Tragic Love Short Stories & Ruthless Cheating Novels

"Mrs. Sterling, are you sure you're ready to end this marriage of twenty years and give up the custody?" "Yes. File it. I’m done." I said calmly through the phone as I scrubbed at a stubborn grease stain on the granite island. For twenty years, I poured my entire being into this family. I managed the households, handled the children's education , and stood by my husband's side, supporting his rise in the syndicate without complaint. But my husband Alexander brought his young adopted sister Chloe to the interview, saying, "My success today is all thanks to my adopted sister." Even my own children looked down on me, calling me common and crude housewife. They had formed an alliance with his ever-present "auntie," the woman who seemed to think she was the true lady of the house. I signed the divorce papers and walked away, leaving them to become the "perfect family" they clearly wanted. But that when the family panicked…

There's an earthquake. I'm trapped underneath the debris with another young woman. "This woman's chest has been pierced by a steel bar. We have to save her immediately." The rescuers start to approach me when my husband, Quintus Ford, suddenly darts in the other direction. "She's pregnant! Save her first!" I look at him to see him staring at the other young woman in panic. He doesn't know I'm pregnant, too. The doctor who's trying to stop my bleeding shouts, "I can't stop her bleeding! I suspect she has a blood clotting disorder!" I force myself to nod and look at Quintus desperately. However, he says, "I'm her husband. I'll bear the responsibility if anything goes wrong."

A car accident left my mother-in-law bleeding and desperate for help, but her plea was heartlessly rejected by her own daughter. Even on her deathbed, my mother-in-law's only wish was to see her one last time. However, she was busy staying by her first love's side, euthanizing his dog. "You better stay as far away from me as possible! My mom's perfectly fine!" she shouted before hanging up on me, only to spend the night tangled with her first love in a hotel room. It was not until after the cremation ceremony that she returned—carrying a birthday cake. What greeted her was not a celebration but her mother's funeral. She cried, sobbing uncontrollably, "Mom! You haven't even celebrated my birthday yet! Don't leave me!" I stared at her and pulled the divorce papers from my bag. How fitting. This time, I was leaving too.

My boyfriend always said he liked independent women. So, whether it was paying for dates, hotel rooms, or even birth control, he insisted we split every expense. He always said, "I hate women who think men should pay for everything. They expect guys to buy them gifts on special occasions and even feed them while they eat. They're adults. Do they really think they're princesses? You're so much better." I told him I only agreed to split the bills because I knew he loved me. Then one day, I saw a message on his computer after he forgot to lock the screen. A female coworker had thanked him. "Thanks for treating me to dinner and even slicing the steak for me. Next time, I'll buy the movie tickets." My boyfriend replied almost instantly. "How could I let a lady pay?" I kept scrolling through their chat history. On a rainy night, he had driven across half the city just to take her home. Whenever she had a nightmare, he would stand outside her apartment building and stay on the phone with her until she fell asleep. That was when I realized the truth. He didn't love independent women. He only loved the convenience that came with an independent woman. Just then, he walked in carrying my cat. "Your cat can't be a freeloader. The expenses should be split three ways between the three of us. Since the cat can't pay, you'll cover his share too. That means you pay two-thirds, and I'll pay one-third. Transfer me 800 dollars."

On my birthday, the dining table was loaded with all my favorites. My mom had been cooking and baking the entire afternoon, insisting everything be perfect for when Mike got home from work so we could celebrate together. But then, he called and said his first love had been drugged at a bar, and he had to go help her. I stopped him and begged him not to go. Mike snapped at me. "Jesus, Em, don’t pull this jealous wife crap. She’s alone, defenseless, and unconscious—I can't let some random dude take advantage of her!" My mother heard those words and was so enraged that she had a heart attack. She died on the spot. Just like that, my mom died on my birthday. I called Mike, asking him to attend my mom's funeral. But before he could reply, I saw Cathy Miller's latest Instagram post, captioned: [Mikey… after all these years, it was always you.] Mike had liked it. My thumb moved before my brain caught up, typing out the only words that mattered: [A homewrecker and a lying bastard. Hope you rot together.]

A flash flood swept down from the mountains, causing me to become caught in a car crash. As five steel bars pierced through me, I could feel my blood pouring out in torrents as my life hung by a thread. My husband rushed to the scene. Instead of coming to me, he cradled his true love from the passenger seat and walked away. He didn't even glance in my direction. I was in and out of the ICU three times, clinging to life. Not once did he visit me. His attention was wholly fixed on the girl, who only had a mild concussion. After nearly ten years of deceiving myself, I couldn't keep playing the fool any longer. The day I was discharged, I asked my husband, Dominic Davis, for a divorce. I had survived by sheer luck, and I wasn't about to waste any more time with a husband who didn't love me.

