I'll never be your embarrassing, stupid daughter again.

When my best friend died, his wife, Mia Lewis, was eight months pregnant. Mia said she didn't want her baby growing up without a father. I owed my best friend my life. He saved me, literally pulled me from death's door. So I stepped up, marrying Mia and raising their son as my own. Mia loved her career, so I quit mine. Traded my job for diapers and school runs. For seven whole years, I cooked, cleaned, folded laundry, and handled the housework. Rain or shine, sickness or health, I was there—every single day. Mia, though? She stayed cold, distant. Her warmth only surfaced in the bedroom—and even then, it was a flicker, never a flame. Just soft sighs and breathy murmurs, like she was playing a role she couldn't wait to finish. Afterward, she would quietly check the condom, as if she couldn't trust me. Then came New Year's Eve. A snap. A tear. A broken condom. Her fury struck like a thunderclap. She locked me out on the balcony, left me standing in the freezing rain, soaked to the bone as the wind howled like a wounded beast. Teeth chattering, I shivered as I watched the door like a dog, waiting to be let in. Then I saw him. Our boy, Ethan Bailey. Six years old. My son, at least in name. He came running with an umbrella in his hand. For a second, my heart leapt. 'Maybe, just maybe…' But he didn't even look at me. Just walked past in silence and handed the umbrella to the nanny heading out. Right then and there, something inside me cracked. I knew it was time to go.

When my husband threatened me with divorce for the hundredth time, demanding I sacrifice myself for my sister, I did not cry or make a scene. I simply signed my name on the divorce papers and willingly handed over the man I had loved for ten years to my sister. A few days later, my sister spoke recklessly at a banquet and offended a powerful family. Once again, I stepped forward to take responsibility, bearing all the consequences in her place. When they later proposed that I become a test subject for my sister's drug research, I gladly accepted. Mom and Dad said I had finally grown into someone mature and responsible. Even my cold husband stood by my hospital bed and, for the first time in so long, gently stroked my cheek. He said tenderly, "Don't be afraid. The experiment won't be life-threatening. When you get out, I'll cook you a big meal." However, he did not know that regardless of whether the experiment was dangerous or not, he did not have to wait for me because I was already dying from a terminal illness.

After my son was abducted, my husband took me to an adoption center to bring home a baby boy born the same year as the child we'd lost. I poured every ounce of love I had into raising him. He had a sensitive stomach, so I pushed through my chronic back pain to cook him special meals every single day. When he spiked a fever in the middle of the night, I carried him twenty miles through the rain to the nearest hospital. When he couldn't focus in school, I was constantly at his classroom door, flattering his teachers and bringing them gifts, just to get them to pay a little extra attention to him. Fifteen years of grinding sacrifice, and it all came down to one moment at his college acceptance party. "I couldn't have gotten into Harvard without my mother's love and hard work," he said into the microphone. He raised his glass, eyes drifting toward where I was sitting. The cameras flashed as I started to rise from my seat, matching his silent lip movements. And then I heard a name I didn't expect. "She is Rachel Lynch." I froze. That was my best friend's name.

My daughter, Ruby Pratt, has leukemia. She needs a bone marrow transplant—and fast. Out of everyone in the family, my husband, Dan Pratt, was the only match. I begged him for an entire month before he finally agreed to go through with the donation. But on the morning of the surgery, he went completely off the grid. I stood outside the hospital all day, waiting. No calls. No texts. Not even a shadow. That night, his childhood friend, Valerie Kinder, posted on Instagram. In the photo, Dan was holding Valerie's hand with one arm and carrying her young son with the other—on a beach in Lulabo City. The caption read: [Soaking up the sun! Dan cleared his whole schedule to join us on a month-long trek and we finally made it to the coast! My little boy said Uncle Dan made his ocean dream come true. Pure joy!] My heart splintered. While I was drowning in worry over my daughter, he was off playing happy family with them. I wiped my tears and typed a comment beneath her post: [Not 'Uncle.' From now on, he's your son's father.] That night, I finally got a call from him. "Babe, don't be like this," Dan said. "You're not being fair. "Valerie's son has been bullied at school for not having a dad. I couldn't stand seeing him hurt, so I took them on this trip. It was supposed to help him heal. "I'll catch the first flight back tomorrow and head straight to the hospital to donate the marrow. I promise." I hung up with a bitter smile. The next morning, Dan rushed into the hospital room. But all he found on the bed was a death certificate.

