Scumbag Romance-Kurzgeschichten & -Kurzromane

Ever since the couples' account Sean Deaver and I run together has gone viral, my biggest dread has been filming our daily videos. On camera, Sean and my best friend, Jodie Steele, act like the perfect couple. They're always over each other, while I'm not even allowed to show so much as a hand. In the first year, Sean wipes the cream from the corner of Jodie's mouth, then pops his finger straight into his mouth. When I confront him, he simply pinches my cheek and flashes me an indulgent smile. "Aw, someone's jealous," he coos. "It's all for the cameras, babe. Don't make a big deal out of nothing." The following year, Sean takes on a challenge to sneak ten kisses on his girlfriend while they eat without getting caught. When I question him about it, he answers so smoothly that it's as though he's rehearsed his excuse in advance. "Babe, this challenge is huge right now. It'll bring tons of traffic to our account." This year, they've promised to finally set the record straight. But just as we are about to put an end to the charade, they sign on for a dating reality show. When the host eggs them on to kiss, Sean leans down in front of everyone and plants a very real kiss on Jodie's lips. Afterward, they come to comfort me. "Sasha, it was all ed. Don't let it get to you." I've always believed that getting married would finally put an end to this suffocating life. But Sean hesitated. "The show's getting great numbers now," he says, holding up his phone. "The producers want us to ride the hype and stage a fake wedding over the next few days. It'll make our account even bigger." I look at the countdown I've been keeping track of. It was day 1,825. I nod in silence, and Sean reaches out to ruffle my hair. "I knew you'd understand. Once filming wraps, I'll marry you for real. I promise." "Forget it," I say, simply brushing his hand away. "Sean, I'm done with you."

On the day Owen Mercer and I get married, I place our marriage certificate beside our candlelit dinner. Just as I'm about to take a picture and upload it to social media, Owen suddenly says, "This certificate is fake." I freeze. A woman's startled voice comes through his phone, "Hey! Why did you tell her so soon? You ruined all the fun!" Owen frowns in frustration. "She's been completely clueless this entire time. Is there really any reason to keep pretending? Fine. You win the bet, Ms. McCoy. Are you satisfied now?" But my post has already been shared on social media. Everyone is sending their congratulations to Owen and me, celebrating that we have finally tied the knot after seven years together. The woman on the other end leaves a sarcastic comment, just like how she used to bully me back in the day. "Wow, look at you two finally making it official! So when's the reception? Hehe!" After a moment's thought, I respond, "Next week."

I'm widely regarded as one of the best dreamwalkers in the field. For five years, I've paved the path to success for my CEO boyfriend, Silas Kielsburn, with the help of my dreamwalking skills. Alas, on the anniversary of our relationship, Silas insists on signing a 20-million-dollar financing deal after reading the dreamwalking interpretation drafted by my archnemesis, Maisie Caldwell. He completely disregards my many attempts to warn him that my dreamwalking interpretation shows the terrible danger looming over him in his dream. "Cassiopeia Vale, look at how selfless Maisie is! Her dreamwalker interpretations are the only things that can bestow golden opportunities upon me! Only a dreamwalker who's as pure-hearted and noble as she is is befitting as my wife!" After that, Silas smashes the fortune-shifting crystal I've gifted to him before proposing to Maisie. I respond by demanding the unpaid dreamwalking fees worth hundreds of thousands of dollars Silas has accumulated during the past five years. However, I end up getting cornered by the thugs he has hired in an alley. In fact, I almost lose my life there. Five years later, I chance upon Silas once again at a university anniversary celebration. By then, he's already a rising star in the tech industry. At the moment, he has an arm wrapped around Maisie, who's now an influencer known for her dreamwalking knowledge that she's stolen from me. Their popularity knows no bounds. As for me, I'm currently kneeling by a flower bed while rummaging through the lawn. "Remember how you refused to tell me the entirety of the dreamwalking interpretation back then, Cassiopeia? To think that you've fallen so far from grace to the point that you're looking for crumbling stones in the shrubs! "Even if you turned the lawn upside down, you and I will never get back together!" I completely tune Silas out. After all, my son has accidentally lost the crystal that I've given to his father as a love token. I need to find it as soon as possible. Otherwise, my extremely doting husband will definitely teach him a painful lesson at home tonight.

