Tragic Love Romance Short Stories & Ruthless Cheating Novels

When a hurricane comes, my husband, the leader of a rescue team, takes away everything we've stored at home so he can save his true love. I plead, "Leave some for me. I'm pregnant." He shakes me off. "How can you be so evil? The windows at Lottie's home have already been blown away. Don't tell me you're going to sit by and watch her die! She's not like you—you're not afraid of everything. The hurricane will be over soon, so you won't need any of this stuff." After that, he leaves without another look back. What he doesn't know is that there's also a crack in our home's windows.

Once upon a time, Kayla thought she and Winston would be together until the day they died. She would never have expected them to take separate paths so soon. After retrieving her diagnosis report, she sees him holding another woman in his arms. A final tear trickles down her face. She's tired and doesn't want to use whatever time she has left to argue with him. She makes the arrangements for everything that will happen after her death. Then, she prepares a final gift for Winston. From this day onward, she'll leave for the afterworld while he remains on Earth. They won't see each other again.

On New Year's Eve, my husband, Max Davis, took me to a private dinner hosted by a big industry player. We had barely made our way around the room when a strange woman suddenly shoved me into the pool. When I insisted on checking the surveillance footage and calling the police, Max firmly held me back. He warned me to "remember my place" and not embarrass him in front of everyone. In the brief time I changed into another gown, I returned to find that same woman perched on my husband's lap, her red lipstick leaving traces on his collar. "Max, you're right! That nasty scar on her stomach really does look like a centipede. It's so hideous!" She giggled with mock innocence, adding, "It's been so fun messing with your wife. Next time, can I slap her when no one's looking?" Meanwhile, Max gazed at her like she was the only woman in the world, gently tracing his finger over her nose. "Of course, you can," he replied, eyes still locked on hers. "I'll even tie her hands behind her back for you."

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.

My mom ended up in a vegetable state because my husband's childhood sweetheart hit her while drunk driving. When the police asked her to take a breathalyzer, Sarah swore she hadn't drunk anything and dared them to draw her blood for a test. At the hospital, James faked the test results. He staked his career on it, producing a clean report that cleared her of driving under the influence. The day she walked free, he went to pick her up. I screamed at him, "Don't you know she hit my mom?" He shrugged. "Margaret is not dead. She'll wake up, okay? Why are you freaking out, trying to ruin Sarah's life? Will that make you happy?"

After being pushed down the stairs by my husband's first love, I suffered a difficult labor with our second child and died in a corner of their family's private hospital. Before I died, my six-year-old son cried and begged for his father to save me. The first time, Shawn sneered. "Your mom's gotten smarter, using you to play the victim and trick people." After that, he flung my son's hand away and left heartlessly. The second time, my son told him I was bleeding uncontrollably. Shawn was clearly impatient. "She's being so dramatic, it's just a miscarriage, nothing serious. She's always made mountains out of molehills!" After chasing my son away, he even told the doctors not to care for me. "It's my fault for spoiling her. She'll know what she did wrong once I let her have a hard time for a few days." The last time, my son went to my husband's first love Jasmine, kneeling in front of her and knocking his head on the ground, begging her. Shawn flew into a rage and ordered bodyguards to throw my battered and bruised son out of the hospital room, allowing others to laugh at his misfortune. "If you come bother Jasmine while she's resting again, I'll kick your mom out of our family! She'll never see you again!" My son crawled to my side, leaving behind a long trail of blood. And so, I laid there helplessly as I felt the warmth escape both my son and I. 'Are you happy now, Shawn? You'll never see us again.'

I spend ten years helping my fiancé fight and claw his way to the top. Finally, he becomes the head of the local mafia. But once he has everything, he falls for another woman. Suddenly, he wants nothing to do with the promise he made to marry me. Just as he boasts about throwing her the wedding of the century, one of his men can't hold back his confusion. "Olivia stood by you through everything. Weren't you crazy about her? And now you're marrying someone else?" Joshua Harding snuffs out his cigarette, slowly turning the silver couple's ring he shares with Abigail Mauser between his fingers. "Olivia?" He scoffs. "She's got blood on her hands. How could she ever compare to my sweet, innocent Abigail?" The subordinate hesitates. "But Olivia's sharp. If she finds out and turns against you, then what?" Joshua frowns before smirking coldly. "Belcove is completely under my control. It's not like I'll lose it without her around." Little does he know I'm standing outside and listening to every word. I drop the medicine I brought him into the trash and pull out my phone. I text his biggest rival, Michael Sheridan. "Want Joshua's turf and his life? I'm handing them to you!"

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.

His precious childhood sweetheart got drunk one night and ended up in a stranger’s bed. When she showed up again, she was pregnant—just like me. On the day I gave birth, Harold handed me the divorce papers. "Rachel’s about to return to acting," he said coldly. "She and the baby need a proper title. If a scandal breaks out, it’ll destroy her." Dragging my frail body, I calmly signed the papers. In my previous life, I refused to step aside. I went live, holding my daughter, and exposed the award-winning actress Rachel Underwood for knowingly becoming the other woman. The internet turned on her. She lost every endorsement and was driven to the edge by massive fines—eventually jumping off a building. Harold quietly took care of her funeral... and then stood by as her fans harassed me in the streets, even tried to burn my child and me alive. It was not until I saw him lock the door behind us that I realized—he had wanted us dead all along. Then I woke up. And it was the day he gave me the divorce agreement... again.

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."

