Historias cortas de Scumbag Romance y novelas ambientadas en Cheating

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.

When I arrived at my wedding in my bridal gown, I found an octagonal fighting ring set up in the center of the stage. My fiance, Derek Hale, was holding the hand of his "girl bro," Chloe Shaw. With a smile, he handed me a pair of boxing gloves and explained, "Vivian, this is a tradition from my hometown. The bride has to get into the ring and wrestle one of the groomsmen for good luck. I asked Chloe to go up. Just play along for a minute." Looking at Chloe, who was always acting frail and sickly, I did not think much of it and stepped straight into the ring. But the next second, she threw an extremely professional spinning kick and knocked me unconscious with a severe concussion on the spot. When I woke up, I was paralyzed in a hospital bed. Derek stood there holding Chloe's hand and said to me, "Our relatives and friends gave us so much wedding money. The wedding can't go on without a bride. Chloe is willing to take care of me in your place. You're so kind, Vivian. You won't mind, right?" Under the torture of humiliation and severe depression, I pushed my wheelchair off the rooftop of our wedding home. When I opened my eyes again, I was back one month before the wedding. I turned around and knocked on the door of a national-level kickboxing champion training base. "Coach, if I trained for a month, can I punch someone's head open?"

At the supermarket, a child slams into my pregnant belly. The pain is so intense that I collapse to the floor and cannot get back up. I groan, "My phone... Call my husband..." Only after giving the child a slap does the woman pick up my phone. Apologizing repeatedly, she searches my contacts for "Husband". She calls several times, but no one answers. "Don't panic. I'll have my husband come handle this," she says, taking out her own phone and calling her husband. He answers after the very first ring. "Honey, our son got into trouble again! Adjourn your meeting and get over here. He knocked into a pregnant woman!" Ten minutes later, Shawn Leake, who is supposed to be working in another city, arrives at the scene. The first thing he notices is the child's swollen cheek. A look of concern crosses his face as he frowns and searches the area. He grumbles, "Was it really necessary to hit him? Who exactly did he run into—" The moment our eyes meet, his voice cuts off abruptly.

When my boyfriend hit the elevator button for my best friend's floor by mistake for the ninety-ninth time, he shot me an accusing look. "Why didn't you remind me? Forget it. Since we're already here, I might as well replace Gem's light bulb." I froze, then forced a thin smile. It was that line again. "Since we're already here." Ever since Gem Shaw moved into the apartment upstairs a year ago, my boyfriend Simon Lawson, had pressed the wrong floor every single time. When we were supposed to watch a movie together, he carried the milkshake to Gem's door and knocked. When my fever wouldn't break and I asked him to bring me medicine, he brought it to Gem's place instead because she had cramps. Our date for two became a movie for three, and my fever medicine became painkillers. Even on my birthday, he carried the cake to Gem's place. "Since we're already here, might as well celebrate your ten years of friendship." "Since we're already here, I might as well fix Gem's clogged drain for her." As I watched him walk into Gem's apartment without looking back, I silently pressed the close-door button. He had already forgotten that today was the day my lease ended, and it was also the day I was moving out. Since he was already here, he didn't need to come back to me.

On the day of our daughter's full-month celebration, Harvey McKinzie walked onto the stage holding the hand of his widowed, heavily pregnant sister-in-law. "Honey, to be honest with you—my sister-in-law's baby is mine." His parents followed behind, looking completely unapologetic. "We're the ones who made it happen. We drugged them. Our oldest son may be gone, but the family can't be without an heir. "Harvey is taking on the responsibility of carrying on both family lines—it hasn't been easy for him. From now on, you need to take good care of Lydia and the child she's carrying." The sister-in-law, now eight months pregnant, glanced at me shyly. "Jennifer, we're sister-wives now." I stood there frozen, holding my daughter, my voice trembling. "Why are you doing this to me?" Harvey frowned and let out a long sigh. "You're always saying how hard Lydia has it, right? Isn't it better if I just take care of her openly and properly? "I promise—you'll be the first wife, and she'll be the second. On paper, you're still my only legal wife." In that moment, my blood ran cold. Then, for the first time in a long while, I heard the system's alert in my head. [Host emotional fluctuation detected. Would you like to use all remaining points to exit the current world?]

