Historias cortas de Melodramatic Romance y novelas con Scumbag

When I walked out of the funeral home, the Perfect Wife app my boyfriend, Ryan Keller, developed popped up with its 99th penalty notification. [Perfect Wife Score: -3. Reason: Too many calls.] I opened the app. Three years' worth of deductions filled the screen. I lost a point for asking him to pick me up from work in the pouring rain. Apparently, that made me too dependent. Three more disappeared after a fight because I refused to admit I was wrong. According to the app, that made me dishonest. Then there were the ten points I lost because I once asked Mom to pretend she was sick for me. Apparently, that meant she had raised me badly. I scrolled through the list without feeling much of anything until I reached the one name that had always mattered more than mine. Claire Snyder. Ryan's ex-girlfriend, who apparently couldn't handle anything on her own. A pipe burst in her apartment, so Ryan rushed over to fix it. Her neighborhood lost power at night, so she needed him to stay with her. Even today, when Claire's mom twisted her ankle during a dance class, Claire called Ryan to drive them to the hospital. Meanwhile, Mom suffered a sudden brain hemorrhage. I called Ryan 58 times. Every call went straight to a busy signal. By the time I stopped calling, Mom's hand had already gone cold. Not long after, she was wheeled out of the hospital and into the funeral home. I flexed my stiff fingers and tapped "No Objection" for the first time. Claire's cloying prerecorded voice immediately played through my phone. "Congratulations! Looks like you've finally learned how to be understanding. That puts your Perfect Wife Score at 60, which means you're officially eligible to get married! Better make it to the courthouse within three days, though, or you'll lose your chance!" I stared at the screen for a second, then deleted the app. Three days from now, I really was going to the courthouse to get married. Just not with Ryan.

After she was intimate with her husband, Derrick Gladwin, Celine Clarkson headed to the bathroom to clean up. Then the closet door swung open. Jenny Dlay—Celine's best friend—popped out, laughing like crazy. "Wow, Cece. You act all innocent, but you still make that face when things get good? I'm dead." Jenny rolled her eyes and stuck out her tongue, mocking the way Celine had bitten her lip and trembled. Celine went pale and froze. Jenny didn't care. She strutted over, went up on her toes, and hooked an arm around Derrick's neck, her nails brushing through his Adam's apple. "Okay, Ricky. Didn't know you had that in you. You seriously wore her out." She smirked. "Almost feel bad for her." Derrick laughed and flicked her forehead. "Told you. You just didn't believe me." "Can you blame me? I thought you were all talk." Jenny grinned and tugged at his robe. "Guess I'll have to check for myself..."

Lawrence Yancey gave me a supplementary card with a spending limit of 300 dollars, and any excess required his approval with a receipt. He said this was to ensure transparency in the management of the family's finances. I did as he asked for three years. At last month's medical checkup, I was diagnosed with thyroid nodules, and the doctor recommended that I undergo a needle biopsy. I took a picture of the bill and sent it to him. “7,200 dollars?!” He replied in an instant. “It’s just a nodule. Can’t you just monitor the situation first?” I didn’t reply to his text and canceled the appointment. That night, when he got home, he flung two shopping bags onto the floor by the foyer. I recognized that logo. I opened one of the bags and pulled out a necklace worth 8,600 dollars. A greeting card lay at the bottom of the bag with a message in his handwriting. “Happy birthday, Wendy. You deserve the best.” Wendy was his new colleague in the Planning Department. At last month’s department gathering, she had even asked me with a smile, “Mrs. Yancey, is Lawrence extremely generous to you?” I put the greeting card back where I found it. My mom ended up accompanying me to the test for the nodule, which turned out to be benign. The day my report was out, I didn’t tell him the results. I told the court instead. When he received the court summons, he asked, “Can’t we talk things through?” I finally learned how to use the phrase he taught me: “Send in an application and wait for my approval.”

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.

