Mga Maiikling Kuwento at Nobelang Ruthless Tragic Love

Jerome Morrison is busy dealing with his ex-girlfriend's lawsuit regarding the inheritance when I die in a car crash. The police officer calls him to identify my corpse, but he merely snaps impatiently, "Has she moved on to using suicide to threaten me? Too bad it won't work." Later, he finds out his ex-girlfriend caused a car crash, he chooses to destroy the evidence. He doesn't notice that I'm the one who died in that car crash.

A client splashes water in my face. I'm trembling as I endure his insults and mockery while Wayne Gale stands and watches calmly. His arm is around his assistant as he says, "I can't believe you're incapable of handling such a menial task, Georgina. My company doesn't need useless staff!" I wipe the water from my face and down my drink. Then, I fill it again and splash the client back. Whoever wants this job can have it. I quit!

I'm dying, and so is Sean Quinton. He still has hope, though. I don't. Why? Because once I die, my body will become the first to have passed due to a special infection. It'll be dissected and researched to help cure Sean. So, his daily task becomes urging me to die. Unfortunately for him, I'm unwilling to save him another time, so I die not because of the infection but because of carbon monoxide poisoning. It's enough to destroy the symptoms my body shows and ruin their plans to research my corpse.

I had been with Lars Carter for six years. The head of Midas Capital in Eastwind City, he was a rising star in Riverton's Silver Street—the heart of this nation's financial world. Few knew his true roots. Within him flowed the Vitalus bloodline. Lars descended from an old mafia clan from the city of Virgil in Vitalus, the Viktors. Midas Capital was ours. We built it from the ground up together; Lars would haunt private clubs, ironing out business deals amid drinks. I would stay by his side, doing the accounts, steering the direction of the negotiations, and memorizing every detail of the high-stakes contracts. We did everything together—a tight team. Or so I thought. In my naivete, I was convinced I would rule the city alongside him. The woman behind the man, so to speak. …Until Pearl Ross arrived two months ago. His childhood sweetheart moved from Virgil to Eastwind City. It was then that I knew—she was the one he was waiting for all along. It had always been her. "Lars, I want to get married." Lars' face tightened; hesitation veiled in businesslike concern. "Bianca, you know the company's at a critical stage… We're mid-fundraising. I can't right now." I smiled, calm and composed. "That's fine." He misunderstood. I was getting married—just not to him.

On the eve of my wedding, I was run over by my fiance's childhood friend. My life was in danger. My best friend tried to call my fiance, but he hung up directly. He sent her a text message. "Ruth is sick. I don't have time." My best friend then called her boyfriend who happened to be a well-connected celebrity. However, he said, "Ruth is sick. She needs me by her side right now." After a night of resuscitation, we looked at each other in the ward and spoke at the same time. "I don't want to get married." To our surprise, both our fiances went crazy when they found out we called off our weddings.

My newlywed husband wants to kill me. He's backing me to the balcony with a knife in his hand. The blade pierces my heart, and he shoves me off a 20-story building. At the same time, I see the tear streaks on his face. He says, "Long time no see, my perfect lover."

For eight long years, Bryan Millan and I were married, but you’d never have known it by looking at his life. He never once acknowledged our relationship in public. Not a single post, not a single mention of me on his social media. Then came our anniversary. The day that was supposed to be about us. Instead, Bryan made an announcement on his Instagram account—just not the one I expected. There he was, hand in hand with his assistant, her draped in a wedding dress. The caption read: [When you're in love, you want the whole world to know.] The comments flooded in. [Bryan finally got married!] [Congrats! Wishing you a lifetime of happiness together!] In that moment, I could no longer lie to myself. Bryan wasn't reserved. He just never loved me. So, I decided to let go. But he wasn't ready for that. He clung to me, desperate now. But I pried his hands off and laughed—a real, genuine laugh, the kind that comes from somewhere deep inside when you realize you're finally free. Then, I looked him straight in the eye and said the words I'd been holding in, "Don't beg me to come back. Because now that I don't love you, I've never felt better."

I suffer from a rare lung disease and depend on a ventilator to stay alive. My dad, Wesley Lowe, works three jobs and saves up enough money to replace my old machine with an imported one. The new ventilator is already relatively very quiet. Even so, my mom, Keira Sheeran, still thinks it's too noisy. She says the sound keeps waking her up at night and reminds her that I am like a bottomless pit. One day, my newborn baby brother, Jasper Lowe, won't stop crying. The doctor says newborns are sensitive to noise. Mom immediately breaks down. Her eyes are red with tears as she rushes over, points at me, and screams, "Can't you just die already? Your cousin can't afford to get married because of the burden you put on our family, and now your little brother can't even get a good night's sleep! "Can't you turn it off for just one night so the whole family can finally have some peace and quiet?" After saying that, she takes Jasper and goes back to her parents' house. I look at the "Happy Family" cross-stitch embroidery hanging on the wall. Slowly, I unplug the ventilator. "Mom, Dad, it's quiet now."