My cheating husband, Steve Manson, gets hit by a car and suffers brain damage. After the accident, he can only say two words—"Yes" and "No". He can't say anything else. And somehow, every answer he gives has to be the truth. For once, it feels like heaven is finally on my side. I ask, "Is the woman you're having an affair with my best friend?" His face turns pale, but his mouth moves against his will. "Yes." "Did you transfer assets behind my back?" "Yes." "Is your bank account password your first love's birthday?" "Yes." Thanks to this bizarre ability of his, I successfully send the mistress to prison and walk away with all of his assets. Yet, he can't even curse me out no matter how much he wants it. Then one day, a handsome food delivery guy flirts with me. I turn to look at Steve, who stands there with the same dull expression as always. "Are you really my husband? Why aren't you even jealous?" Without hesitation, he blurts out, "No." I freeze instantly and stare into his eyes. After a long silence, I finally ask, "Then is my husband... dead?" He answers, "Yes and no."

My boyfriend of nine years suddenly changed his WhatsApp name to "Peanut Love." When I asked why, he wouldn't say. Then his secretary, going by the name "Peanut," sent me their intimate photos. I understood everything. I calmly saved the photos and opened my mom's chat. I sent a single message: [Mom, I've decided to come home for the arranged marriage.] Mom immediately video-called me. "Sweetheart, we'll set the wedding for the end of this month." Fifteen days. That's all that's left between Jason and me.

My husband, Aston Powell, is late to show up at the sixth birthday celebration of our daughter, Hailey Powell. When he arrives, he clasps a necklace with a red emerald pendant hanging from it around her neck. "Wow, Aston! Isn't that from the pair of red emerald pendants you bought at City Auction today? They're worth seven figures, aren't they?" Aston's friends all laugh and tease him. Hailey holds up the pendant with a bright smile on her face. "Thanks, Daddy!" "Where's the other one? Are you planning to give it to Belinda?" his friend asks teasingly. As the others start cheering him on, he takes out a diamond necklace instead. Aston says, "Dear, I've got to be fair. Tamara is pregnant with my child. I promised I'd give the child she's carrying in her belly the other pendant." Tamara Davies is his widowed sister-in-law. My whole body jolts involuntarily, and I subconsciously grip that necklace tightly. "Honey, please don't joke about this." Aston smiles and speaks in an unexpectedly calm voice. "Don't worry, Belinda. My heart belongs to you and only you. You have to be sensible. My brother passed away so young. Tamara begged me to give her a child with our surname. I couldn't reject her." He puts the necklace around my neck and lightly clasps it, placing a soft kiss on my neck while he is at it. "Be good, okay? That was just an accident. Once the child is born, we'll have her sent back to Powell Manor," Aston says.

My executive boyfriend, Marcus Winters, had always wanted the regional president seat. Then his favorite protégée, Sophie Moresby, complained that I always got the spotlight, and he deliberately sabotaged my car. The crash broke both my hands, leaving me unable to compete in the design contest that could decide the board vote. He handed my entry slot to Sophie and expected me to accept it quietly. When I confronted him, he said it was only one competition and that, as design director, I should give younger employees a chance. To prove his "fairness," he stripped me of my director title and docked six months of my pay to compensate the team. Everyone waited for me to fight back. Instead, I nodded, calm and silent. Marcus was pleased. He promised that once his promotion came through, he would restore my position and publicly announce our relationship. I smiled coldly and told him we were done. I had already submitted my resignation. What Marcus did not know was that the board and I had made a private agreement: if I won the championship and secured the decisive vote, the person I named would become regional president. I had been preparing to name him. Now he had not only replaced me with Sophie, but also encouraged her to submit a fraudulent design. Once the contest ended, the only thing waiting for him was termination, a ruined career, and a bill he could never afford.