My fiancé, Everett Prescott, spent five whole years designing my wedding dress, and it finally arrived today. Except I couldn't zip it up. It stayed wide open until my best friend, Sienna Hart, slipped into the dress perfectly. The fabric hugged her curves like a second skin. She turned to my fiancé with an exasperated sigh. "Everett, are you serious? You got Leah’s size wrong. Again." My blood ran cold. Over the five years Everett and I had been together, this wasn't the first time he'd conveniently forgotten my measurements. When he bought me pajamas that were a size too small, he just blinked, flashing that easy grin of his. "Oh, wait. I think this is Sienna's size, right? Let's just give it to her. I'll buy you another set." When my engagement ring turned out to be too small, he scratched the back of his neck and shrugged. "My bad. Well, we already bought it, so we might as well give it to Sienna. Lucky her." Our wedding was in two days, and once again, he got the measurements dead wrong. Everett rubbed his nose, giving a weak laugh. "Totally my fault, babe. My bad. I'll just take it back to the shop and get it altered." "Everett, altering a custom wedding dress takes at least six months," I said, my voice barely a whisper. He offered a helpless smile. "Well, you can't exactly walk down the aisle without a dress, right? Don't worry about it. As soon as the dress is altered, we'll have the wedding immediately. We've already waited five years. What's another six months?" Right then, my phone buzzed in my palm. [Sweetheart, the guy you have an arranged marriage with is flying back into the country in two days. I don't care what excuse you have this time. You’re coming home and marrying him!] I stared at the screen for a long time before replying: [Got it. I'll be there.] I spent five long years waiting around for this wedding. I'm not waiting another six months.

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 day of our graduation photo, the class started sorting everyone into groups. I'd barely taken my place beside my boyfriend, Evan Brooks, when someone started shouting. "Put Claire next to Evan!" "Right? Claire's the prettiest girl on campus. She belongs beside the campus heartthrob!" Before I could react, my childhood friend Liam took my arm and gently traded our positions. "Nina, switch with Claire. "It's only a graduation photo. Don't be petty." Evan smiled and didn't refuse. He only stepped half a step aside, opening a space for Claire. I froze where I stood and touched the barrette in my hair without thinking. It was the first gift he'd ever given me. I'd stood in front of the mirror for ages getting it right, because I wanted one proper photograph with him. Right before the shutter, Evan called to me. "Nina." My heart lurched. The next second, he reached up and took the barrette out of my hair. "Claire's hair is a mess. Let her borrow this." The teasing started up again. Claire lowered her head and smiled. Evan didn't explain. The photographer called out. "All right—happy graduation!" When everyone shouted it together, I was standing at the very edge. At that moment, I finally understood that I had never belonged there. Since I had no place in your graduation photograph, you would have no place in my future.

Cole Sullivan's intermittent amnesia has lasted for three years. Every so often, he'll forget me and fall hopelessly in love with my younger sister, Roselle White. The night before our wedding, he loses his memory again. I sit right beside his hospital bed, yet his eyes pass over me as if I weren't there and land once again on Roselle. Mom and Dad have long since gotten used to smoothing things over. "Rach, you know about Cole's condition. Don't take it personally." I make an excuse to leave. Halfway down the hall, I realize I've forgotten my phone. I've just reached the door when I hear my family laughing and talking inside the room. "So, Cole, how do you plan to tell Rachel about your wedding with Roselle?" Mom asks. "I'll book her a trip around Eurora. By the time she gets back, everything will be settled," Cole answers. "And when you do 'marry' Rachel, we can give her a fake marriage certificate to fool her for a while," Dad adds with a laugh. Roselle sounds hesitant. "What if Rach finds out?" "Then, she finds out," Cole says indifferently. "Saves us the trouble of coming up with more lies, anyway." I stand outside the door, my fingertips turning cold. It turns out his so-called intermittent amnesia in the last three years has been a mere performance, written and directed for me alone to watch. I sink to the floor and slowly pull off the glaring engagement ring I've been wearing, then toss it into the trash can in the hallway. Since no one here truly cares about me, I'll give them exactly what they want and disappear from their lives for good.

At the reunion, the wives got rowdy and dared each other to take part in a "best husband" challenge. Each woman had to call her husband and ask for 6,000 dollars to buy a bag. Whoever got a yes first would win. As expected, Matthew Whitebrook picked up almost instantly, his voice gentle. "Buy it, baby. You remember the card password, right?" Everyone groaned with envy and said I'd hit the jackpot by landing the better of the twin brothers. I laughed and hung up, then glanced at my sister, who sat curled up in the corner. She clutched her phone but refused to make the call. "I won't bother," she said quietly. "He's on another business trip. He won't pick up anyway." My sister had been dating Matthew's older twin brother for three years, but he was constantly away on business. Almost no one had ever seen him in person. I felt bad for her, so I snatched the phone from her hand and dialed the number myself. It rang twice before someone answered. "Baby, why the sudden call?" The room fell silent. That voice was identical to the one that had told me, "Buy it, baby," just ten seconds earlier. For a moment, I thought I had misheard. But when I turned to my sister, her face had already gone white. She snatched the phone back, her smile strained. "Bad signal. You must have misheard." However, I had heard it clearly. From the other end of the call came the unmistakable sound of the record player in my own living room, the one I had forgotten to turn off before I left the house that afternoon.