Two years after my death, my wife, Libby Burton, wants me to take the fall for her first love again. She comes to my place with a fabricated confession, only to find the house completely empty. With nowhere else to turn, she asks my neighbor, Maddox Bell, where I am. Maddox just tells her, "Kieran? He's dead! I heard he went through hell in prison. Didn't even last two days after getting out before he died." Libby refuses to believe it. She's convinced that Maddox and I are teaming up to fool her. She rolls her eyes and sneers. "So, he did a little time. Now he's playing the martyr? Please tell him if I don't see his face in three days, I'm cutting off every last cent for that bastard daughter of his." She turns on her heel and marches off in her high heels, furious. As Maddox watches her go, she shakes her head with a sigh. "But that poor girl was killed in a hit-and-run, and the driver is still on the loose…"

I seem to be born knowing how to make myself small enough for everyone else. When I was five, Mom and Dad posed for a family portrait with my younger brother, Orson Townsend, standing between them. Each of them held one of his hands, and because I was worried the picture would look too crowded, I quietly slipped behind a potted plant. The photographer counted heads three times before smiling. "What a beautiful family of three." I clapped along from behind the leaves. At my 12th birthday party, Orson claimed the slice of cake with the most frosting. Mom and Dad took one piece each, while I cleared the table and washed the plate without being asked. Mom praised me for being so considerate, and I treasured that compliment for years. After I got married, I carried the same habit into my marriage. My wife, Victoria Reed, celebrates Gavin Burton's birthday with him, goes to the movies with him, and accompanies him to the hospital. Meanwhile, I order his cake, buy their tickets, and schedule his appointments. Victoria ruffles my hair. "Don't overthink it. I've been the only person Gavin can rely on since we were kids." I smile and nod. She doesn't know I've been alone since childhood, too. One day, rain starts pouring as we leave the grocery store. A paper bag gives way, sending oranges rolling across the pavement, so I crouch down to gather them. Victoria keeps walking with the umbrella held over Gavin and never once looks back. As they move farther away, their retreating silhouettes blur into the memory of Mom and Dad holding Orson's hands all those years ago. A wave of disappointment washes over me. This time, I'm ready to make room for someone else to take my place as her husband.

My family sold one of their properties to put me through school abroad. Nathan Kingsley and I had been together three years. Two of those were long-distance. Through those two years of me alone overseas, he never broke contact — airport pickups, long phone calls, every anniversary remembered. I'd never once doubted him. I thought distance hadn't beaten us. The day I flew home, he was waiting at Arrivals with a bouquet of flowers. He smiled and said, "Finally." We set the engagement date. We picked out the dress. We booked the reception. The day the wedding march began and I stood at the top of the aisle looking at him, I thought — these three years were worth every minute. Then the doors behind me opened. My sister walked into the chapel, in a white dress, and slid her arm through his. She smiled at me. "Sorry, sis. Those airport pickups? I'm the one who sent him. For the last three years, he's been mine the whole time."

On my wedding day, I'm up at 4:00 am, waiting for the makeup artist. By 7:00 am, no one has shown up. I start to panic and call my best friend, Whitney Adams. She bursts out laughing. "Erin, how did you miss this? They changed the plan last night. No one's coming to pick you up. Everyone went straight to the hotel." I grab my wedding dress and rush over. By the time I get there, I'm drenched in sweat. The hotel is empty. Then Whitney calls again, trying not to laugh. "I was messing with you. Don't tell me you actually went to the hotel. Destination weddings are the thing now. We moved yours to an island. Everyone's already at the airport waiting for you." So I drag my heavy garment bag from terminal to terminal, searching the entire departures hall. None of them are there. Then Whitney video-calls me, laughing so hard she's doubled over. "You took too long. We already left! There's no destination wedding. We just wanted to spend a week on the island. We'll have the wedding when we get back." She turns the camera around. My fiancé, Dwayne Brewer, is pulling her suitcase. Mom and Dad are standing behind them, smiling more brightly than they ever do in family photos. Mom frowns when she sees how pale I look. "Oh, come on. It was just a joke. Whitney knows how to have fun. You've always taken everything too seriously." Dwayne drapes his jacket over Whitney's shoulders, then looks into the camera. "Go home and wait for me. I'll marry you when we get back." I look at all their smiling faces on the screen and suddenly don't see the point in confronting them. I'm not angry or sad anymore. I just feel numb. I text the wedding planner and cancel the wedding. They can keep playing their little game. I'm done being part of it.