I went to my best friend's place for her birthday, and out of nowhere, she started complaining. "I'm so jealous of you," she said. "Your boyfriend has basically no sex drive." "Mine's the complete opposite. He wanted it seven times last night. I was crying so hard I lost my voice, and he still wouldn't stop." I gave her a sympathetic smile. "That just means he's crazy about you. Unlike mine—he's practically celibate. Like a monk." She raised an eyebrow, casually stroking the two-million-dollar ruby bangle on her wrist. "He's not bad," she said, a hint of smugness in her voice. "He was with his ex for five years, but he still chose to marry me behind her back. He was so afraid she'd push for marriage that he faked going bankrupt and told her he had ALS. "The girl wouldn't let go, though. She sold her blood, her kidney—whatever it took—to scrape together money for his treatment. "She was working the graveyard shift at a factory, while he and I were fooling around in a twenty-million-dollar villa." I froze. To help my boyfriend Nathan Whitley pay for his ALS treatment, I had done all of those things. Before I could even process it, the door opened, and a tall, sharply dressed man walked in. "Babe," he said, "I got that strawberry flavor you like. How about wearing that silk nightie tonight?" Our eyes met. I stood there, frozen in shock, a chill running down my spine. It was Nathan Whitley—the man who was supposed to be broke, bedridden, and dying of ALS.

My best friend, Patrick Morris, always pops my fiancee's cherry before my wedding in order to ensure that I have an amazing wedding night with her. Every time, he will record them going at it before sending it to me. "I've taught your fiancee 1000 positions in bed. You're really lucky to be with her on your wedding night!" After Patrick has snatched 99 fiancees from me, I suffer from a mental breakdown. Then, I sell my apartment and leave the city. Finally, I get to meet my true love, Ariel Booker. But on my wedding day, Patrick shows up in front of me, disguised as a makeup artist. "Caleb, you can get married once I'm done grooming your fiancee for you!" After that, he drugs me before climbing into Ariel's bed. Thank goodness I'm able to wake up on time and rush into the bedroom with a group of people flocking behind me. Later on, I have Patrick locked up behind bars. But Ariel decides to run over my legs with her car, effectively crushing them. When I'm stuck in bed as a cripple, she throws my mom, who's severely ill, into a meat grinder. "I'm free to give my virginity to whoever I want. Why the hell are you meddling with my business? Since you're the reason behind Patrick's imprisonment and suicide, you and your mom should pay the price with your lives!" When I open my eyes, I've returned to the day of my wedding. At the moment, Patrick is dressed as a makeup artist while stamping my face with a meat-grading stamp.

On the day of my third wedding anniversary, I wait for my husband, Jonathan Myers, in the heavy downpour for four hours even though I'm already nine months pregnant. I can feel the rain drenching me from head to toe. At the same time, I keep suffering from the irregular contractions. Jonathan sends me a voice message. I can hear a bell tolling and a woman's laughter in the background. "Honey, I'll be home late. Quinn told me that she's never admired the cityscape at night before." The moment I'm hoisted onto a stretcher, I glance at my phone. Coincidentally, Jonathan's social media feed has just refreshed, showing a grid of nine photos. Quinn Farris can be seen standing in front of a floor-to-ceiling window, where an array of the city lights stretch out behind her. The caption reads, "I'm admiring the world with my baby girl." Meanwhile, I've lost a lot of blood in the delivery room. On the surgical forms, the spot that's supposed to bear my husband's signature is left empty. At 3:00 am, Jonathan wakes up in Quinn's bed. He then transfers me 5000 dollars and leaves a note on the transaction history. "Thanks for your hard work." I reject the transaction before dialing a number. "Dad, I've thought things through. I want to leave the country."

Two years after the death of my husband, John Foster, I get a video call from him—except it's him from five years in the future. "John! You're still alive! Tell me where you are. I'm coming now to bring you home!" Crying tears of joy, I scramble to pick up the car keys I dropped, only to hear him say, "Actually, I faked my death to be with your friend…" As my mind goes blank, he continues to tell me everything as if none of it is a big deal. "I attended my funeral. The whole time you were crying beside my casket, I was in the back room with Adaline, getting it on with her. You thought her eyes were red because she was crying in grief. "Oh, my mother and our son know that I faked my death, too. Every year, they've found all kinds of excuses to come spend time with us instead…" My blood turns cold. My hand shakes as I clutch the phone. Meanwhile, John exhales, looking like he has taken a load off his chest. "I've already told you the truth about everything now, Cecilia, so it's up to you whether you want to continue living like a widow."

