Cerita Pendek & Novel Tragic Love Romance

On our sixth anniversary, I waited ten hours for my boyfriend in the middle of a Colorado blizzard. I waited until the coffee stand closed, the last shuttle was canceled, and my toes went numb. I called Mason thirty-one times. He never picked up. At 9:53 p.m., the video call finally connected. But the person on the screen wasn't Mason. It was my best friend, Tessa. She was sitting in his passenger seat, smiling. "I came up a couple of days early. Figured I'd borrow your tour guide." I asked Mason why he hadn't come. He said impatiently, "It's Tessa's first time here. I can't just leave her alone." It wasn't that he couldn't come. He had simply chosen to leave me behind. Ten minutes later, I called about the London project I'd turned down two weeks earlier. "Is the offer still open? I'm in." The snow still hadn't stopped, but I'd already decided to leave.

My husband Julian Mercer had been gone from Seattle for nearly a year, following his ex-girlfriend and first love's family across Europe while her father was treated. When he came back, he made me breakfast, waited for me after work, showed off our relationship in public, and took care of everything, as though nothing had happened. But I kept pulling away. Friends asked why I wouldn't give us another chance. For me, love had no room for cracks. During the days when his indecision left me neglected and hurt, what we had between us had already begun to fade. What no one else knew was that we'd had a child. When my accident happened, he was still busy taking care of his ex. I lost the baby. But when I set the divorce papers in front of him, he fought to keep me like a man losing his mind.

When I turned eighteen, I awakened my wolf. That was also when a strange System appeared in my mind. It told me that if I won over Matthew Reed and survived his betrayal-and-groveling arc, I would receive $32 billion. That was the only reason I agreed to keep our marriage secret. But the night Matthew won Best Actor, he posted a photo on Instagram of himself feeding Hellfire Wings to his childhood sweetheart, Layla Bennett. The caption read: [After all this time, this is still the flavor I crave most.] Immediately afterward, he exposed our secret marriage and posted evidence that I had paid him to mark me against his will. The trending page crashed on the spot. My hands shook as I reached for him through our mind-link, but Matthew didn't sound sorry at all. "Layla's been diagnosed with terminal stomach cancer. This is her last wish. "She can't be labeled a homewrecker. You've had me for three years. Can't you show a little compassion for a dying woman?" The entire internet called me a homewrecker who was destroying their true love. Some of his fans even made black-and-white memorial photos of me and plastered them across my front door. They demanded that I, the "vicious mate," break our bond and step aside for his true love. I sat there in silence, tears running down my face, when the System suddenly roared inside my head: [Hostile betrayal by target detected. Host bears no responsibility. Groveling Protocol disabled.] [Mind-link backlash blocked. Switching to: Maximum Savage Comeback Mode!] The moment the System fell silent, my head snapped up, every trace of tears gone. I went live to the entire internet, grabbed a megaphone, and planted myself right outside Layla's VIP hospital room. "Terminal stomach cancer, and she's still stuffing her face with Hellfire Wings? Is she trying to die even faster?"

Three years into our long-distance relationship, my daily conversations with Evan Crawford turned into a three-person group chat. He said the company was busy preparing for its IPO and that he didn't have time to check his phone. If I needed anything, I should tell his "buddy," Nicole Pearce, and she'd pass it along. From then on, everything came through Nicole: what time he left the office, when he traveled for work, what he took for his stomach pain. She knew every moment of his day. Every message I sent him just sat there on "unread." On my birthday, I asked in the group chat if he could spare ten minutes for a video call. Nicole replied, "The launch event is right around the corner. Don't distract him." And yet somehow he had time to like her latest Instagram post. The night the company went public, I took an overnight bus to the celebration dinner and arrived in time to hear him raise a toast. "I owe these past six months to Nicole. She took care of all the little things for me." When he spotted me, he frowned. "Why didn't you check in through the group chat first?" Nicole took the gift from my hands. "He's exhausted. Whatever you need to say, I'll pass it along." A wave of helplessness hit me. I pulled my hand back and left the group chat. If even missing him had to go through her, I had no reason to report my life to him anymore.

