Scumbag Plot Twists Short Stories & Novels

I was pregnant and due any day. Austin Revelstone, my husband, had a sugar baby named Tawny Sully. Each time they renewed their arrangement, money came into my mother’s special care account. One day, he stayed a little longer to talk to me. Because of it, he was one minute late for his date with Tawny. Tawny was upset. She threw a tantrum and threatened to terminate their agreement. She would only stay if I aborted my baby. So, Austin slid the abortion form and a check for three million dollars across the table to me. “Please, just sign it. We can always have another kid. If Tawny cries anymore, she’ll get wrinkles.” He looked calm and unbothered. It was as if he were just talking about the weather. I raised my head and looked at him in disbelief. I trembled for a long time. Then, I finally signed my name on the abortion form. I wiped my tears and gave the check back to him. I made one additional request. “Let’s make that fake divorce certificate real this time.” I no longer needed his financial support for my mother’s surgery.

On our wedding night, my CEO wife’s assistant barged into the bridal suite with a crowd behind him. He wrapped an arm around her waist and grinned in front of all the guests. “I've gotta thank Shawn for being so generous. Over the past year, Chloe and I tried all 1,000 positions in the Karma Sutra, won a $10,000,000 bonus, and even ended up with a baby. “Don’t feel too bad, Shawn, even if all you got was one dollar. “And of course, I should thank my future in-laws and everyone here for thinking so highly of me. Tonight, I’ll definitely make sure Chloe has the time of her life on our wedding night.” The room fell silent. No one said a word. Even my father-in-law, who always claimed he treated me like his own son, lowered his head and avoided my eyes. Chloe glanced at me and said casually, “He’s young and insecure. He just wants to spend the wedding night with me. That’s all. “Jason even gave me his first time because he wanted this baby so badly. I have to take responsibility for him.” My heart instantly turned ice-cold. I finally understood why she had given me that envelope with a single dollar in it. I made my decision as I looked at the woman before me, who suddenly felt like a complete stranger. I did not want her anymore.

To help my wife, Mia Lowell, through labor, I blew a fortune on the latest paternity-linked pain transfer device. Right before she went into the delivery room, Mia grabbed my hand. Tears streamed down her face. "Honey, if it gets too painful, turn it off. I can't stand watching you suffer." A nurse gave me one last reminder. "Sir, the device automatically transfers the pain to the baby's biological father through DNA matching. Please be prepared." The device switched on. I felt nothing. Not a twinge. Just as I started wondering if I'd gotten scammed, a scream ripped through the hallway. Ryan Duffy. My best friend dropped to the floor, clutching his stomach. "Aaaagh!" A second later, my boss Andy Drake, who'd stopped by with a fruit basket, staggered out of the elevator with both hands between his legs. Then came Luke Foley, a yoga coach seeing a doctor across the hall. He was flat-out rolling on the floor, howling. Inside the delivery room, Mia's weak voice drifted out. "Honey, thank you for taking all this pain for me!" I looked at the three guys writhing in agony. Then I quietly turned the device all the way up. Max load. Holding my breath, I shouted toward the delivery room. "I-I'm fine. I can still... take it."

At the wedding, Victoria Langley's childhood friend, Spencer Calloway, catches the wedding bouquet that she's just tossed. He arches a brow at her. "Does this mean I'll have to propose to someone? Well then, Vic, are you willing to elope with me?" Victoria's bridesmaids begin cheering on him. Amid their loud cheers and giggles, they push Victoria into Spencer's arms. "Give us a kiss!" "What's with that shy look, Spencer? Didn't you bury your face into Victoria's chest and hold her while sleeping on the same bed at the bachelorette's party last night?" Victoria giggles as she pinches one of the bridesmaids. "What's with the ruckus? My husband is still here, you know!" But the tips of her ears have secretly gone red. Spencer's lips curl into a wicked smile as he shrugs nonchalantly. "I'm fine with it. It's just that a certain someone's mooch of a husband will be pissed." Only then does Victoria turn to look at me. She pinches me on the chin gently while saying to me casually, "C'mon, it's just a joke. Don't be so petty." Then, she declares, "Let's continue the wedding." But I wave Victoria's hand away coolly before taking the microphone from the wedding host. "Spencer wants to crash this wedding, right? Well, I'm taking everything seriously now." Three days later, Victoria's eyes become red-rimmed as she stands outside the courthouse. As for me, I've never looked back ever since.