The birthday gift I gave my husband was found in a doghouse by the side of the road. I spent the next five years as the butt of all jokes made by Cascade City's high society wives. Every year when Julian Carter's birthday came around, they would bring it up again, teasing that the gift I bought him was surely the most expensive one of all. "That's nouveau riche taste for you. She thinks the more expensive it is, the better." "Yeah, but I wonder where they'll find it this year. Another doghouse, maybe?" The women burst into laughter. Then, they realized something was different. This year, I had not given Julian anything at all. In fact, as his birthday drew to a close, I still had not shown up. "Laura, where's my birthday present? And what kind of behavior is this? You disappeared for the entire day. Do you have any idea how unhappy everyone in the family has been?" Julian's eyes were dark with irritation. I pushed back my sleep-mussed hair, only then remembering that it seemed to be Julian's birthday. "Oh, sorry. I forgot." After a brief pause, I added casually, "I'll have my assistant pick something out tomorrow and send it over." For a moment, he simply stared at me, as if he could not believe what he had just heard. "What did you just say?"

In the fifth year of my marriage with Lionel Kruger, I suddenly develop an ability to see everyone's ranking system. To my mom, I'm ranked first. To my best friend, I'm ranked second after her daughter. Even the owner of the breakfast cart in the neighborhood views me as his sixth favorite person in his life. Delighted, I rush off to see Lionel's ranking system. His mom ranks first, whereas Natalie Cooper is ranked second. That's me! I'm ranked second! That piece of news makes me smile throughout the day. That is, until I see an unfamiliar name taking up the sixth spot—Lindsay Sloan. I tell myself that it's fine. I'm ranked second, while she's ranked sixth. But the next few days, I witness Lindsey's name climbing slowly up the ranks to the point she's almost reaching my rank. That evening, Lionel comes home and hugs me as usual. "I missed you." As I stare at the ranking system above his head, I notice that Lindsay, who's now ranked third, is slowly climbing upward as he speaks. "Lionel, who's Lindsey Sloan?" At that moment, Lionel freezes up while hugging me.

My husband, Michael Grant's mistress, Lucy Lovelace, is demanding a break-up with him once again. Heartbroken, he drowns his sorrows with alcohol to the point that he has to get hospitalized due to stomach bleeding. Still, Michael keeps mumbling, "She's the only one who has the guts to treat me like this." Then, he grabs my hand and says, "Darling, you're a woman too. Tell me, how should I appease Lucy this time?" Well, Michael has cheated on me so many times. Lucy is the only one he's ever fallen for so far. My phone buzzes at that moment. It's a text from Lucy. "Mrs. Grant, please keep your husband in check! Don't you have any pride as a woman? Tell him to stop bothering me already!" I just smile mockingly. As always, I don't bother responding to Lucy. On the fifth day of Michael's hospitalization, he spams my phone with countless calls. When the latest call goes through, he questions me emotionally, "I'm hospitalized, you know! Why haven't you shown up at all? Do you even care about me as your husband?" I reply calmly, "I'm worried that if I do show up, you'll fall in love with me again."

On the way to buy holiday groceries, I ran into an old classmate I had not seen in years. The moment he saw Stefan Adler, the first thing out of his mouth was, "Did you know Nadine Keller is back in the country?" I looked at Stefan by reflex, only to find him smiling at me too. "Overthinking again, babe? We have nothing to do with each other anymore." Then he turned to our old classmate and introduced me seriously. "This is Elise Bauer. She was the girl from the class next door back in college, and now she is my girlfriend." I had not really overthought it. After all, Stefan and Nadine had ended badly. She had blocked him in front of everyone, and for a long time afterward, Stefan's face would turn cold whenever anyone mentioned her. I went to the next aisle to pick out snacks while they caught up. When I came back, I happened to hear the old classmate say, "Actually, Nadine asked me for your contact information yesterday..."

