Melodramatic Romance Short Stories & Ruthless Cheating Novels

Just for brushing against the hem of Eva Lawson, the heiress’s custom couture gown, Lucy Quinn's mother had her limbs broken, then thrown into the sea to die. The day Lucy dragged the arrogant heiress to court she thought that justice might finally be served. Eva was declared not guilty. Why? Because the defense attorney representing her was none other than Wyatt Grant, founder of the most untouchable law firm in River City, and Lucy Quinn’s husband. When the trial ended, the elegant and aloof man stepped down from the defense table and placed an apology letter in front of Lucy. "Lulu, sign it. You don’t want to be sued for defamation and end up in prison, do you?" His tone was calm and coaxing, but behind the lenses of his gold-rimmed glasses, his gaze was cold as ice. Lucy, tears stubbornly clinging to her eyes, looked up at him and said with a trembling voice, "Why, Wyatt, Why?"

Four years after marrying Wesley Coleman, Emma Payne is expecting a baby. She shows up at the hospital with her forms to get registered, but when the nurse runs her info, she tells her that the marriage certificate isn't valid. Emma simply can't believe it. "No way. That can't be right." The nurse taps on the stamp. "Look at that. The seal is all crooked, and the code doesn't check out." Emma isn't convinced yet. She rushes to the courthouse, but they tell her the same thing. "Mr. Coleman is married, and his spouse's name is Sandra Payne." The news hits her like a ton of bricks. Her mind just goes blank. Sandra Payne is Emma's half-sister. Worst of all, she is also Wesley's first love. Years ago, she went abroad to chase her dreams. She never showed up to her own wedding and left Wesley heartbroken. And now, she is actually his legal wife.

"Mrs. Sterling, are you sure you're ready to end this marriage of twenty years and give up the custody?" "Yes. File it. I’m done." I said calmly through the phone as I scrubbed at a stubborn grease stain on the granite island. For twenty years, I poured my entire being into this family. I managed the households, handled the children's education , and stood by my husband's side, supporting his rise in the syndicate without complaint. But my husband Alexander brought his young adopted sister Chloe to the interview, saying, "My success today is all thanks to my adopted sister." Even my own children looked down on me, calling me common and crude housewife. They had formed an alliance with his ever-present "auntie," the woman who seemed to think she was the true lady of the house. I signed the divorce papers and walked away, leaving them to become the "perfect family" they clearly wanted. But that when the family panicked…

During the holidays, I get home in advance, hoping to surprise my wife, Zara Hudson. But the moment I open the front door, I find out that an unfamiliar young man has already taken over my villa and is in the middle of hosting a party. The spot where my wedding portrait used to be now features an intimate photo of that man making out with Zara. "Where the hell did a loser like you come from? How dare you trespass on private property!" I'm shell-shocked for the first few seconds. But soon, I explain, "That woman in the photo is my wife. This villa is mine, too." All the guests begin jeering and making fun of me instead. "You must have gone insane from daydreaming! That woman is Mr. Barrington's wife! Mr. Barrington, go ahead and teach him a lesson!" The man, Alan Barrington, and I get into a huge fight afterward. Furious and humiliated, Alan calls Zara and demands that she get home just to prove that he's her partner. What everyone doesn't expect is that the moment Zara shows up, she gets down on her knees in front of me and begins bawling her eyes out. As I gaze at her pallid complexion, I just chuckle coldly in return. "Zara Hudson, I want you to scram out of my home with that boy toy of yours! Also, you'd better come up with a way to pay off those loan shark loans!"

I was pregnant and due any day. Austin Revelstone, my husband, had a sugar baby named Tawny Sully. Each time they renewed their arrangement, money came into my mother’s special care account. One day, he stayed a little longer to talk to me. Because of it, he was one minute late for his date with Tawny. Tawny was upset. She threw a tantrum and threatened to terminate their agreement. She would only stay if I aborted my baby. So, Austin slid the abortion form and a check for three million dollars across the table to me. “Please, just sign it. We can always have another kid. If Tawny cries anymore, she’ll get wrinkles.” He looked calm and unbothered. It was as if he were just talking about the weather. I raised my head and looked at him in disbelief. I trembled for a long time. Then, I finally signed my name on the abortion form. I wiped my tears and gave the check back to him. I made one additional request. “Let’s make that fake divorce certificate real this time.” I no longer needed his financial support for my mother’s surgery.

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.

The night before the World Cup, Reid Callister made a post on social media. In the photo, he wore a Portugal jersey and was smiling at the woman beside him. He had written something sweet: [Officially done with Argentina. It's all Ronaldo from here.] Our mutual friends all went quiet. Everyone knew that the night Argentina won the championship four years ago, he had cried in my arms until dawn. That was also the night he slipped a ring onto my finger. He said, "Messi got his fairy tale. Let's go get ours." Someone in the comments section asked what happened to his Messi obsession. He replied, "I was young and stupid back then. Now, I know who's worth rooting for." I stared at the post for a long time. I did not comment. I just set down the divorce papers on the coffee table. Before I left for my flight, I tucked the ring into the pocket of his blue-and-white jersey. This time, I would not be watching the game with him.

My boyfriend always said he liked independent women. So, whether it was paying for dates, hotel rooms, or even birth control, he insisted we split every expense. He always said, "I hate women who think men should pay for everything. They expect guys to buy them gifts on special occasions and even feed them while they eat. They're adults. Do they really think they're princesses? You're so much better." I told him I only agreed to split the bills because I knew he loved me. Then one day, I saw a message on his computer after he forgot to lock the screen. A female coworker had thanked him. "Thanks for treating me to dinner and even slicing the steak for me. Next time, I'll buy the movie tickets." My boyfriend replied almost instantly. "How could I let a lady pay?" I kept scrolling through their chat history. On a rainy night, he had driven across half the city just to take her home. Whenever she had a nightmare, he would stand outside her apartment building and stay on the phone with her until she fell asleep. That was when I realized the truth. He didn't love independent women. He only loved the convenience that came with an independent woman. Just then, he walked in carrying my cat. "Your cat can't be a freeloader. The expenses should be split three ways between the three of us. Since the cat can't pay, you'll cover his share too. That means you pay two-thirds, and I'll pay one-third. Transfer me 800 dollars."

My billionaire wife had just given birth when I was abducted and trapped in a sick, underground survival game. While I was sprinting through the woods with our newborn strapped to my back, Scarlett’s best friend’s voice boomed through the PA speakers. “Shouldn’t you be at home with your newborn and Damian? What are you doing here? Is your lover boy starting drama again?” Scarlett chuckled, her voice full of resigned affection. “Yeah. Jayden demanded some real entertainment. Damian thinks I have urgent work to take care of at the office, so he practically pushed me out the door while the kid was having surgery. He’s a sweet, naive idiot.” I tapped against the security camera lens, desperate to get Scarlett’s attention, but Jayden’s terrified scream distracted her into hitting the shock button on her remote control. The high-voltage electricity ran through me, and our newborn choked up blood, staining the earth. I curled around our son, sobbing in despair. As footsteps crunched closer, the high-rollers raised their stakes. It was a bet to see who would survive to the very end.