When Yasmin Smith comes to the courthouse to pick me up from work, she suddenly hands me a copy of her marriage certificate. "To tell you the truth, our marriage certificate is forged. I was just messing with you when I told you that I wanted to remarry you." Before I can register the news, Yasmin produces a brand new—and certified—copy of her other marriage certificate. She's already smiling bashfully. "Last night, Zach embraced me and kissed me throughout the night. It felt so good that I couldn't resist him at all. So, we ended up getting our marriage registered for real." I feel nothing but chills seeping through my pores thanks to Yasmin's second betrayal. As I stare at her in disbelief, I feel my voice starting to quiver. "Why?" "Because you're dumb." Yasmin chuckles lightly as she taps a finger on my face, which is starting to go pale. "Previously, it took you three years to find out about my affair with Zach. That's why I made another bet with him to see how long it'd take you to realize that I'm cheating on you again." My gaze lands on the hickey decorating her neck, which has yet to fade away. Then, she shrugs at me. "Zach thought that it'd take you one year. That's why I slipped up many times purposefully over the year. But I've already grown tired of acting, and yet you never picked up a single clue. "Today is the last day of the bet. I want Zach to win, so I have no choice but to come clean to you."

At the wedding door games, my best friend, Justin Winston, suggests that my fiancee, Tiffany Bastion, feel everyone's abs while blindfolded so that she can guess who the groom actually is. Amid everyone's cheers, Tiffany gives every groomsman a nice feel before shaking her head firmly. "This is too easy! If I can't even recognize my own husband, we might as well call off the wedding!" When Tiffany is about to touch me, Justin suddenly flashes me a mysterious smile. Then, he takes off his shirt and moves to stand in front of her. The next moment, Tiffany shrieks excitedly, "This is my husband! I can't be wrong about this!" Justin lets out a chortle. Then, he grabs Tiffany by the wrist and begins navigating her hand from his abs down to his groin. "Why don't you give this a good feel? Do you still think this is your husband?" Tiffany just smiles bashfully as she roams her hands all over Justin's body. As I look at the pair's overly intimate actions, I sneer at them before stuffing the wedding bouquet into Justin's hands. "Since you two are in sync with each other that much, you might as well host this wedding on your own."

My cousin, Jeffrey Coleman, whom I haven't gotten in touch with for years, suddenly shows up on my doorstep. "Chris, if I remember correctly, you have a Toyota Crown parked in your garage, right? Lend it to me as my wedding car, alright? "We're cousins, so I'll pay you 500 dollars. Aren't I generous?" The Toyota Crown Jeffrey has mentioned is an original model from the 90s. It's still coated in the same paint it was produced in. My grandpa has left it to me. Over the years, I've already sunk in more than 100 thousand dollars just to renew every part. And now, Jeffrey thinks he gets to drive the car after paying me 500 measly dollars? I turn him down tactfully. "The car's far too old, Jeffrey. I'm worried that it might break down halfway to the wedding venue and cause a delay on your big day." Unexpectedly, the moment Jeffrey gets home, he's quick to issue everyone in the family group chat e-invitations. "I've already booked the wedding car! It's a Toyota Crown that's produced in the 90s, and it's still in its original glory! This car is definitely better than Porsche and Mercedes! "On the big day, this car will be in charge of picking up the bride and groom twice! Of course, the newlyweds get to ride this car. If there are any other relatives who want to share the ride, leave a message here!" Everyone is quick to praise Jeffrey for his quick wits. To think that he's capable of borrowing something vintage from the older generation! On Jeffrey's wedding day, he shows up outside my garage with a dozen or so people. "Open up, Chris! Where's the car key? We're in a hurry, you know!" Soon, the garage door is opened from the inside. The Toyota Crown isn't there. Instead, a police cruiser is parked in its place. A traffic officer can be seen crouching on the ground while taking photos for evidence. "You guys plan on driving the Toyota Crown? Someone has reported this car for not meeting the qualifications, and that it's suspected to be used in an illegal business. I'm going to need all of you to make a trip to the police station with me." Jeffrey panics immediately. "We didn't even get to drive it yet! How is this illegal?" The traffic officer glances up at him. "The report has included tens of hundreds of conversation screenshots. You've publicly posted the routes and even invited people to ride with you in the group chat. "Please explain to me what your actions mean, if not advertising your ride to get more customers."