When the Carter family went bankrupt, Zoe Carter sold herself to the Tanners to save her mother. She became the bride of Yale Tanner, the man everyone in Gerton feared and avoided like the devil himself. Their marriage was supposed to bring him good fortune and save his life. Three days after the wedding, Yale, who had been on the brink of death from a gunshot wound, made a miraculous recovery. From then on, he treated Zoe like the most precious thing in his world. Now, however, Zoe sat bound at the wrists and ankles with coarse hemp rope, less than two feet from the open door of a helicopter. Freezing water jolted her awake. At thirty-three thousand feet, the icy wind rushing through the open doorway chilled her to the bone. She struggled instinctively, but the ropes only tightened, digging into her flesh until blood began to seep from her wrists and ankles. "Don't be scared, Zoe. Look at your mother! She's putting on quite the kite show!" Yale seized her trembling head and forced her to look at the screen beside her. There, suspended from a rope outside the helicopter, her mother dangled helplessly in the wind, her eyes vacant as she swayed like a kite. "Mom! Mom!" Her fear for her mother overwhelmed her own terror. Frantically, Zoe tried to crawl toward the screen, struggling forward on her bound hands and feet. Yale caught her by the back of her neck and held her firmly in place. His warm breath brushed her ear as he spoke, his voice cold and menacing. "Have you learned to behave yourself yet, Zoe? Now tell me, who do the data and research papers on precision-targeted therapies and antibody-drug conjugates really belong to?"

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.

Tamara Winslow stands amid the crowd while clutching two different documents in her hand. One of them shows a diagnosis report on her alexithymia, while the other showcases a divorce agreement. Three hours ago, she had specifically visited the Clerk's Office because the hospital's system had shown her marital status as "divorced". The city clerk looks up at her. "Ma'am, it's true that you and Mr. Braxton Merrick got divorced three years ago." Tamara's expression freezes on her face. "How could that be? We got married three years ago!" The city clerk checks the details once again. This time, he adapts a rather awkward tone. "The results are correct. It's true that you got divorced three years ago. In fact, it took place… on the seventh second right after you got married…"

My husband, Clement Norman, promised to make up for our missed honeymoon. It was five years late, but I was still excited. I got ready and really looked forward to it. But right before we boarded the plane, I realized there was someone extra in our group—Clement's childhood friend, Madison Bowen. He explained half-heartedly, "Madison's never been abroad before. I figured we could bring her along." I wasn't thrilled, but when I spoke up, he made it sound like I was being dramatic. "Are you jealous of our relationship because you didn't grow up with a proper family? I see her as a sister. You wouldn't get it—you grew up an orphan." I chose to stay quiet, not wanting to ruin our honeymoon. But we encountered an avalanche halfway through the trip. My leg got stuck deep in the snow, and I couldn't move. And the first thing Clement did was grab Madison's hand and run. He didn't even look back.

Mason Chapman has lost his memories. He has forgotten everything about me. His memories are stuck in the year he was most in love with his ex-wife, Tiffany Auburn. No matter how much the people around him try to talk sense into him, he remains convinced I'm the other woman who has come between him and Tiffany. The doctor says there's a chance he might recover his memories, so I cling to that hope and refuse to let go. Within three years, we divorce and remarry many times. We become the biggest joke in the city's social circles. People even start placing bets on when I'll finally give up and when Mason will regain his memories. Then, news of our eighth divorce makes the trending searches again. Reporters storm into the law firm I work at with cameras on their shoulders. They shove microphones in my face, their questions dripping with provocation. "Ms. Gardner, as a divorce lawyer, what do you have to say about getting divorced eight times yourself?" Someone smashes the firm's sign. My personal award banner is trampled underfoot. Before I can even respond, my boss fires me for ruining the profession's reputation. "Take my advice, Isabel. Have some dignity, and stop chasing after Mr. Chapman." I clench my trembling hands and suddenly feel depleted. They're right. Maybe this time, I should just give up.

My billionaire husband suffered from chronic insomnia for years. Only the sleep balm I made could help him sleep. On the night of our seventh wedding anniversary, his childhood sweetheart poured a basin of scalding water over the old camphor tree in our garden. I wept and tried to save the tree as she apologized, “I didn’t know you used its leaves to make the sleep balm.” My husband gently comforted her and ordered his men to tie me to the tree trunk instead. “What a precious tree. You’ll spend the rest of your days with it!” With my wrist fractured as a result, I filed for divorce immediately. A month later, my husband was unable to sleep late one night. He stood in the garden and stared at the withered camphor tree.

At the party celebrating the multimillion-dollar deal I've landed, my husband, Nick Ferguson, is about to announce my promotion and raise, but Ruby Holm, his secretary, deliberately interrupts him by feeding him her drink. My germaphobic husband doesn't even flinch. Without thinking, he puts the straw she has just used into his mouth. The employees immediately start teasing them, asking when they're getting married. Instead of denying it, Nick promotes Ruby to department manager. A coworker nudges my elbow. "Chloe, you've been with Mr. Ferguson for ten years. You're really not going to say anything?" I let out a cold laugh and toss my equity transfer agreement to Ruby. "Mr. Ferguson, don't be so stingy. A promotion isn't enough. Take these shares too. Consider them my wedding gift to the two of you!"