Maynard Hansen planned a luxury birthday cruise for Darlene Thompson, but the cruise ship capsized when a violent storm swept in without warning. Without hesitation, Maynard gave the last seat on the lifeboat to Darlene. As I struggled in the water, my son, Waldo Hansen—whom I carried for nine months and gave birth to—cried out, "Don't let Mom up! She'll push Ms. Thompson off." Clutching nothing but a broken plank, I somehow made it to shore. By the time I collapsed on the sand, I was frozen, exhausted, and done. I had never felt so alone. Shortly after, I found myself clutching a diagnosis of severe depression in my hand. I was ready to bring this wretched life to a quiet end. But when my husband and son realized I truly didn't want to live anymore, they collapsed into tears. They wrapped their arms around me as they sobbed, "Please don't leave us. We really can't live without you."

The yacht I'm steering crashes into a huge wave, scaring my husband's junior, who has a heart condition. So, my husband orders someone to tie me up and dangle me in the ocean by a rope. He even tells the captain to head straight into the waves. "You know Wren has a heart condition, yet you still scared her! How can you be so evil?" I beg him to let me go and tell him that I was following a charted path; I didn't mean for anything to happen. However, he just mocks me. "You've been a yacht driver for so long. Haven't you experienced anything like this before? I'll make you go through what Wren did! Let's see whether you'll pull this again!" After a day and night of this torment, he relents and decides to pull me back up. It's too bad he doesn't know that the waves have already torn me to shreds.

On the day of my wedding, my parents suddenly show up at my house with my fiancé, Yoseph Caldwell. They say they've decided the bride is going to change. "Your sister's terminally ill, and her only wish is to marry Yoseph. You're her younger sister, so be generous and help her out." Yoseph chimes in calmly, "Don't worry. It's just a ceremony. Once she passes, you and I can still get the marriage certificate." When I refuse, my parents tie me up. "We'll let you out once the wedding's over." But not long after they leave, an intruder breaks in and brutally murders me. By the time they finally remember me, all that's left is my rotting corpse.

"Captain! There's a couple burned and fused together!" I sprinted inside. There was Axel Cheatum, my husband, clinging to some woman. Their bodies had fused from the heat. Axel was sobbing, begging, "Save my wife first, please!" His wedding ring flashed on his finger. "It's my fault," he cried. "We drank too much... didn't even notice the fire." "It's not your fault, honey," the woman whispered. "We hadn't seen each other in so long... we couldn't help it." Axel clawed at his scorched skin, trying to free her. That's when I saw her swollen belly. And Axel, throwing everything away for her. In the end, I lost my baby.

For ten years, I stood by Natalie Prescott as she went from having nothing to her name to building a fortune worth hundreds of millions. Yet in all that time, she never once takes me to a restaurant where a meal costs more than 100 dollars per person. With our tenth anniversary approaching, I finally send her a link to a high-end steakhouse I've had bookmarked for ages, hoping we can celebrate somewhere special for once. But the moment she sees it, her expression darkens. "Gabriel, I know we're doing well now, but we can't afford to get complacent. We need to remember where we came from. Frugality is a virtue, and we can't lose sight of that." She has a point, I tell myself, so I drop the subject without another word. It isn't until I go to cancel our reservation that I spot Natalie sitting across from a young man in the very restaurant she refuses to take me to. She's cutting his steak into bite-sized pieces and placing them on his plate, then gently wiping a smear of sauce from the corner of his mouth. I recognize him immediately—Ryan Mitchell, the company's newest intern. He's only 21. "Ms. Prescott, I really can't eat another bite," Ryan says, glancing at the spread of food on the table. "But look at how much we've ordered. We're wasting so much food." "Don't worry about it. As long as you're enjoying yourself, it's not a waste." Natalie gazes at him with unmistakable affection. "I'll just take the leftovers home to Gabriel." "But… they're my leftovers." Natalie laughs softly. "It's fine. Gabriel is with me when times are tough. He's not picky." Ryan chuckles. "So let me get this straight. He sticks around for the hard times, and I get to enjoy the good life?" Natalie doesn't answer right away. For a long moment, she simply looks at him. Then she finally murmurs, "Yeah." I stand frozen, gripping the reservation slip so tightly that my nails dig into my palm. Yet somehow, I can't feel a thing. Ten years. I spend ten years standing by her side—helping her build the life she has now—only to discover that, in her eyes, I'm the man who has to settle for scraps while someone else gets to enjoy the rewards. The hostess approaches me with a polite smile. "Mr. Cole, reservations have been hard to come by lately. Are you sure you'd like to cancel yours?" I swallow the bitterness rising in my throat and glance at the couple across the room one more time. Then I turn back to the hostess. "No. Keep the reservation. And please bring me your most expensive tasting menu."