As Zayla Scott, my husband's first love, pushes me down the stairs, he's in the kitchen, thoughtfully making her a warm drink. When she sees I survived, she hires someone to assault me and has me thrown into the bear enclosure at the zoo. It's only after the bears tore me apart that my husband finally remembers I exist. "All I did was refuse to take time off to pay my respects to your mother with you. How could you be so cruel, Joey? You're a zookeeper—it's your job! Why would you force Zayla, who's pregnant, to care for savage creatures? "Get over here and give Zayla a blood transfusion right now, or I'll dig up your mother's grave myself!" He doesn't know that all that's left of me is my broken body.

My fiancé’s first love and I fell down the stairs at the same time, and he chose to save her instead, leaving me to lie there in a pool of blood as I waited for an ambulance. On the brink of death, I begged him not to abandon me, and he only kicked my hand away, saying, “Elodie, can’t you show a little kindness? Don’t you see that Celeste is unconscious?! “…I’ll make sure you pay for this later!” ‘Later’, as he put it, didn’t come to pass. As he left with his first love in his arms, I died along with the baby inside my womb.

On my birthday, I personally prepare 16 dishes. After setting up the candlelight, I open a bottle of red wine. I take a photo and send it to my husband, Eric Sinclair. "I'm working late tonight. Don't wait for me," he replies. I choose to believe him. But after midnight, I notice an Instagram story posted by Shirley Huxley, his secretary. Eric was there with her, dressed in the trench coat I once gave him. They sat side by side in the VIP seat of football stadium where my favorite Super Bowl take place. Entwined in a passionate embrace, they kissed beneath a sea of shimmering lights and the roar of thousands of fans. That game is the one I have always longed to experience with him. I look down at the cold food on the table. Eric's words keep ringing in my head. "I hate kissing." "Marriage is a partnership, not about love and kisses." Though we've been married for ten years, we've never shared a single kiss. Meanwhile, he's out there, kissing Shirley openly and passionately. Despite it all, not a single tear falls from my eyes. The next day, Eric settles into his chair, completely unfazed. "Return the gallery to Shelly," he commands. I nod quietly, saying nothing. Suddenly, Layla Sinclair, my daughter, comes running down the stairs and throws herself into Shirley's arms. "Aunt Shirley, you're my favorite. I don't like Mom!" In that instant, it hits me—the home I devoted my heart and soul to means nothing anymore. It doesn't matter that I've been married to Eric for a decade. Now, all I want is to find myself again. I decide to accept an invitation from the Parisoir School of Fashion Design. From this moment on, I won't wait for them to come home, and I won't look back.

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."

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.

As my due date approaches, my husband's precious mistress falls into the water at a banquet. After being rescued, she immediately accuses me of pushing her. To "avenge" her, he throws me into a modified stainless steel water tank. I beg him, pleading for the sake of our unborn children. But he only sneers. "Don't try to use the babies to guilt me! You've still got a week before you're due. I know exactly how vicious you are—any child of yours would be just as rotten. Stay in there and reflect on your behavior. I'll let you out when you finally admit you're wrong!" Five days later, my husband returns home from a night out with his mistress, calling for me to come downstairs and serve them, as always. He doesn't know that my babies and I have already rotted beyond recognition.

A fierce storm erupts on a mountain peak at 25,561 feet, trapping me in the mountain camp under heavy snow. My husband, the leader of the mountain excursion squad, ignores my desperate pleas and hands the last oxygen tank to his beloved true love. "You're a professional climber—you won't die from missing a few breaths," he snaps. "Olivia has always been frail. Without oxygen, she's done for!" I watch as the two of them lean on each other, making their way down the cliffside, and I fall into complete despair. He's already forgotten that my body hasn't been able to survive without oxygen at high altitudes since saving him two years ago.

My best friend passed away from postpartum hemorrhage. Ethan said he didn't want his child to grow up without a mother. To repay my best friend for saving my life years ago, I became the child's mother. I gave up my career and ambitions, willingly becoming a full-time housewife. For seven years, I cared for both father and son as if it were my life's mission. Yet, he always remained distant, his tenderness surfacing only in the quiet intensity of late nights. Afterward, he would hand me a few birth control pills. On New Year's Eve, my throat felt strange. I swallowed the pills, only to immediately vomit them all out. Ethan was furious and accused me of harboring ulterior motives. As punishment, he locked me outside on the open balcony in the rain. Our son came running with an umbrella in hand. But he walked past me without a glance and handed it to the housekeeper who was heading out. In that moment, I made up my mind—I would leave.

After we remarried, I became the absolute perfect husband in Zoe’s eyes. When she stayed out all night, I stopped calling to check up on her. When she went to parties and ended up in passionate kisses with other men, I turned a blind eye and kept my mouth shut. Even at a high school reunion, when someone teased her and asked if her biggest regret was not marrying the school heartthrob, I simply smiled and smoothed things over for her. “Honestly, yeah. If I hadn’t clung to her back then, maybe she would be together with the person she truly loved by now.” Hearing that, the woman beside me suddenly panicked. “Are you serious? Won’t you regret losing me?” Regret? I let out a soft laugh. My only regret was coming out of our first divorce with absolutely nothing. This time, when the divorce papers are signed, I won’t be the one walking away empty-handed.

In everyone's eyes, my husband, Jake Payton, was the perfect man. Three years have passed since the day of our wedding, but we have yet to have a child because he wanted an 'extended honeymoon'. One day, I chanced across a message he sent to his friend. [I'm not Mindy's first, and God knows whether she's had an abortion before! The thought of having a baby with her just makes me sick!] Unable to hold back my tears, I turned around and shelved my medical report.