The tenth time my parents flew more than six thousand miles to meet their future son-in-law, Nathaniel Prescott refused to show up. He ignored my calls and never replied to any messages. After God knew how many cups of coffee, I received an update from my best friend, Isla Monroe. Eight photos of snowy scenery surrounded a picture of two intertwined hands. The caption read: “Check-in number ten. He's perfect in every way.” My fingers curled into tight fists. It took twenty-seven calls before Nathaniel finally answered. “Where are you?” Howling wind rushed through the phone, followed by his distracted voice. “Out. What’s up?” “What’s up? This is the tenth time! My parents flew all this way just to see you, yet you—” There was a brief silence. Then, with barely concealed impatience, he said, “Enough. Isla and I are having a great time at Mount Rainier. I lost track of time. “Just ask your parents to stay another three days. I’ll come see them after I’ve had my fill of the trip.” Before I could even question him, the call ended. I stared at my reflection on the dark phone screen, my lips trembling. Then I smiled and looked at my parents. “If he’s not coming, let’s meet someone else.”

Gavin Fletcher’s twin side chicks had caused trouble yet again. Having gone three months without contacting me, his very first call was to demand I clean up their mess. I agreed calmly. First, I spent the freezing winter night searching through a man-made lake to recover the necklace belonging to our partner’s wife, Mrs. Sinclair—a piece Stella Wright had thrown away in a fit of rage. Next, I took the fall for the video of Luna Wright stripping drunk at a private club, calling a press conference to issue a public apology. That same night, the hashtag #Oakhaven’sMostPatheticTrophyWife was trending like crazy. I swiped the notification away without giving it a second glance. In my past life, I had made a frantic, desperate scene over these two lovers of his, only to ask for a divorce in heart-wrenching despair in the end. Gavin hadn’t bothered to keep me. Instead he used every resource at his disposal to ensure I walked away without a penny. The ink was barely dry on my divorce certificate when I received my son’s diagnosis: terminal brain cancer. Staring at the astronomical figure in the medical expense column, I cast aside every ounce of dignity, begging on my knees before Gavin while sobbing my eyes out. Yet he simply sat there with the twins wrapped in his arms, ordering the butler to throw me out of his mansion. “Using your son’s life for reconciliation—the Fletcher name can’t have any tie to such a snake of a woman!” In the end, I could only watch helplessly as my son drew his final breath in my arms. Now reborn and given another chance, I would do anything to save my son’s life.

At our ten-year reunion, Nathan Naylor, our former class president, starts a game of "Guess Who." Whoever guesses wrong has to drink three. When it's Jessica Slater's turn, she smiles. "There's this guy. He had his pick of the best universities in the country, but he gave up that chance for me. He spent years trying to win me over, doting on me the whole time." Everyone seems to know exactly who she's talking about, and all eyes turn to Dylan Tate. A little tipsy, Jessica gets bolder. "He has this tiny mole on his left hip. It shows when he plays basketball. On graduation night, I licked it." Everyone around the table starts whooping. "Why bother guessing? Just tell us you're together already! Come on, how long have you two been together?" Dylan holds his glass, his lips pressed tight, almost smiling. I tighten my grip on my phone as my heart sinks. Dylan and I have been together for seven years, and no one has a clue. But everyone knows he once tried to win Jessica over. Nathan taps the table. "Ashley, you're up," he says quietly. I look at Dylan and hesitate. "He..." Dylan looks up at me, a clear warning in his eyes. I switch gears. "He's been trying to win me over for ten years. This time, I don't want to miss my chance." My phone buzzes in my pocket. A single line appears on the screen. "Ashley, I've been waiting for you to say that!"

Once again, Theodore Shaw was glued to his phone. Without thinking, he popped a whole grape into our six-month-old son's mouth. The next second, our baby's face turned bright red as he choked, his tiny arms and legs flailing frantically. Theodore did not even look up from his phone. His apology was careless and dismissive. "Sorry. I wasn't paying attention." Ever since his first love had added him back as a contact, those words had become his favorite refrain. Panicking, I patted our son's back over and over, tears streaming down my face. At last, he managed to cough up the grape. Theodore glanced at the resentment on my face, then returned his attention to the screen. "I have to get Vivi tickets to the concert she's been waiting months for. They'll sell out if I'm even a second slower." It was not an explanation. He was simply warning me not to make a scene and cost him the tickets. I held our sobbing, trembling baby in my arms, my back drenched in cold sweat. At that moment, I no longer wanted any part of the happy family everyone else believed we had.

