Cerita Pendek Tragic Love Romance & Novel Scumbag Cheating

We had been in love for five years and married for three. My husband had taken the whole “going Dutch” to an absurd extreme. A two-dollar bottle of water for the house? Split it in half. A $105 utility bill? He'd send me a Venmo request for my half. He called it “the spirit of equality in a modern marriage.” According to him, rules were rules. I gritted my teeth and put up with it. Until I found out I was pregnant. To save money on the prenatal appointments and nutritional expenses he insisted we split, I could barely afford anything more than plain boiled eggs every day. Even when I was heavily pregnant and caught in a downpour, if I tried to call a cab, he'd lecture me for lacking the independence a modern woman was supposed to have. Yet when another woman told him she was “having a bad day,” he didn't hesitate to spend hundreds of thousands of dollars on luxury goods for her. He even paid her expensive tuition to study abroad. I thought I'd already become numb to it all, so numb that I was prepared for whatever came next, even if it killed me. Then came the day when his disgusting penny-pinching calculations went too far. He tried to make me pay my “share” of the medication I needed to stay alive.

On the way to get our marriage certificate for the twentieth time, Rolf Trivett regretted it once again. In eight years, this was our twentieth attempt to get the certificate. But every time we reached City Hall, he would always say he needed time to care for his seriously ill childhood friend and couldn't promise to marry me. This time, I couldn't take it anymore and asked him, "If she’s never going to get better, does that mean you’ll never marry me? What am I to you?" Rolf immediately lost his temper and yelled at me, "I've already promised to take care of her for life. Can you stop being so selfish? "Besides, we've been together for eight years. What difference does it make if we don't get this certificate?"

On the last trip before Zeke Malone and I were set to register our marriage, someone clamped a hand over my mouth and dragged me into the bushes to assault me. Zeke and my sister, Crystal Bianco, arrived just in time to "save" me. That was when I heard Zeke switch to French and ask her, "Did you get enough footage just now?" "Yeah," Crystal answered back in French. "But isn't this unfair to Lizzie?" Zeke's voice turned grave. "The man was only acting. He never actually went through with it. We just needed the footage. As long as I don't hold it against her, that's all that matters. "Besides, you could win a Pulitzer for breaking this story. That's what actually matters here." I lay in his arms, a chill spreading through every inch of me. Certain I must have misheard, I couldn't help but ask, "What were you two just saying?" Zeke wiped the tears from the corners of my eyes, his voice as gentle as ever. "We were talking about your case, about what happened to you. It might be best to let Crystal be the one to report it. That way, the man responsible will pay for what he did." He assumed I couldn't understand a word of it, so he went right on discussing with Crystal how to get the story more attention. What he didn't know was that I'd spent the past year secretly teaching myself French, just so I could belong in their world. I never imagined that the first time I finally understood them, it would be to discover that they had both betrayed me.

My husband, Graham Hale, was known in our circle for being almost impossible to rattle. In three years of marriage, nothing ever seemed to get much of a reaction out of him. When his company went public, all he said was, "Got it." When his father was in critical condition, Graham spent the entire night outside the operating room without ever looking shaken. Even the day I miscarried, he held me while I was still bleeding and calmly wiped away my tears. "Don't cry. We can have another." I always thought he just wasn't wired for strong emotions. Then one day, I happened to check his smartwatch. Over the past two weeks, it had recorded six unusual spikes in his heart rate. Every single one happened around 6:20 a.m. What could make a man who never lost his composure suddenly have a heart rate over 130? I got my answer two weeks after my older sister, Celeste Whitmore, came home following her divorce. One day, as I passed Graham's home office, I heard his mother ask, "After all these years, you still can't get over Celeste?" Graham was silent for a long moment before answering. "Yeah. I've had feelings for her since I first saw her in high school." His father sighed. "Then why did you marry her sister?" Graham looked down and slowly turned his wedding ring around his finger. His voice was as calm as if he were discussing a business deal. "The Whitmores were on the verge of losing everything back then. "It didn't matter who I married. Marrying Dawn at least gave me a legitimate reason to put money into Whitmore Group. "That way, the Carvers wouldn't look down on Celeste." I stood outside the door, thinking about those six heart-rate spikes. Celeste went out for her morning run at around 6:20 every day. So Graham's heart could race after all. Just never for me. And in that moment, my own heart finally went still.

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.