Everyone in high society whispered that Tristan Webster kept a tame, submissive trophy girlfriend on his arm. That image shattered at a yacht party when a newcomer pointed at me and asked the room, "Wait, isn't she the legendary woman who slept with Tristan's best friends in one night just to get back at him for cheating?" The room fell dead silent. Tristan's childhood friends sat around the poker table, their expressions unreadable. Tristan, however, simply swirled the wine in his glass and lounged against the leather sofa before casually beckoning me over. "Come here." I walked over without a word and lit his cigarette for him. "Sorry, she caused such a scene back then," he said smoothly, blowing a stream of smoke into the air. His tone gave nothing away. "She certainly gave everyone something to talk about. But after spending a year at the treatment center, she's much calmer now." "Definitely," someone quickly chimed in, trying to lighten the mood. "She's practically trained now." "Yeah." Tristan stubbed out his cigarette, then tipped my chin up with two fingers. "Next month, I'll finally give you the wedding you've been waiting for." "Okay." I looked into his deep, searching eyes and obediently pressed my lips to his. What he didn't know was that I'd stopped caring about that wedding a long time ago.

For the 13th time, an AI-generated photo pops up on my feed, showing my best friend, Gwen Spalding, and my boyfriend, Andrew Gunnell, wrapped in each other's arms. Gwen's still a mess after getting dumped so suddenly, so I assume she's mixed Andrew up with someone else again. Then a comment stops me cold. "I was there. Joyce tried to brush it off before and claimed the picture was AI-generated, but let's see her deny this! Besides, look at them. A guy as hot as Andrew belongs with a knockout like Gwen. They look way better together." Attached to the comment is a candid photo of Gwen and Andrew wrapped in each other's arms, in the exact same pose as the picture on my feed. I screenshot the comment and send it straight to Andrew. Instead of explaining himself, he turns it around on me. "You know exactly why I didn't tell you. Gwen's in a really bad place right now. What am I supposed to do, stand back and watch her ruin her life? "The second I show her even a little kindness, you get jealous. Joyce, you really haven't changed at all." Before I can answer, he hangs up on me. I pull up Gwen's social media feed again, and this time, I notice what I missed before. Her first post is from the new restaurant I've told Andrew countless times I want to try with him. The second is from the movie we made plans to see a month ago. I keep scrolling. Everything I'd been looking forward to doing with Andrew, every plan he'd backed out of with one excuse after another, is right there in Gwen's photos. My vision blurs with tears. I reach into the trash, pull out the five-year exchange agreement for Caldria I tossed away moments ago, and sign my name. Once I'm gone, they won't have to lie to me anymore.

Before graduation, my boyfriend, Ethan Johnson and I planned a cross-country road trip. My roommate, Juliet Miller, kindly offered to organize our itinerary. On departure day, her luggage sat in the front seat. Her phone was connected to the car console. The only bed bore a tag ‘Juliet’s Spot.’ Ethan patted my head with a casual smile. “Juliet gets carsick in the back. Be good and sleep on the roof tent.” Driving through the desert that night, they left me at a gas station to guard our gear while they shot stargazing videos. I waited until dawn. Then Juliet posted a photo in our group chat. She wore my jacket in the passenger seat. Ethan’s arm rested behind her chair. My parents bought that RV. Now it was two hundred miles away. I didn’t chase them. As three was going to be a crowd, I stepped out.

On the day Evan Carter was supposed to meet my adoptive parents, his phone was turned off all day. As my future husband, he had confidently promised me the night before that he would win my parents over. Yet even after the server had refilled our glasses for the sixth time, I still couldn’t reach him. A few hours later, I came across a post from Evan’s assistant, Maya Collins. In the photos, Evan was sitting on her family’s couch with bags of expensive gifts around him, keeping her parents company. The caption read: “My family has been pressuring me to get married nonstop. Thank you to my amazing boss for stepping in and pretending to be my boyfriend so I could get through this!” Evan finally arrived at the restaurant that evening. “Tessa, I’m sorry I’m late. Something urgent came up at work, so I had to deal with it.” He took my cold hand and gently tried to reassure me. “I was so nervous about meeting your parents today that I forgot to charge my phone last night. It died, and I couldn’t turn it back on all day. “Could you arrange another time for me to meet your parents? Please?” After seven years together, he still wasn’t willing to tell me a single honest word. His so-called work emergency was actually nothing more than pretending to be his assistant’s boyfriend to help her deal with her parents’ pressure to get married. Years of disappointment finally reached their breaking point. I gently pulled my hand away and slipped off my engagement ring. “We’re not getting married. Go ahead and play boyfriend for her for the rest of your life.”