The day I agree to marry James Hunt, he is eager to announce our love to the whole world. Later, when I get pregnant, he even acquires a hospital so that I can rest easy and focus on the baby. But during a checkup in my sixth month, I overhear a chilling conversation. "Mr. Hunt, the baby's developing well, but it's too large. The delivery could put the mother's life at risk." James only laughs, cold and unbothered. "So what if she dies? I only married her to give me children." The smile on my face freezes, and it feels like I have been plunged into ice. His next words cut me even deeper. "She pushed Natasha into the water, and now Natasha can never have children. This is nothing but her retribution." The perfect happiness I think I have is nothing more than a lie. So, I quietly register at another hospital and schedule an abortion. James, I hope you live to regret this.

After six years of maintaining a long-distance relationship with my boyfriend, I finally saved enough money to buy a house. Without telling him, I travelled to his city. I had only wanted to surprise him and get our marriage officially registered. When the people at the front desk learned that I was there to see Andy, they smiled and handed me a wedding favor. “Are you here to give us the wedding gift? Our CEO, Mr. Ferrell, is getting married today. Here’s a wedding favor for you.” I was about to explain to them that the Andy I was looking for was merely a low-level employee at the company, when I saw a familiar figure step out of the elevator. It was Andy’s ex-roommate. When I saw him dressed as a groomsman, I earnestly asked, “Is someone getting married today? Why hasn’t anyone informed me?” Just then, his phone rang. My best friend’s voice came through the speaker. “Why aren’t you here yet? Andy and Sophia’s wedding is about to start. “How can the best man not show up? We’re going to give you the noogie when you get here!”

My avoidant fiance refused to talk to me about anything. Every time we fought, he would put on his earphones and turn the volume all the way up. This time, we were arguing over laundry detergent again. He impatiently slammed the earphones on me. "Are you seriously going to do this again, Jessica? You fight because of bad photos. You start a fight because I didn't take out the trash in time, and you start fights because I forgot our anniversaries. And now I can't even choose which detergent I use?" I stared at the red mark on my thigh and the broken earphones on the ground. I saved up most of my salary for that. It was a present, but now he was using it to vent. Yet he had kept the laundry detergent his childhood friend gave him for six whole years. Every time an important date was coming up, he would use a bit of it to wash all his clothes. The sickly sweet scent of that detergent filled the room. I looked up and held back my tears. "Let's break up, Zack."

The stray cat I adopted had recently started looking at my boyfriend, Logan Bennett, and his female best friend, Chloe Dawson, like they were complete idiots. Then one day, Chloe climbed into the passenger seat of Logan’s car again and shot me a provocative smile. A fierce little voice suddenly rang out in my head: “Human, that woman is calling you an idiot in her head! She’s also planning to get your man drunk tonight! Hurry up and slap her! If you do, I’ll make sure you find money on the street when you leave!” I froze and stared down at Mochi in my arms. So my cat could not only talk, but also read minds and predict the future? Fine. From today on, Mochi and I would make these two shameless cheaters pay—and make sure everyone knew exactly who they were!

I can see the shelf life of every couple's marriage. For ordinary couples who've made it to seven years, the number usually hovers around sixty percent. But my husband, Ethan Bennett, and I had been married for years, and the number above our heads had always stayed at one hundred percent. That marriage was the one thing I was sure of. But the cracks came out of nowhere. That day, he came home from the lab, and our shelf life dropped straight to ninety-seven percent. Panic instantly gripped my heart. I cleaned the house, replaced everything at home he didn't like again and again, and went over every little detail that might have displeased him. Ethan only smiled and said I was overthinking things. I forced myself not to dwell on it, telling myself it was just a small blip from the seven-year itch. Until that movie let out. On a whim, I pulled him into a cat cafe. His graduate student—my stepsister, Piper Turner—was working there part-time. She held a cat in her arms and cheerfully invited us to pet it. The instant he reached out his hand, I clearly saw the number above his head plummet—ninety percent. The air froze. I caught the faint flush creeping up his ears, and I couldn't breathe. So what had been dragging down our perfect marriage was never the housework or the little things. It was her.

After Lyra Beaumont, a financially disadvantaged student I sponsored, was sexually harassed at work, she came close to taking her own life. I paid to open a pottery shop for her so she could run her own business. When Forrest Croft found out, he spoke with open disdain. "There's no smoke without fire. Why do you insist on bringing someone like her into our lives? Don't blame anyone else if you end up getting hurt." I stared at him in disbelief. "Forrest, how can you say something so cruel?" After that argument, I left the country in a huff and spent two months abroad. There were 58 ceramic mugs in the display cabinet in our living room. During a video call, Forrest proudly announced what he had been up to. "Honey, I've been stopping by her shop every day to support her business. You must be happy now, right?" Seeing the tenderness in his eyes, I suddenly felt a little guilty for being so stubborn. I changed my ticket to the earliest available flight and rushed home, hoping to surprise him. But the moment I opened the front door, I heard wet, squelching sounds coming from our bedroom. "Forrest, you take a mug every time we're done. My hands are getting sore." "That's barely anything. I'm going to fill that cabinet." I stared at the 58 mugs in the cabinet, and suddenly the whole thing seemed absurd. Two months. Sixty days. Fifty-eight times. He had not just been supporting her business. He had been sleeping with her in my bed too.