After discovering Lydia's existence, I didn't argue with Alex. I simply handed him a divorce agreement. He sat there with his head lowered. After a long moment of hesitation, he tore it in half. "Please give me ten days. In ten days, I'll send Lydia somewhere far away. She'll never appear in our lives again." Without waiting for my answer, he got up and left the house. During those ten days, he took Lydia whitewater rafting, climbed snowy mountains with her, went bungee jumping and skydiving, and shared every thrilling adventure imaginable. He also watched the sunrise with her by the ocean, prayed together in a church, and did all the romantic things that lovers do. On the night of the ninth day, after I had packed all my luggage, I accidentally received a video call from myself ten years in the past. She looked full of life and asked excitedly, "Are you really me from ten years in the future? Then Alex and I must be married by now, right? Do we have kids?" Heartbroken, I walked onto the balcony and pointed my phone's camera toward Alex and Lydia, who were tightly embracing each other below, unable to let go. "This is your answer." She stared at the screen with wide eyes, unable to believe what she was seeing. "That's impossible..." My voice was weary, as though every last bit of strength had been drained from me. "Charlotte... Please. Don't marry him."

Ten years into my marriage to Joshua Ford, heir to the largest fortune in Kingsbury, I receive a video. The footage is shot inside a car. The video is shaky, and the sounds coming from it are vile. When I hold up my phone to confront him, the moaning is still echoing through the living room. Joshua's expression remains calm. He just shrugs like it's nothing. "Younger women are just fresher. Your health isn't great, so I wouldn't dare push you to try anything wild. But everyone craves a little excitement, right?" I freeze in place, my arm going numb from holding up the phone. "That's your explanation?" Joshua doesn't answer me. His gaze drifts over me with casual indifference. "The truth is, all these years, you've never exactly been someone I could take out in public." I look at him, and my heart goes cold. So, the forever we promised each other turns out to be just ten short years.

Winona Warren never imagined that on her birthday, her son would hand her a walnut cake that could kill her. As her consciousness began to blur, she heard Asher Rhodes' furious voice. "Carter, don't you know your mother is allergic to walnuts?" Carter Rhodes' childish voice rang out with startling clarity. "I do. But I want Ella to be my mom instead. Dad, you want that too, don't you? Even if I..." A crushing wave of suffocation overwhelmed Winona before she could hear the rest of Asher's answer. In the second before she completely lost consciousness, Winona had only one thought. If she woke up, she would never be Asher's wife or Carter's mother again.

My daughter, Ruby Pratt, has leukemia. She needs a bone marrow transplant—and fast. Out of everyone in the family, my husband, Dan Pratt, was the only match. I begged him for an entire month before he finally agreed to go through with the donation. But on the morning of the surgery, he went completely off the grid. I stood outside the hospital all day, waiting. No calls. No texts. Not even a shadow. That night, his childhood friend, Valerie Kinder, posted on Instagram. In the photo, Dan was holding Valerie's hand with one arm and carrying her young son with the other—on a beach in Lulabo City. The caption read: [Soaking up the sun! Dan cleared his whole schedule to join us on a month-long trek and we finally made it to the coast! My little boy said Uncle Dan made his ocean dream come true. Pure joy!] My heart splintered. While I was drowning in worry over my daughter, he was off playing happy family with them. I wiped my tears and typed a comment beneath her post: [Not 'Uncle.' From now on, he's your son's father.] That night, I finally got a call from him. "Babe, don't be like this," Dan said. "You're not being fair. "Valerie's son has been bullied at school for not having a dad. I couldn't stand seeing him hurt, so I took them on this trip. It was supposed to help him heal. "I'll catch the first flight back tomorrow and head straight to the hospital to donate the marrow. I promise." I hung up with a bitter smile. The next morning, Dan rushed into the hospital room. But all he found on the bed was a death certificate.

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."

At a gathering with friends, my boyfriend, Donovan McPherson, suggested we play a game of “I Have, Have You?” The winner would get to make one request of him. Everyone there knew I had been trying to get him to make me, Celeste Campbell, Mrs. McPherson for five years, and for as long he had not obliged. Now they all assumed he was giving me a chance. So, tacitly aligned, everyone held back to let me win. But his childhood sweetheart, Lily Kensington, would not relent. “Donovan watched the first snowfall with me. “He gave me a scarf he knitted with his own hands. “The tattoo on his wrist is my initials. “His passenger seat is permanently adjusted to fit my height.” After those four, I had only one finger up. Yet she was not done. Tilting her head, she flashed a smirk at me. “Donovan only started this game to make me happy.” My heart dropped, while my eyes darted instinctively to Donovan. He wore a doting smile, choosing to side with her, just as he had every single time over the past five years. I slowly dropped my finger down. “I lost.” In that split second, something dawned on me. There was nothing left in this relationship worth holding onto.