I had always been competitive. If I played a game, I had to win. So when someone suggested a No-Looking-Back Challenge on the yacht, everyone laughed and said I had this one in the bag. The rules were simple: stand still and don't look back. The second you turned around, you lost. My boyfriend, Keith Sterling, and my close friend, Anna Foster, stood behind me while my brother, Julian Quinn, tried to trick me into turning around. The game had barely started when Julian called out, "Natalie, Keith's holding Anna's hand." I didn't even blink. He laughed. "Still not looking? They're hugging now." I stayed right where I was. Then his voice suddenly went flat. "Natalie... they're kissing." I knew it had to be another trick. But I turned around anyway. And there they were. Keith was leaning down, Anna's face tilted up toward his. They were really kissing. My mind went blank. I walked straight over and slapped Keith across the face. Anna's eyes reddened instantly. Keith stayed silent for a long moment. Julian was the first to break the silence. "Natalie, they just got carried away." Then he added awkwardly, "We thought you'd never turn around. You hate losing. Who knew you actually would?" That was when Anna finally spoke. "Natalie, I don't want to hide this from you anymore. Keith chased me for four years in college. "We just... didn't want to have any regrets about those four years." I had always known Keith had spent four years chasing some girl in college. I'd watched him get drunk over her. I'd even sat beside him and called her an idiot for not realizing what a catch he was. What I never knew was that the girl was my close friend Anna. Everyone else knew. I was the only one they'd kept in the dark.

I saw an advertisement on a secondhand marketplace app that someone was giving away an unused stroller for free, pickup only. The address was in a wealthy neighborhood across town. I secured my daughter against my chest in a baby carrier, spent two hours changing buses, then walked for another half an hour under the scorching sun before finally reaching the small mansion. I was drenched in sweat, and my daughter was so hot she started wailing. The seller was a woman about my age, with the refined air of someone who had been pampered her whole life. She studied my miserable state, her voice laced with both disdain and pity. "You came all the way from Eastside? And you're planning to push the stroller all the way back like this? My driver's going to take my husband to the office. He can drop you off on the way. Consider it one last good deed on my part." I thanked her profusely. I had just opened the car door when the man in the back seat stepped out to avoid any awkwardness. "I'll sit up front." I felt a little embarrassed, but the instant I saw his face, I froze. It was my husband, Calvin Gomez, the man who left early and came home late every day and had not come home for the holidays in three straight years because he claimed he was working for triple pay.

My best friend, Jolyn Jones, called me while I was at work. "Help! S-Someone's about to v-violate me! Petra, please help me!" Panic shot through me. I immediately dropped a crucial project and called the police. Then, with an officer close beside me, I raced to the address Jolyn had sent, nearly tripping over my own feet along the way. Suddenly, two loud pops erupted behind us, and confetti rained down. Jolyn jumped out from around the corner with my boyfriend, Will Curry. "Surprise! That's the hundredth time we've managed to prank you, P!" I stared at them in disbelief. "What the hell? You thought sexual violence was appropriate material for a prank?!" The officer looked equally furious. "How dare you waste police time with something like this? You can be charged for making a false report! You're both coming to the station!" A lot happened after that. By the time we were finally released from the station, dusk had already fallen. "You planned this, didn't you? You wanted Jolyn and me to have a criminal record!" Will thundered. "How could you? It was just a joke! You're such a prick!" Rage surged through me. "Excuse me for thinking my best friend was in serious danger and calling the police!" I shot back. "I had to cancel a meeting with a client I'd spent three months negotiating with. Now that contract is gone!" "Shouldn't you be happy it was all just a joke?!" Jolyn sobbed. "Or did you wish I'd actually been violated like you were?!" Whatever reply I might have made died in my throat. My limbs went numb. Will wrapped an arm around Jolyn's waist. "Petra's so damaged that she's started wishing the worst on everyone else! It's best to ignore her when she's in one of these moods." I watched them walk away before sinking to the ground. My strength deserted me as my heart sank. Then a message from HR appeared on my phone. I'd been fired for canceling the meeting. Maybe that was for the best. The only reason I'd stayed in this city and worked at this company was so I could remain close to my best friend and boyfriend. But now, I didn't want any of it anymore.

I am an AI holographic image creator. After creating a holographic image of a deceased son for a grieving parent who has lost his only child, I gain a modest following online. Every day, people message me privately, asking me to create holographic images and videos of their deceased loved ones. Occasionally, I pick out a few requests and help them fulfill their wishes. One day, as I browse through my messages, a profile picture catches my attention. "Can you create a holographic image of my late girlfriend in a wedding dress? Her dying wish was to marry me, and I promised her I would give her a grand wedding." I stare at the profile picture, feeling a little light-headed. It is a small black mongrel with a white-tipped tail, exactly like the dog my fiancé, Holden Sinclair, has had for ten years. I reply, "Do you have any photos of her?" The sender seems to have been waiting for my reply and responds almost immediately. "No, but I have a friend who looks a lot like my girlfriend. You can use her appearance and figure to recreate my late girlfriend." Then he sends me a photo. My phone suddenly feels like it weighs a ton, and I can barely hold on to it. It's a photo of me.