When I'm pulling an overnight shift at midnight, I receive a text from my boyfriend of five years, Robert Howell. "I've already ended the rental agreement on our previous apartment. I'm sending you our new address now." After glancing at the address, realization dawns on me immediately. "Is this because of Daisy again?" Daisy Baldwin is the so-called delicate yet strong-willed young woman, whom Robert has mentioned to me. This is our third time moving apartments in just half a year. We've moved from a high-end apartment located in the boisterous city all the way to a residential area in the rural slums. All this… just so Robert can get closer to Daisy. I must have exposed Robert's true intentions, for he sounds quite humiliated and furious. "Can you stop being so petty? Dee Dee was stalked after she got off her overtime shift! You're a woman as well; how is it that you don't have any trace of empathy for her?" As I look out the window and see the night sky, I feel a wave of exhaustion hitting me all of a sudden. Honestly, I don't remember how many times Robert and I have argued over Daisy. At first, I was enraged and aggrieved. Now, I'm just speechless. "I can't be bothered to waste my breath on you. I'm going to pick Dee Dee up from work now." Robert ends the call before I can respond. The thing is, Robert has never asked me if I wanted to move right from the start. He also never asks me if I need a ride home since it's already this late at night. That's why I drop my signature on the overseas assignment agreement that has been left on my desk for a week without consulting Robert at all.

On Christmas Eve, I giddily wait for my husband, Hunter Gibson, to come home while nursing my eight-month pregnancy. Unexpectedly, Hunter bursts through the front door with his childhood friend, Winter Jones, in his arms. I attempt to help him out, only to get shoved to the floor instead. My belly bumps into a corner of the coffee table, causing pain to shoot up my nerves. Cold sweat soon beads on my forehead, and yet Hunter doesn't even spare me another glance. "Get out of my way! Someone drugged Winnie's drink at the bar! If I don't purge the poison out of her, she'll die!" As I shield my belly, I dig out my phone. "I'll call an ambulance for her—" But Hunter snatches my phone away before hurling it at the floor, breaking it into splinters. Then, he grabs me by the neck angrily. "Are you trying to ruin Winnie's reputation? If word gets out, how is she going to live with her head hung high?" In order to prevent me from "ruining his plan", Hunter decides to trap me on the balcony while disregarding my pleas and the fact that I'm only wearing thin pajamas. "You should take some time to cool off! Once you've finally learned your lesson, you're only permitted entry!" I can only slam my palms onto the glass door desperately with tears running down my face. There, I'm forced to watch as Hunter and Winter go at it like desperate rabbits on the carpet in the living room, with the Christmas songs serving as their ambiance. A heavy snowfall has occurred that night. At the crack of dawn the next morning, Hunter finally remembers that I exist. He calls my number, yet my phone was turned off. Furious, Hunter yells, "Where the hell did you go? Winnie's stomach is in discomfort! Get your ass back here right now and cook her some soup!" What he doesn't know is that I'm right outside the balcony door. The thing is, dead people are incapable of answering phone calls, not to mention Hunter has already broken my phone, to begin with.

My CEO husband told me he had a last-minute job to handle. He said that because of it, he couldn't accompany me to retrieve the body. Then I went online and saw a photo my husband's secretary had posted as a birthday status update. [Thanks for the red velvet cake, Mr. Mitchell! Happy birthday to me!] I smiled and left a comment. [Happy birthday.] That single comment sparked a frenzy among my colleagues. They immediately began placing bets on how big of a scene I would make. Then he called. "Lucy is just celebrating her birthday, Brianna! Why do you have to ruin it by showing up in the comments?! Don't you know how sensitive she is? How is she supposed to feel comfortable at work now?! "She's only been here for two years. She doesn't even have any friends! What's wrong with me looking out for an employee and keeping her company on her birthday? A lucky girl who grew up in a wealthy family like you wouldn't understand! "If you want to talk about this, fine. Wait until I get back. But delete that comment right now! We can always wait another few days before retrieving his body. Where is your father going to go anyway? He's already dead!" I clenched my fist and replied, "That won't be necessary." By the time he returned, we would already be legally divorced.