Ruthless Romance Short Stories & Countdown Novels

After three years of pretending to be dead on livestreams, I finally earned enough money to treat my daughter. I was about to go home and tell my wife and daughter when I overheard a call between the platform administrator and my wife. The administrator said humbly, “Chairman Morgan, Mr. Wells’s livestreams have generated tens of millions in revenue over these years. “The company withheld ninety-five percent of it. Should we keep withholding more?” Stacy fell silent for a moment before answering, “No need. Three years of testing him is enough. He barely moves year-round. He even developed muscle atrophy and didn’t tell me.” John’s voice came through the phone next. He said, “Stacy, Sam can even pretend to be dead, so what if this is an act too? “Besides, Emma’s already used to Sam being gone, so she probably won’t accept having a dad again anytime soon.” After some hesitation, my wife said indifferently, “If that’s the case, then withhold it for another six months.” I smiled and tossed the diagnosis report confirming amyotrophic lateral sclerosis into the trash. There was no need for them to test me anymore. I no longer needed to pretend.

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!"

In my final year of high school, my parents died, leaving me nothing but a crumbling brick house. And yet, I somehow got myself a younger brother. He was a second-year student at our school, at the top of his grade. But no one respected him. Even when he was bullied, the teachers turned a blind eye. Why? Because even if others didn't beat him, his drunken father did it every day, while his cowardly mother never dared to fight back. I dragged him home with all my strength, patched up his wounds, and kept him with me for several days. Later, when his mother was beaten to death, I called the police and had his father arrested. "Hey," I told him, "from now on, live with me. I don't have any family left. Call me sister, and I'll put you through school." He dreamed of getting into a prestigious university. So I dropped out, set up a street stall, sold my own blood, and even took illegal jobs just to support him. When he graduated, he said he wanted to start a business. I gave him every cent of my savings. And then one day, I watched him stand beneath the dazzling lights, a radiant girl at his side, holding a trophy for a youth entrepreneurship award. I looked down at the cancer diagnosis in my hands. A bitter smile tugged at my lips. In the end, I had raised him into someone I could no longer reach. It was time for me to leave the stage.

After ten years in a coma, Margaret Rollins, the mother of Geri Winslow, Jansburke's top heiress, finally wakes up. Everyone believes she'd been pushed down the stairs and left in a vegetative state. Now that she's awake, everyone prominent in the city comes to visit. They practically fall over themselves to praise Geri, saying she's been the picture of devotion. After all, she's spent the last ten years punishing the man who hurt Margaret. Even though Geri and the culprit were high school sweethearts, she still didn't go easy on him. But when everyone is finally done talking, Margaret sits in silence for a long time. Then, she looks at them in confusion. "What culprit? No one pushed me. I fell on my own." The fruit knife falls from Geri's hand and clatters to the floor. She lifts her head and stares at Margaret in disbelief. "Mom, what did you just say?" Alistair York isn't the one who caused Margaret's coma? A terrifying panic rises inside Geri. For as long as Margaret has been unconscious, Geri has been punishing Alistair. And now, she learns that he's innocent? "By the way, where is Alistair?" Margaret suddenly asks. "I didn't approve of him back then because he came from a single-parent family, and I didn't want you dating him. I never imagined he would risk everything to save me after I fell, though. Are you two still together? Did you get married? Do you have children?" Each question lands on Geri's heart like hammer blows. Her throat tightens, and she can't speak for a long time. Because after Alistair's release from prison, she forces him into a relationship with a blind woman begging on the streets. Three years have passed since then…