On our eighth anniversary, my boyfriend, Liam Daniels, dragged me along to plan his marriage proposal. That exact morning, my pregnancy test came back positive. Outwardly, I teased him for ruining the surprise. Privately, I called everyone I knew to brag. My parents wept over the phone, saying time flew by too fast. My best friend, Mia Kyle, promised to beat him up if he ever stepped out of line. Even my older sister, Sarah Davis, choked up, swearing she would be there no matter how busy work got. On the big night, I wore the white dress Liam bought me. When I stepped into the venue, I realized the proposal had been transformed into a full wedding reception. I watched Liam Daniels as he dropped to one knee, tears in his eyes while looking at my adopted sister, Tiana. "Will you marry me?" he asked her. My parents stepped out from behind the curtain holding fresh bouquets. "Tiana, we want your happiness more than anything. Stop giving up your dreams for your sister." Mia Kyle walked onstage carrying the ring box. "As your best friend, I just want you to put yourself first for once." Sarah pulled a stack of property deeds from her bag. "Here's your dowry. No one will ever push you around again." I froze. I was never the bride. I was just an unpaid wedding planner. Everyone I loved had helped construct the lie.

The college girl I was sponsoring, Yasmine Reed, texted me that she was pregnant. She asked me what to do. She was only a sophomore. I told her to focus on her degree. Before my message was even sent, she blocked me. A few weeks later, I twisted my ankle. My best friend, Clara Barnes, brought me to the clinic. Clara pointed at a young couple standing outside the maternity ward. "If your husband were in town, he would pamper you just like that," Clara sighed. "I still don't get why he insisted on taking that project that faraway." I stared down at my phone. "Julian is doing it for our future. As long as he loves me, I don't mind." As we walked out, the couple turned the corner. The man held the girl close, kissing her forehead. "Be good, Yasmine. Right after this ultrasound, I'll buy you that designer purse." My blood ran cold. My feet froze to the floor. The man holding her was the same man that was supposed to be faraway. He was standing right in front of me. It was my husband, Julian Drake. And the girl in his arms was Yasmine Reed, the student I was funding.

To help my husband, Julian Parker, pay off the debt from his stock-market losses, I agreed to sell one of my kidneys. But on the day of the surgery, our six-year-old daughter, Ella Parker, ran to the clinic all by herself and frantically called Julian for help. Julian sounded conflicted. "Mom's only having one kidney removed. It'll get Dad out of this mess for good. But if she doesn't do it, Dad's whole future is ruined." Ella kept begging him to stop the surgery, but Julian simply hung up. Then he hurried toward a private hospital suite nearby, his face filled with worry. Inside lay Claire Morgan, the woman he'd never gotten over. Her face was deathly pale. "Don't worry. We've got a kidney for you. You're going to be fine." He lowered his voice. "And don't feel guilty. I'm the one who chose to lie to her. She's still young. She can live just fine with one kidney." Claire's transplant was a success. Julian was in such a good mood afterward that, for once, he even suggested taking Ella and me on a trip, calling it a belated honeymoon. But he had no idea I was already dead. After my kidney was removed, I couldn't even afford $9.90 for the antibiotics I needed. The wound became infected, and I died. And Ella finally gave up on her father, too.

My best friend and her boyfriend started a couples' vlog channel together, and it recently went viral online. I immediately followed it, watching every single upload. Yet, I couldn't shake the feeling that her blurred-out boyfriend acted suspiciously like my husband. When I mentioned it to her, she just flicked my forehead. "Girl, you're so crazy in love that you see your husband everywhere! Keep this up, and I'm gonna start getting jealous!" Blushing, I rubbed my head and quickly changed the subject. That was until my husband's company retreat, where I dragged Barbara Moore along to keep me company. Out of nowhere, our flight back suffered a severe emergency. Flight attendants handed out paper for everyone to write down their final words. With trembling hands, I finished writing mine, only to catch a glance at theirs. They had written down each other's names! My husband turned on his camera, framing both of them in the shot. "Barbara, I'm content to spend my final moments with you. Everyone, this channel won't be updating anymore. Goodbye." Neither of them noticed that off-camera, my face had gone deathly pale. Yet in the end, the plane managed to land safely. None of us died. I didn't cry or throw a scene. Instead, I simply tore up my final note, opened the car door, and got in. "What are you guys standing there for? Get in."