My husband, Nathan Ford, was grounded for two years after a plane crash left him badly traumatized. To get him through treatment, I sold the house my mother left me. I paid the compensation he owed after the crash and sat up with him every night he was too scared to close his eyes. The day he got back in the cockpit, he held me for a long time. "I owe you a honeymoon. I swear I'll make it up to you under the northern lights." After that, he picked up more and more flights. Every anniversary, every birthday, he had a reason: a delay, a diversion, a last-minute schedule change. I knew how hard he worked, so I never brought up the northern lights again. Then the airline I worked for sent me on a business trip, and I made a point of booking one of his flights. Before boarding, I overheard Lana Pierce, the young purser, asking him something outside the crew lounge. "You keep swapping shifts just to take me to see the northern lights. Is it worth it?" He was scrolling through photos of the two of them on his phone, his voice soft. "If you like it, it's worth it." So it wasn't that he couldn't find the time. He'd already taken someone else to see the northern lights he'd promised me. Before takeoff, I signed the divorce papers and accepted a two-year posting overseas. This time, I was going to see my own northern lights.

On my third wedding anniversary with Logan Archer, our housekeeper, Bianca Martinez, calls to tell us that she has to have both her legs amputated after saving Logan's grandmother from being hit by a truck. From that day on, Logan vows to take care of her. When she trembles from the excruciating pain, he shoves his arm into her mouth for her to bite on and stays by her side until she falls asleep. When she pounds her legs and berates herself for being so useless that she can't even go to the bathroom on her own, he rushes home from work, no matter how busy he is, to help her relieve herself. One day, when I tell Logan I'm pregnant, he looks at me wearily. "Get rid of it. Our main priority right now is to take good care of Bianca. We don't have time to raise a child." No matter how desperately I beg him, he still forces me to go to the hospital for an abortion. After lulling Bianca to sleep, he slips into my room and rasps out, "Honey, we owe Bee too much. Once she's all better, I'll definitely give you a child." Little does he know that, in my heart, he already belongs to my past, not my future.

At an alumni gathering, our former class representative, Ryan Fletcher, suggests we play "I've Got Something You Don't". Madeline Rothsford, the class belle back in the day, lowers her gaze before shooting a quick glance at Theodore Crawford, who is picking the tomatoes off a pizza. Then, with reddened eyes, she says, "I once had someone crash my wedding and try to get me to run away with him. But I turned him down." The whole class erupts. "No wonder Theodore insisted on organizing this alumni gathering right after you got divorced! So this was all to rekindle an old flame!" Theodore looks up, but before he can say anything, his friends from another table call him over for a toast. Madeline picks up the slice of pizza Theodore has picked the tomatoes off and says wistfully, "He was heartbroken after I rejected him that day, but he still remembered to pick the tomatoes off my bruschetta because I'm allergic to tomatoes." Everyone lets out a collective sigh. Then, someone turns to me. "Natalie, weren't you Maddy's bridesmaid when she got married? Didn't you see the whole wedding-crashing scene?" I shake my head. Instead, I remember how, the day after our wedding, Theodore once shed a tear over a ring. Since he holds on so dearly to the past, and I've spent three years forcing myself into a marriage that is never truly mine, I suppose it is time for me to leave.

On my first night after marrying into the wealthy Dickson family of Cornton, Jared Dickson makes me sign an agreement. It stipulates that every expense incurred after the marriage requires prior approval. He says, "Given the vast disparity in our family backgrounds, this is the only way to protect you from rumors and gossip out there." I readily agree. But everything changes when I'm pregnant and suffering from severe lower back pain. I send a payment request to Jared for an ergonomic chair I'd found on Amazon, costing just 88 dollars, but he rejects it immediately. "There's no need to waste money on a scam like that. You're only in pain because of your anxiety. You should learn to regulate your emotions instead." I feel a deep sense of powerlessness. Just then, I see that a charge for 780,000 dollars is deducted from the family fund account for Jared's round-the-world trip, and the people coming with him are his secretary, Selena Beech, and her family members. I clench my fists and laugh self-deprecatingly. So, Jared's insistence on "clear financial boundaries" applies only to me after all. I log out of the banking account and immediately book an appointment for an abortion at the hospital.