I was a sketch artist acting for the police. On a secret mission, I was discovered by a murderer. My eyes were gouged out, and my body was dismembered, unceremoniously dumped in a garbage bin. On the brink of death, I called my boyfriend, a criminal investigator. However, he hung up on me because he was busy accompanying his first love to a prenatal checkup. A few days later, he received a painting that was a vital clue to finding the murderer, but he thought I was playing tricks on him. In his anger, he tore that portrait to shreds. After he found out the truth, he spent the whole night searching through the garbage to piece it back together.

I used to be the most promising composer of my generation. But while I was working on my latest piece, my husband Charles Lambert's childhood friend destroyed everything I had. She slashed my face, stole my compositions, and set fire to my house—leaving me to burn alive alongside the kitten I'd just adopted. Then, as if my death were just a spark for her success, she posted my compositions online, claiming I'd plagiarized her. And people believed her. Everyone did. Strangers on the internet sneered and spat my name, and my own husband, Charles, chose to believe her over me. Even the International Musical Society rescinded my award and handed it to her without a second thought. My students, who once followed me loyally, were now fawning over her. I became the laughingstock of the entire internet—mocked, discredited, erased. It wasn't until a week later, when someone stumbled upon the charred remains of my lakeside studio, that they found what was left of me.

My parents made Dana and me settle it with rock-paper-scissors. Loser had to marry the Baillieu heir—the so-called "freak." I won. Then flipped the script. "Cool. I'll take Blake. Dana can have the empire." Last time? I was dumb in love with Michael—Dad's adopted golden boy. Chose the company, stayed behind, and handed Dana off to Blake Baillieu. Big mistake. Six months in, Dana was gone—wrecked by that marriage. Right before she croaked, she texted Michael blaming me. Said I lost the game and ditched the deal, dumping Blake on her. Michael? Snapped. Dude went full psycho. Turns out, he and Dana had been sneaking around for years. He dragged me behind the Baillieu estate and forced a dozen intellectually disabled men to assault me. "If it weren't for your cruelty, Dana would still be alive! You'll pay for everything she suffered!" I was over eight months pregnant—almost due. Begged him to stop. Begged for my baby's life. He didn't care. Kept ordering them to take turns. Even when my water broke, he just watched. Both my baby and I died that night. Now? I'm back. And this time, I rewrote the story. Step one: marry Blake.

My parents died in an accident when I was 16 years old. That leaves me and my stepbrother, Freddie Sanford, to rely on each other. At 20 years old, I get drunk and confess my feelings to him. But instead of being gentle as usual, he lashes out in fury. "Rosalie Hunter, do you have no shame at all? I'm your brother!" From that day on, he gets back together with his first love, Bianca Reed. His attitude toward me plummets and turns cold as ice. What Freddie doesn't know is I'm sick. To me, every day feels like a countdown. On the day of their wedding, I quietly reach the end of my life. When I open my eyes again, I've returned to two years ago. At the same time, I learn an unbelievable piece of news. Freddie has been dead for three years.

Three days after my death, Dominic Sharp receives a phone call asking him to identify my body. He has an arm wrapped around a woman's waist as he says indifferently, "I couldn't care less if she's dead. Call me once she's been cremated." My body is sent to the crematorium. After putting the ashes into an urn, an employee calls Dominic again. He clucks his tongue impatiently. "Alright, alright. I'll be there soon."

My sister had struggled with severe depression for years, and the only thing that seemed to ease her pain was her dog, Toto, who had become her constant companion. But when her illness flared up again, Toto was nowhere to be found. Then, my husband, Lionel Cress's childhood sweetheart posted a picture of Toto on social media. [With her, it feels like you're here with me.] I lost it. I called Lionel in a frenzy, but despite being my sister's psychologist, he was completely indifferent. "Your sister has been sick for so long. How could she suddenly relapse just because Toto's gone for a few days?" When I rushed back home, I found my sister in the bathroom, her wrists cut. Later, Toto's body was discovered outside our building, with Lionel's gift to his childhood sweetheart—a ring—lying next to her. I buried both my sister and Toto, and left behind nothing but a divorce agreement. Lionel went crazy, desperately trying to find me.