In the seventh year of my marriage to Adrian Sandford, his ex, Celine Wheeler, came back. She posted: [We were young, reckless. We missed our shot. This time, I'm fighting for love.] That night, Adrian sat on the balcony, cigarette burning between his fingers, staring out till sunrise. My phone wouldn't stop buzzing either. Their friend group—everyone who saw them grow up—flooded the chat. Regret for them. Relief, too. They forgot I was still in there. Adrian had no clue how many times I replayed the years I chased him. Seven years. I'm tired.

On my wedding day, I'm up at 4:00 am, waiting for the makeup artist. By 7:00 am, no one has shown up. I start to panic and call my best friend, Whitney Adams. She bursts out laughing. "Erin, how did you miss this? They changed the plan last night. No one's coming to pick you up. Everyone went straight to the hotel." I grab my wedding dress and rush over. By the time I get there, I'm drenched in sweat. The hotel is empty. Then Whitney calls again, trying not to laugh. "I was messing with you. Don't tell me you actually went to the hotel. Destination weddings are the thing now. We moved yours to an island. Everyone's already at the airport waiting for you." So I drag my heavy garment bag from terminal to terminal, searching the entire departures hall. None of them are there. Then Whitney video-calls me, laughing so hard she's doubled over. "You took too long. We already left! There's no destination wedding. We just wanted to spend a week on the island. We'll have the wedding when we get back." She turns the camera around. My fiancé, Dwayne Brewer, is pulling her suitcase. Mom and Dad are standing behind them, smiling more brightly than they ever do in family photos. Mom frowns when she sees how pale I look. "Oh, come on. It was just a joke. Whitney knows how to have fun. You've always taken everything too seriously." Dwayne drapes his jacket over Whitney's shoulders, then looks into the camera. "Go home and wait for me. I'll marry you when we get back." I look at all their smiling faces on the screen and suddenly don't see the point in confronting them. I'm not angry or sad anymore. I just feel numb. I text the wedding planner and cancel the wedding. They can keep playing their little game. I'm done being part of it.

At the wedding reception, every place card at the last table bore an online username instead of a real name. I turned to my husband and quietly asked who these people were. Before he could answer, a young woman at the table blinked at me and said playfully, "Hey, we're not strangers. I've been hiking with Zane for three years. Every time we go out, we sleep in the same tent." The others at the table burst out laughing. "Say it. Does Zane snore in his sleep?" I stood there frozen, wineglass in hand, utterly humiliated. To my surprise, Zane laughed along with them. "They're all my friends. I bought you tickets to Caldera Bay for our honeymoon, but I'm not going. I finally have some time off after the wedding, so I'm planning to hike the Blackridge Trail with them." I was about to demand an explanation, but the young woman had already pulled Zane into the seat beside her and started drinking with him. She playfully punched him in the chest as she laughed, her tone half teasing and half annoyed. I thought about all the times over the years he'd left me behind just to go hiking, and my heart went cold. I turned and walked away, leaving Zane with a single message. [Our honeymoon is supposed to be something we share as a couple. Since you're unwilling to go, I'll just find somebody willing to.]

Graduation season arrived, and my boyfriend's childhood friend, an influencer, posted a video titled "The Four of Us Through the Years." It went viral overnight. Viewers envied the friendship the four of them had maintained for ten years, and many began shipping her with my boyfriend as childhood sweethearts. What no one knew was that I had filmed every piece of footage and written every word. The video was twenty minutes long, yet my name never appeared, and neither did my face. When I asked my boyfriend why, he replied flatly, "You didn't come along until college. You weren't part of those years." Later, I found a folder on his childhood friend's computer. Every clip that included me had been cut out and placed inside. The folder was labeled: [Outsider in Frame.] My boyfriend had even reminded them in their private group chat: [Make sure you get every last bit. Don't spoil the whole 'four of us' thing.] I didn't argue. I simply revoked their permission to use any of my footage. If there was no room for me in their memories, then they could stop using my footage to relive them.