On my birthday, I personally prepare 16 dishes. After setting up the candlelight, I open a bottle of red wine. I take a photo and send it to my husband, Eric Sinclair. "I'm working late tonight. Don't wait for me," he replies. I choose to believe him. But after midnight, I notice an Instagram story posted by Shirley Huxley, his secretary. Eric was there with her, dressed in the trench coat I once gave him. They sat side by side in the VIP seat of football stadium where my favorite Super Bowl take place. Entwined in a passionate embrace, they kissed beneath a sea of shimmering lights and the roar of thousands of fans. That game is the one I have always longed to experience with him. I look down at the cold food on the table. Eric's words keep ringing in my head. "I hate kissing." "Marriage is a partnership, not about love and kisses." Though we've been married for ten years, we've never shared a single kiss. Meanwhile, he's out there, kissing Shirley openly and passionately. Despite it all, not a single tear falls from my eyes. The next day, Eric settles into his chair, completely unfazed. "Return the gallery to Shelly," he commands. I nod quietly, saying nothing. Suddenly, Layla Sinclair, my daughter, comes running down the stairs and throws herself into Shirley's arms. "Aunt Shirley, you're my favorite. I don't like Mom!" In that instant, it hits me—the home I devoted my heart and soul to means nothing anymore. It doesn't matter that I've been married to Eric for a decade. Now, all I want is to find myself again. I decide to accept an invitation from the Parisoir School of Fashion Design. From this moment on, I won't wait for them to come home, and I won't look back.

When I become pregnant with Ryan Hurst's child—at the same time his so-called first love, Kate Davis, do—he doesn't hesitate to claim hers, while ignoring mine. My child is thus branded an "illegitimate child". Ryan, the eldest son of the powerful Hurst financial empire, looks down at me with eyes like frost. "Kate is a real socialite. She can't have her reputation tainted by… this," he says coldly. It turns out that our seven years of marriage were nothing but a lie. The day my adopted family, the Kleimanns, forces me to get an abortion, Ryan is in another country, playing the doting partner at Kate's side while she gives birth. When we meet again, I will have already burned the bridge between us with my own hands. What none of them know is that behind Kate's polished smile lies a festering rot. And as for me, I am the sole heiress to an old and powerful aristocratic bloodline.

During the New Year's Eve dinner, my pineapple juice was secretly swapped for alcohol. But I had taken cephalosporin earlier on. The doctors used a lot of effort to save me, but my wife, Jennifer Robinson, shielded the person who was responsible behind her. "This matter ends here. Be generous and forgive him. He didn't do it on purpose." I didn't plan on letting this man off so easily. He had an ambiguous relationship with my wife. But Jennifer interrupted me with a frown. "That's enough! He's only a fresh graduate. What's the point of making a fuss? Do you have to ruin the rest of his life to feel satisfied?" I looked at how my wife was protecting him and my heart sank. "Then you two can spend the rest of your lives together."

It had been six months since I died in a car accident, but my wife, Susan Young, still thought I was throwing a tantrum and waiting for me to come home and apologize. Then one day, she suddenly couldn’t find a watch. Her childhood friend, Julian Lane, gave it to her. When it broke, she asked me to take it to a watch repair shop. She called and said angrily, “Quentin, are you finished making a scene? If you don’t want to be with me anymore, we can get divorced. What are you trying to prove? “Where did you put the watch I asked you to get repaired? “Did you hide it from me? After all these years, you still haven’t stopped being jealous of Julian!” Then my sister’s voice came through the phone. “Congratulations, Susan. Quentin is dead. He’ll never be jealous of Julian again.”