The day before the piano competition finals, my boyfriend deliberately locked me on the rooftop to help his childhood friend win. He stared at me intently, his voice low and steady. "You'll have plenty more chances. Can't you just let her have this one?" Later, to secure her spot in the orchestra, he went so far as to break my fingers with his own hands. I confronted him in anger, demanding to know why he would do this when we were supposed to be in a relationship. He looked at me solemnly and said, "Susan, Miranda's mother saved me all those years ago, and now I have to fulfill this wish for her." What he didn't understand was that for me, losing the use of my hands felt like losing my very life. After I made the decision to stop loving him, he shattered his own hand, hoping to get my forgiveness.

My Alpha mate's childhood sweetheart was a witch. She told everyone my blood carried a Cursed Bloodline — that bonding with Damon would kill him. On our anniversary, she drew a Curse Circle outside my door, claiming it would suppress my dark energy. At our Mating Ceremony, she disguised herself as a server and swapped our Bonding Tokens for a Curse Rune. Every single time, she'd kneel in front of Damon and cry: "I'm only trying to protect you from the curse. Everything I do is for you!" And every single time, Damon went soft. He said she just cared about him too much. Until the eve of our Marking Ceremony, when she drugged me, put on my Luna ceremonial gown, and crawled into Damon's bed. I woke up just in time and reported her to the Pack Enforcers. Damon went straight to the Enforcers' station to get her out, then turned to me and said coldly: "Serena was just trying to protect me. Do you really have to make such a big deal out of this?" Until I bled out during labor and fell into a coma, and she stood over me with tears in her eyes, telling Damon: "Choose me and let her go — this is the will of the Moon Goddess.." I left this world together with the child still in my belly. Then I opened my eyes again. I was back on the day of the Mating Ceremony, and she was about to slip the Hex Rune into our token box. This time, I didn't hold back. I ripped open the box in front of everyone and slapped the rune onto her forehead: "I think the one who needs cleansing is you!"

Nadine Sullivan doesn't come home to have dinner with me on my birthday. Instead, she transfers 100 dollars to me and sends me a text, saying, "I love you." Coincidentally, a resident doctor at her hospital updates his social media with a photo. It's a screenshot of her transferring 10,000 dollars to him. She's also texted him, "I love you to the moon and back." I don't throw a tantrum or kick up a fuss. All I do is leave the city without hesitation. The first day after my departure, I hear that Nadine is unfazed. She says, "He'll be back after a few days." The first month after my departure, Nadine calls me. "I'll transfer 100 thousand dollars to you, alright? Can you come back now?" I've never wanted her money, though.

During the three years after I'm diagnosed with a malignant tumor, my husband performs over 30 major surgeries on me so he can keep me around to donate my corneas to his true love. Finally, when she has the courage to face her illness under his encouragement, he follows a doctor's advise and gives up on treating me. I laugh when taking my last breath. He has no idea that the cancer has already spread to my eyes. He won't be transplanting my corneas in his true love's eyes—he'll be planting cancer in her.

My ex-boyfriend, the Don's heir, was getting married today. In the grand reception hall, the bride, Elena, moved through the crowd with a champagne flute in hand, toasting the bosses and captains who'd flown in from across the island. In the dressing room, Luca had me pinned against the gown the bride had just changed out of, fucking me hard. The mirror gave me back a stranger, hair tangled, not a stitch of clothing left on me, my neck covered in marks he'd left like a signature. The camera on the side table blinked red. Three knocks at the door. Luca stood up, straightened the white rose boutonniere on his lapel, picked up the black earpiece from the table and pressed it in. He tossed it at me without looking. "One night. Half a million euros. Anna, you're even pricier than I remembered." I watched his back as he walked out, and picked up the check with shaking hands. Rosa, don't be scared. Mama's got the money to save you.

I pleaded with my husband Cedric Fleetham over and over, and finally, he agreed to take our daughter camping in the mountains for her birthday. When I found her late the next night, she was already gone. She lay at the foot of the mountain, her tiny hand still clutching a drawing of our family. As I knelt beside her, my heart shattered. Meanwhile, Cedric was busy updating his social media. His post read, [You and our daughter are my treasures,] and it was accompanied by a photo, where he stood beside his childhood sweetheart and held hands with another little girl, watching the sunset. And there, in the corner of the picture, was a tiny hand—my daughter’s hand. The cruelest truth of all was that my daughter took that photo.