Cerita Pendek Plot Twists Romance & Novel Ruthless Cheating

Before our wedding, my fiancée, Sarah Hargrave—a professor of medieval history—held a private ceremony in a secluded chapel in the countryside. But not with me. Under the glow of candlelight, she cradled Benjamin Wheeler—her first love, his face gaunt from the cancer consuming him—in her arms. Her smile was soft, almost reverent, as she murmured, "In the eyes of God, vows made before the altar are the only ones that matter. Even if the law says I belong to Daniel, my soul was never his." And so, to the faint echo of hymns and the scent of old incense, they drank from the same silver cup, exchanged rings, and stepped together into the dimly lit sacristy—their makeshift bridal chamber. I watched. Silent. Motionless. No outbursts, no demands for explanation. Just the quiet dialing of a clinic to undo the vasectomy I'd gotten for our future. From fifteen to thirty, I had loved Sarah for fifteen long years. But in all that time, there'd never been room for me. That space had always belonged to Benjamin, my stepbrother. So I let her go. Afterward, I joined a geological research team bound for the isolation of Antarctica—a land cut off from the world, quiet and clean. Before I left, I handed Sarah a divorce agreement…and a final gift to mark the end. I never anticipated that Sarah, who'd always met my devotion with frosty detachment, who'd never once glanced back as I walked away, would look ten years older overnight.

When I become pregnant with Ryan Hurst's child—at the same time his so-called first love, Kate Davis, do—he doesn't hesitate to claim hers, while ignoring mine. My child is thus branded an "illegitimate child". Ryan, the eldest son of the powerful Hurst financial empire, looks down at me with eyes like frost. "Kate is a real socialite. She can't have her reputation tainted by… this," he says coldly. It turns out that our seven years of marriage were nothing but a lie. The day my adopted family, the Kleimanns, forces me to get an abortion, Ryan is in another country, playing the doting partner at Kate's side while she gives birth. When we meet again, I will have already burned the bridge between us with my own hands. What none of them know is that behind Kate's polished smile lies a festering rot. And as for me, I am the sole heiress to an old and powerful aristocratic bloodline.

Maynard Hansen planned a luxury birthday cruise for Darlene Thompson, but the cruise ship capsized when a violent storm swept in without warning. Without hesitation, Maynard gave the last seat on the lifeboat to Darlene. As I struggled in the water, my son, Waldo Hansen—whom I carried for nine months and gave birth to—cried out, "Don't let Mom up! She'll push Ms. Thompson off." Clutching nothing but a broken plank, I somehow made it to shore. By the time I collapsed on the sand, I was frozen, exhausted, and done. I had never felt so alone. Shortly after, I found myself clutching a diagnosis of severe depression in my hand. I was ready to bring this wretched life to a quiet end. But when my husband and son realized I truly didn't want to live anymore, they collapsed into tears. They wrapped their arms around me as they sobbed, "Please don't leave us. We really can't live without you."

"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!"

Five years into our marriage, every time I accidentally brushed against my wife's skin, she would punish me by making me kneel in a tub of disinfectant while reciting the Code of Male Conduct. Then one day, I noticed a suspicious red mark on her collarbone and instinctively reached out to touch it. Even though she lost her temper, stormed out, and slammed the door behind her, she surprisingly didn't punish me afterward. Naively, I thought she was finally starting to tolerate my touch. But the next day, my virginity was listed in an auction attended by wealthy heiresses from Lowarke City's elite—scheduled to be sold off two days later. Rachel Bloom's friends leered at my photo as they calculated how much they'd bid, while she stood by completely indifferent, scrubbing herself over and over with disinfectant. "Rupert kissed that spot, and Michael dared to touch it? Who does he think he is? Just looking at him makes me sick."

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.

As soon as I get off the surgical table after my miscarriage, my husband, Presley Quinn, sends me a text message. "You were ten cents short when you paid your share of the power bill this month. Transfer the money to me immediately." I can only sit on the cold bench in the hospital on my own. The anesthesia has yet to wear out, but my belly is already hurting so much that I can practically feel it constricting on itself. The next thing I know, a new post appears on my social media homepage. It's a post made by Vivienne Ashford, the intern Presley is in charge of tutoring. In the photo, Vivienne can be seen holding a bouquet of flowers folded from money bills. A bright and radiant smile blooms on her face. The four-leaf clover necklace adorning her neck is the same necklace I've seen in Presley's purchase history two days ago. The caption of the photo writes, "I don't want a lot of money. I want a ton of love instead." Only then do I remember that today is Valentine's Day as well as my fifth-year anniversary with Presley. Over the past five years, Presley and I have been splitting every single bill, down to two decimal places. If I take a shower for more than 20 minutes, Presley demands that I pay extra for the water heater's power bill. When I cook myself some supper in the middle of the night, Presley wants me to split the gas bill generated by the stove. Even when my mom is hospitalized due to kidney failure and is waiting for her surgical bills to be settled, Presley refuses to lend me a single cent. Instead, he sends me a few links leading to web loans. As I stare at the social media feed, I chuckle all of a sudden. It turns out that Presley does know how to spend money. It's just that he doesn't have the heart to spend it on me. I smile once again as I leave a like on the post. Then, I transfer the ten cents to Presley. From now on, I don't owe him any single penny.