A day before our wedding, my fiancé, Vincent Anderson's friends egged everyone on. They wanted to play a "bride challenge" game. My best friend, Anna Reid, and I were answering the questions about Vincent at the same time. Every time I lost a question, I was to hand out one thing that belonged to the bride. The first question was on Vincent's favorite color. I answered black, and Anna answered blue. Even though Vincent did not own a single piece of blue clothing, everyone shouted in unison, "Anna's right!" I had no choice but to take off my wedding shoes. The next question was Vincent's what he most wanted to eat when his stomach hurt. I answered oatmeal porridge, and Anna answered chicken noodle soup. Once he ended up in the emergency room after eating chicken noodle soup when he had gastritis. All these years, I was the one who woke up in the middle of the night to make him oatmeal porridge. I was about to protest when Vincent's face fell. "Do you really need to prove that you know me the most?" I handed over my bridal bouquet. It continued until we reached the very last question. "Who does Vincent want to marry the most tomorrow?" I clenched my wedding ring in my hand as Anna smiled and pointed at herself. The next second, Vincent walked past me and held Anna's hand. The whole room erupted in cheers and teasing shouts. "That's correct!" Following the rules, I lost my ring, and I lost my groom too. Vincent forcefully took my wedding ring off and put it on Anna's finger. Then, he turned to me. "It's only one rehearsal. "Don't be a sore loser!" I looked at everyone as they laughed, and I suddenly realized something. The answers did not matter. They had never intended to let me win from the very beginning. I took off my veil and placed it in Anna's arms. "Alright then. "Then tomorrow's wedding can be her reward too."

To keep anyone from getting suspicious, I can only use disposable things whenever I go to my boyfriend Seth Larson's house. I wear disposable slippers and eat with disposable cutlery. Even when I stay the night, he gives me a one-time-use bedsheet. "If someone happens to see your things, I won't be able to explain it." He always reassures me, saying, "Once we make our relationship public, I'll get you some proper things." For three years, I wait. Yet every time I go to his house, I'm treated like a guest. Then, one day, he throws a birthday party at home for his assistant, Regina Skinner. The moment the door opens, Regina casually pulls a matching pair of designer slippers from the shoe cabinet and slips them on. Seth's friends follow right behind her, each taking a pair and using up all the remaining disposable slippers. That leaves me standing alone at the door. "Just come in barefoot. It's not cold in the summer," Seth says. He doesn't even look up, as if he's inviting a stranger inside. From across the room, I see a full set of dishes already laid out on the dining table, all printed with Regina's favorite cartoon characters. Suddenly, I realize something. Since everything is disposable, now that I've given this love that can never see the light of day a chance, it's time for me to throw it away.

Lately, Chloe Dunham has been posting photos on social media of late-night meals sent by an anonymous admirer. She was the only single one in our trio of best friends, so I was always the first to like her posts. But whenever I saw the hand-drawn doodles on the meal boxes, I couldn't shake the feeling that they looked exactly like the work of my boyfriend, Jacob Aniston. Chloe once flicked me on the forehead and teased me. "You jealous little thing. Don't go making up stories. The three of us have been friends since we were kids. If Jacob and I were ever going to fall for each other, we'd have gotten together ages ago." I rubbed my forehead and laughed, then let the matter go. That was until the station assigned Jacob and me to cover a typhoon from the front lines, and Chloe insisted on coming along to deliver supplies. Then the levee breached. The three of us ended up stranded atop a swaying communications tower as the floodwaters rose around us. When the water reached our waists, Jacob raised his microphone and faced the camera. He told viewers across the country that this might be his last broadcast. Then he reached out, pulled Chloe in front of the camera, and wrapped the only raincoat around her. "If I have to die, I have no regrets as long as I'm with you. Everyone, you don't need to wait for the next report. Right now, I want to protect the person I care about most." The livestream flooded with messages of congratulations as they held each other and cried. Meanwhile, I huddled in the corner, my lips purple from the cold. I didn't even have the strength to say another word. After the water level finally dropped and the rescue team pulled us to safety, I shook the mud from my clothes and opened the back door of the rescue vehicle. "Don't overthink it. Chloe's physically weaker than you. I was just afraid she'd get hurt," Jacob said.