During a project inspection in the mountains, Lily Quinn's husband, Shaun Stone, brought a woman back with him. He said that without her, they would never have made it out of the mountains. Lily believed him. Later, Shaun named the woman Ninian Stone and said that she was strong-willed, conscientious and responsible, he gradually entrusted more and more of his resources to her. It was not until Lily's mother, Martha, became critically ill that Ninian revealed her true colors by denying Martha access to the medical resources she desperately needed.

Back in my hometown, the women would brew wine at a young age for their future husbands. Since college, Jake Sanders and I had left our hometown for a brighter future in a city far away, and we finally returned in glory. I was finally able to open my vat of wine, which had been kept for 28 years. I knew that Jake was quite particular about hygiene, so I changed my wine to store-bought wine during the town celebration, even though I knew it was taboo. When I was about to share this secret with him, I heard his conversation with his buddies. "Are you sure you're going to drink Erica's wine? You'll have to marry her according to tradition if you do that. Won't Cassie be mad?" "Yeah. Cassie has already opened her vat of wine. If no one drinks from it, she can't marry." Jake laughed with indifference. "She won't be able to leave me. She's even willing to change that vat of wine for me. Besides, her wine has been left for 28 years. Who would want to drink that? Erica's wine is only 20-years-old, and I heard wine is sweetest at this stage. "Even though I've chosen Erica, I'll still make sure to treat Cassie well. I'll marry her if no one will." It felt like my heart had been cored out and a cold wind was gusting through it, but I decided to let this go because I was not an unwanted woman, and Jake was not the only man in this world. I replied to the text that was sent to me every year: [Will you marry me?] He replied right away: [Wait for me.]

I once believed meeting Charles was the final ray of comfort in my life. A sightless man and a terminally ill woman, leaning on each other to find warmth in the dark. I gave up chemotherapy, pushing through cancer pain to work, all just to leave behind every cent I had for my "blind" boyfriend and our unborn baby. I even signed an organ donor form, hoping that after my death, my eyes could finally bring him light. That belief shattered when I saw a photo in the hospital director's office. There he was, surfing under the bright sun. His eyes shone, with an arm wrapped around an heiress dripping in multi-million-dollar jewels. It turns out our whole love story was nothing more than a rich kid's bet, and my devotion was nothing more than entertainment for his wealthy friends. He trampled my father's hard-earned savings into the dirt and burned my late mother's legacy on a single night of fireworks just to make another woman smile. So, I shredded the donor agreement and lay on the operating table for an abortion with a smile. Since they wanted a game, I’d play along with them until the end.

I had been dating my boyfriend, Julian Hayes, for four years, yet my best friend Fiona Blake still looked more like his girlfriend than I did. Whenever the three of us went furniture shopping, the sales associate would hand Julian and Fiona a catalog for couples. Whenever we went out for fondue, the server would ask if Julian and Fiona wanted a photo together. At the beach, a stranger once handed me her phone and asked, "Would you mind taking a picture of your friend and his girlfriend?" I smiled, took her phone, and raised it to take the picture. On the screen, Julian and Fiona looked every bit like a couple. Fiona always brushed it off. "We just have similar face shapes. It's a coincidence." Julian always reassured me. "It doesn't matter what anyone else thinks. You're my only girlfriend." And year after year, I believed him. By our fourth year together, I started pushing him to finally set a wedding date. He said he was too busy and promised we'd set the date the following month. But when the next month came, he had another excuse. Fiona's visa was about to expire. She wanted to stay in the United States, and the easiest way to get a green card was through marriage. I stared at him. "And so?" He was silent for a long moment before finally answering. "I'll marry her first and sponsor her application. It's only a formality. Once she gets her green card, we'll get divorced." For a moment, I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "And what about me?" He answered without hesitation. "Just give me a few years. It'll be over before you know it." A week later, Fiona posted a photo on Instagram. She held up their marriage certificate and leaned against Julian's shoulder, smiling so widely that her eyes crinkled. The caption read, "As of today, it isn't a coincidence. It's fate." I went back through years of messages. That was when I finally realized the truth. Julian had never once told anyone I was his girlfriend. Whenever strangers mistook Fiona for his girlfrien

I had been in love with Anton Stark for fifteen years, and it was always sweet until another woman appeared. He began to act distant and used every trick to force me into a divorce. I clung to him desperately, even though I was battered and bruised, hoping he would change his mind. But eventually, I woke up. Some relationships should come to an end.