In my sixth year of running an inn in Rimevale, I'm diagnosed with bone cancer. I leave the inn in the hands of my fiancé, Eric Jones, and head to Varenia with nothing but an old enamel mug. Once I'm there, I start a livestream called "My Last 100 Sunsets." Every day at 7:00 pm, I turn the camera toward the snowcapped mountains and make coffee just out of frame. On my 31st livestream, a comment suddenly catches my eye. "Wait. Does that mug at the edge of the frame have a V-shaped chip in it?" Six years ago, when a blizzard left us stranded in the mountains, I kept that same mug filled with hot spiced cider for Eric all night. The chat explodes. "That's Alice Graham from Veylune Inn!" "Alice, why are you calling these your last sunsets?" Then a private message from Eric pops up. "Alice, where are you? Send me your location right now." What he doesn't know is that the night before I start chemo, I go back to the inn to get my documents and hear him and our receptionist, Denise Snyder, together in our bedroom. They're in the bed I picked out for us. "What if Alice comes back and catches us?" Denise asks. Eric laughs. "She won't leave me. Not after six years together." Standing outside the door, I open the confirmation email from an assisted-dying clinic in Varenia and click "Accept." By the time more than 100,000 people have signed up to watch my 100th livestream, Eric finally recognizes the snowcapped mountains outside my window and realizes where I am. I change the stream title to "My 100th Sunset: I Won't Be Here for Sunrise."

At my engagement party, my fiancé and my parents had prepared a table filled with mystery boxes. My younger sister, Elena Hayes, wrapped her arms around my fiancé, Adrian Whitmore, and sweetly pleaded, “There are so many mystery boxes. Madison can’t possibly open them all. Can I pick three too?” Adrian affectionately ruffled Elena’s hair. “You never change. You’ve known your sister and me for so long, yet you still act like a child.” Our parents, Charles and Victoria Hayes, smiled indulgently. “Our Elena has always been lucky. Maybe she’ll win something amazing.” Elena eagerly grabbed three mystery boxes before anyone else could stop her. She opened the first one. “A ten-day honeymoon trip to Valehaven.” The second one. “All the cash gifts from Madison’s wedding.” And the third. “The Whitmore family’s heirloom emerald bracelet.” When I opened my own mystery boxes, every single card contained the same message: “Better luck next time.” Elena draped an arm around my shoulders with a smug smile. “Looks like you’re still as unlucky as ever, Madison. “A bet’s a bet! I’m going to Valehaven with your fiancé instead. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on him for you. I won’t let some pretty girl from overseas steal him away.” I stood frozen, convinced they were playing some cruel joke on me. Then Adrian spoke. “Madison, a bet’s a bet. “Take off the bracelet Grandma gave you and give it to Elena.”

My husband, Mitch Cooley, has been with me through my fifth year of battling depression. While searching for recipes online, a notification for a late-night livestream for anonymous confessions pops up on my phone screen. "What's the biggest lie your husband has ever told you?" I tap on the notification out of curiosity as my eyes are drawn to the profile picture showing two hands tightly clasped together. The interviewee replies, "I'm still single, but if it's about my stupid best friend, then she'd been lied to by her husband three times. "The first time, her ex-boyfriend died in a car crash while cheating on her, and her now-husband hid the truth on purpose so that she thought the main reason her ex died was that she wanted to break up with him. "Her husband knew all along that her ex-boyfriend had been cheating on her with me, but he watched her try to slit her wrists in remorse multiple times without telling her the truth. "As for the third time, I just mentioned to her husband that he could only ever have a baby with me, and he immediately got himself a certificate proving that he was sexually frigid and refused to sleep with her. "But the most ridiculous thing is that my best friend still stupidly went to get an IVF done while I was rolling in the sheets with her husband every night." I feel alarm bells go off in my head. Mitch had also suddenly experienced sexual frigidity recently. The hospital he went to for treatment was one recommended by my best friend, Lexie Moyer. My hands tremble as I click on the interviewee's profile picture. I then realize that the red mole on the ring finger is the exact same one on Mitch's finger. The interviewee's tone suddenly turns low and restrained. "Even when her husband told her today that he would be working overtime at the company, when he was actually keeping me and our son company, she still made a whole table of dishes waiting for him to come home." I freeze on the spot the moment the interviewee's voice changer malfunctions for a bit. I know that voice too well. It is Lexie's.