I've always been one who doesn't express many emotions. That is, until I've married Vanessa Tate. But the happy life I look forward to living doesn't come to me. Instead, all I see is Vanessa cheating on me with other men to her heart's content. When she brings another man home for the seventh time and fills the guest room with loud moans, I walk over to the door and knock on it gently. Even my tone is soft and tender. "My bedtime is between 10:00 pm to 8:00 am the next morning. As long as you keep the noise level down and don't disturb my sleep, I can pretend that this never happened." The door is opened from the inside, and Vanessa struts out. She casts me a nonchalant glance. "Got it." Her languid voice is tinged with impatience. "I'll keep it down. You should rest in your room instead of standing in the corridor in the middle of the night." The young man, who's a new boy toy of Vanessa's, leans against the bedpost. He leaves his collar open purposefully as he says to me in a taunting manner, "You really are composed. No wonder Vanessa keeps claiming that you're the most gracious husband in the whole wide world." I merely smile wanly, not bothering to give the boy toy an ounce of my attention. After returning to the master bedroom, I take the liberty to send the photo I've just taken to my mother-in-law, Evelyn Sinclair. "Mom, I already told you that Vanessa will never be able to control her urges, and yet you refuse to believe me. "We already made it clear that you'll have to pay me 100 million dollars every time she cheats on me with a man. I hope that you can stick to your end of the bargain."

On the twelfth anniversary of our mating ceremony, my Alpha mate gave me a ten-million-dollar Moonlight herb. Fresh from the healing clinic after my miscarriage, I calmly dialed his number to request the severing of our mate bond. On the other end of the line, his secretary—also his childhood sweetheart—apologized through tears: "Sage, Moonlight herb is a sacred healing herb for most werewolves. I didn't know your mother died from Moonlight herb poisoning. I didn't know you despised it most. It's all my fault for making the decision myself. Please don't be angry with the Alpha." Marcus spent a long time gently comforting her, only saying to me: "If you want to sever it, then sever it. Don't regret it later." But when I really cut off the mate bond, the powerful Alpha went crazy.

There is a medical dispute at the hospital. A patient's family member comes at us swinging a knife. Without hesitating, I push my husband, Maxwell Conner, out of the way. But then, he grabs my hand and pulls me in front of his beloved junior, Karina Burton. The knife plunges straight into my abdomen, killing the baby I had just conceived. As my horrified colleagues cry and rush me toward the ICU, Maxwell violently pulls me off the gurney. He barks, "Save Karina first! If anything happens to her, I'll fire every last one of you!" The doctors are stunned and furious. "Maxwell, have you lost your mind? Karina only suffered a minor injury. Your wife is the one in critical condition!" Clutching my bleeding abdomen, I nod slowly. "It's fine. Just forget it." Maxwell, I owe you nothing after this.

On April Fool’s Day, my CEO husband cut out my heart to save his childhood sweetheart's son. After the surgery, he tossed me into a cold rental apartment, where I died in agony. Three days after my death, my five-year-old daughter played in the room as usual. Walking by the sofa, she wrinkled her little nose and mumbled, "Mommy, there's a weird smell in here." She touched my face and murmured, "Mommy, are you pretending to be Snow White? Why are you so pale?" She shook my arm harder and raised her voice, "Mommy, it's my birthday today—get up and blow out the candles!" Confused, she picked up the phone and called her father. “Daddy, did I make Mommy mad? I lit the candles, but no matter how much I call her, she won’t wake up.” On the other end of the call, Patrick Hart’s voice was cold and impatient. “What could possibly be wrong with her? She’s just pretending to be asleep for sympathy. It’s Johnny’s birthday, I’m busy. Don’t bother me! Tell your melodramatic mother to stop playing her little tricks. I don't have time to humor her." My daughter removed the candle from her bun, pinched off a piece of the bun, and fed it to me. "Mommy, I made a secret wish… I really wish you could hold me again, just like before."

While I was nine months pregnant, the apple of my husband’s eye moved into our house. Whenever she saw me, she would make a sad face. My husband was sure that I was flaunting my pregnancy to make her angry. “Rachel is frail, and she can’t get pregnant, yet you’re walking around making her upset?! Do I seriously have to teach you a lesson?!” He ordered the bodyguards to lock me in the attic that had not been in use for a long time and told them not to give me food. I pleaded for mercy and told him that the ultrasound scan showed that the twin babies were too big. I told him that the doctor had claimed that I had to be hospitalized while I waited for my delivery. But he laughed as if he had heard the world’s greatest joke. When he spoke, his voice was as cold as ice. “You’re still three days away from your delivery date! Enough with the pitiful act! Repent while you’re in the attic! This is what you get for making Rachel upset!” The contractions hurt so much that I clenched my fists to the point that my nails broke, but no one unlocked the door to the attic. My piercing screams echoed in the attic for a long time until my whole body was soaked in blood, and one of my babies was stuck between my bloody legs. Three days later, my husband ate his breakfast that was not up to his taste and said, “Have Jane make breakfast for me, then have her apologize to Rachel with a gift. If she’s sincere enough, I’ll send her to the hospital to deliver the babies.” But no one dared go up to the attic because the blood that flowed down from it had already reached the second step of the stairs.