I've always been one who doesn't express many emotions. That is, until I've married Vanessa Tate. But the happy life I look forward to living doesn't come to me. Instead, all I see is Vanessa cheating on me with other men to her heart's content. When she brings another man home for the seventh time and fills the guest room with loud moans, I walk over to the door and knock on it gently. Even my tone is soft and tender. "My bedtime is between 10:00 pm to 8:00 am the next morning. As long as you keep the noise level down and don't disturb my sleep, I can pretend that this never happened." The door is opened from the inside, and Vanessa struts out. She casts me a nonchalant glance. "Got it." Her languid voice is tinged with impatience. "I'll keep it down. You should rest in your room instead of standing in the corridor in the middle of the night." The young man, who's a new boy toy of Vanessa's, leans against the bedpost. He leaves his collar open purposefully as he says to me in a taunting manner, "You really are composed. No wonder Vanessa keeps claiming that you're the most gracious husband in the whole wide world." I merely smile wanly, not bothering to give the boy toy an ounce of my attention. After returning to the master bedroom, I take the liberty to send the photo I've just taken to my mother-in-law, Evelyn Sinclair. "Mom, I already told you that Vanessa will never be able to control her urges, and yet you refuse to believe me. "We already made it clear that you'll have to pay me 100 million dollars every time she cheats on me with a man. I hope that you can stick to your end of the bargain."

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.

On Valentine's Day, my wife, Serena Green, makes a dinner reservation for us at a romantic restaurant. She says she has a surprise for me, but she ends up standing me up when she gets called to perform an emergency surgery. I understand that this is just the nature of being a surgeon, so I celebrate the day by having dinner at the restaurant alone. As soon as I sit down, the restaurant manager greets me warmly. "Mr. Langley! Yesterday, your wife informed us that you love our newly released lobster pasta. We've made sure to prepare it for you today." My hands clench around the menu. "Is that so? But I'm allergic to shellfish. My wife should be aware of that." The smile on the manager's face stiffens. "I'm so sorry. I must've mistaken you for someone else. I'll cancel the order right away." Suppressing my suspicions, I call Serena. "Did you have dinner at this restaurant yesterday?"

The year Jonathan Nash becomes paralyzed in a car accident and falls from the top of the boxing world, I sell my family home and spend eight years working as a hotel housekeeper to scrape together the money for his surgery. I stay by his side until he fights his way back to the top and becomes world champion again. At the celebration party, he holds up his trophy and says through tears, "To the love of my life, who never left my side. May we spend the rest of our lives together." My eyes well up with tears. I think all those years of sacrifice are finally paying off. Unexpectedly, the spotlight sweeps past me as I stand up and instead lands on Amber Lloyd, the boxing team's doctor. I freeze in place, hearing nothing but the pounding of my heart. On the big screen, a slideshow titled "The World Champion's Recovery: A Wife's Journal" begins to play. Each slide is filled with my own records, including Jonathan's muscle response logs from all those nights I spent massaging his legs, gait training plans, and breakdowns of his boxing technique. What hurts even more is the final slide—his marriage certificate with Amber, dated five years ago. Jonathan grips my trembling shoulders, his expression a mix of desperation and warning. "Yvette, the public wants a respectable love story about a boxing champion's miraculous recovery. They don't need to know that the woman who helped me through it all was a housekeeper. "If you come forward now, no one will believe you. There's no point making a scene over this. I'll buy your family home back for you." I stare at the man standing in front of me in disbelief. Eight years of selfless devotion have become the very thing he uses against me. I walk out of the ballroom, my hands shaking as I pull up the overseas job offer on my phone. Without a second thought, I tap "Accept". "Ms. Sloan, your flight and visa will be ready in three days. Please stay in touch. We look forward to having you on board!"