It's been five years since I fell ill with depression, and I'm finally myself again. I can talk, laugh freely, and I actually have an appetite. The icing on the cake is that my husband, Ian Beaumont, and I are expecting our second child. At our New Year's Eve family gathering, Ian's godsister, Gemma Waverly, gets tipsy and starts making a scene. "I think it was about five years ago. I was dumped, and I took the car out for a little joyride while the surveillance cameras were under maintenance. "Guess what? The moment I stepped on the gas, a cat abruptly flew out of nowhere and slammed right into my hood. It yowled and bolted off." A faint, disdainful smile plays on her lips. "That damn creature not only scared the hell out of me, but it also ruined my car's wrap. "You'd better be careful in the future. Don't end up like me, accidentally bringing all that bad luck down on yourself. The thought alone makes me sick!" Gemma's tone's lighthearted, as if she's recounting a trivial, unlucky memory. Everyone chuckles and chimes in, telling her she should go to a church and pray so she doesn't end up being haunted by lingering spirits. I, on the other hand, stand amid the rowdy crowd, looking at Gemma's contemptuous face, my mother-in-law, Margaret Holloway's, indulgent gaze, and Ian's resigned, helpless smile. In a heartbeat, all the color drains from my face. It's almost as if the lot of them have forgotten that my daughter, Soleil Beaumont, died in a car accident five years ago.

After three years of pursuing Patrick Doyle, he finally agrees to marry me. During the ceremony, while we are exchanging rings, he suddenly pulls out his gun and presses the muzzle against my dad, Jacob Walker's, head. "Damn you, you evil drug dealer! You killed my mentor, badge number 66205. Put down your gun and surrender. I'll let you live." As soon as he finishes, his sister, Lena Doyle, screams. It startles Patrick, and he fires without hesitation. A bullet pierces through Dad's forehead, and his body crashes down into a pool of blood. His eyes remain wide open even in death. My white wedding dress is soaked through with blood. Just like that, my family is shattered. I go from being a wealthy heiress in Hinton to the daughter of a criminal. Patrick gets his honors while my family lies in ruins. He looks at me in his uniform, his eyes cold. "Ariana Walker, your dad may be a criminal, but you're innocent. We're married now. I'll ask them to go easy on you." I look down and hold tight to the badge Dad left behind. Who's really guilty here?

By the time Kenneth Ford finally showed up, I was already soaked through. He wasn't alone. There was a girl under his umbrella, and at well over six feet tall, Kenneth had enough height to shield her almost completely from the rain. He'd tilted the umbrella so far toward her that one side of his shirt was getting drenched, but he didn't seem to care. He just smiled and let her stay tucked safely beside him. Then he saw me, and the smile on his face disappeared. "Sorry, I'm late," he muttered. The girl beside him immediately turned to me. "Hannah, it's my fault. I've gotten so used to sharing Kenneth's umbrella that I asked him to walk me home. And honestly, being tucked up against him makes me feel so safe." "How many times have you done that it has become a habit?" I held back my question. Instead, I smiled, stepped under the umbrella behind them, and hurried to keep up. Rainwater dripped from my hair down the back of my neck, while Kenneth kept the umbrella tilted toward her the entire way. I had dinner with them, shared a drink, and spent the whole night listening to their laughter. After midnight, when Kenneth was finally fast asleep, I took the umbrella, opened it, snapped a picture, and sent it to Berta Neal. [Since you like it so much, stay tucked against him for the rest of your life.]

The day before the list of names for guaranteed university admission was announced, a synced note I shared with Bryce Joller for three years suddenly showed a reminder: [Operation: Save Lara Lane] I stared at it for a long moment before tapping on it. [1st: Give Nelly Seagel's spot to Lara.] [2nd: Go to the city where Lara's university is, take care of her, and let her join Joller Group when she graduates.] [3rd: After witnessing Lara get married, marry Nelly.] I stared at those three lines for a long time, unable to believe it. Bryce hated homewreckers the most because his mother was driven to death by one. Thus, over the years, he stayed up late studying with me, shielded me from my classmates’ taunts, and even used the Joller family name he hated most to stand up for me when my stepmother, Marissa York, kicked me out of the house. He supported me through countless nights when I could not hold on anymore. "Nelly, don't you dare break down. As long as I'm here, you're not allowed to give up!" Only now did I realize that Bryce had already chosen someone else to save somewhere along the way.

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.