I spent three years studying like my life depended on it before I finally earned a government job. Then, on my first week there, I saw a familiar face. My cousin. The same cousin I’d met at that awkward family reunion back home. Somehow, he had gotten hired by the same department. A few days later, at a family dinner, he made his move. With my uncle sitting right there at the head of the table, acting every bit like the important city official he was, my cousin shoved a classified file into my hands. The pages had clearly been tampered with. Before I could say a word, he let out a sharp cry and dropped to the floor. The file spilled open across the tile. “Ethan!” he shouted, his voice trembling with fake disbelief. “That’s confidential government material! How could you steal it and show it to outsiders? Was the finder’s fee really worth selling us out?” My uncle slammed his hand on the table and stood up, his face dark with rage. He said he would not protect family at the cost of justice. He said he would fire me on the spot and report me to the higher-ups himself. That was when a string of floating comments appeared in front of my eyes. [This cousin is painfully stupid. Does he seriously not know the male lead was brought in from above as the head of the internal inspection team? He’s here to investigate him.] [And the uncle is still acting. Hilarious. The inspection team’s car is literally about to pull up outside.] I read the comments, then calmly lifted my teacup and took a slow sip. Across from me, my cousin was still trying to look loyal and outraged. I set the cup down and smiled. “You’re right about one thing. This file is confidential.” His eyes lit up. Then I added, “But you changed the wrong section.” The color drained from his face. I turned to my uncle. “And Uncle, didn’t you just say you’d put justice before family?” I pushed back my chair and stood. “Great. Then come with me to the Special Investigations Unit and explain how many people you’ve illegally helped into the department over the years.” My cousin stared at me, completely stunned. He had fought so hard to get into public service. He had no idea I was the one sent to clean it up.

Ten minutes before the IPO, my lower body started burning with intense pain. The pain was so bad that my knees buckled and I fell from the stairs on the third floor. I hit my forehead, which started bleeding, and fresh blood dripped into my eyes. As I convulsed on the ground, my hands covered my crotch as my skin felt like it was being fried in boiling oil. My fiancée, Yvette James, came over in her high heels and kicked me in the thigh. "What's with all the pretense? It's just half a bottle of ointment poured down your pants." Her bestie, Henry Curtis, had his phone held toward me as he livestreamed the situation. He was bent over from laughing too hard. "Check this out, fam! This penniless loser is burning from the waist down! It's too funny!" I could hardly breathe from the pain, and I begged Yvette to get me an ambulance. Yvette rolled her eyes and pushed the camera into my face. "Henry is targeting 100,000 viewers for this live stream! Can you scream louder? Don't be a buzzkill! That thing between your legs is just like a toothpick. That ointment might give you a growth spurt, so you should thank me for it." My lower body had gone numb from the pain, and I saw the comments section ridiculing me. I stopped begging for help as I stared coldly at Yvette while giving the orders to pull her funds. "The wedding is off. Be prepared for your company's bankruptcy."

The final race would decide everything: win, and I'd make the national team; lose, and I'd be kicked off the racing team. Twenty-eight years ago, my father was crippled by the same man. His spine was broken, and he never stood again. Two hours before the race, I saw him crouching beside my car with my own eyes. When I went over to check, I found the brake line had been cut and the brake fluid had been mixed with alcohol. The method was exactly the same. My father had waited in his wheelchair for twenty-eight years. I crouched down and stared at the severed brake line for a long time. Then I stood up, wiped away the fingerprints, and put on my helmet. I didn't report it. I didn't change cars. I didn't tell anyone. Because I wanted him to watch with his own eyes— To see how he'd be sent to hell by the "loser" he despised. The engines roared. The green light came on. I released the brake and floored the throttle. The moment I shot forward, I knew— This car's brakes wouldn't last past the seventh lap.

Jerry Griffin, my younger twin brother, shoves aside the top reconstructive surgeon that Simone Murphy, the most illustrious heiress in Dressington, invited over just for him. "This scar is a part of me now. If you care about me, you'll leave it alone!" Jerry declares. Even though the scar on his arm looks rather gruesome, he maintains a look of pride in his eyes. "If you think it's an eyesore, Simone, then just stay away from me!" Standing on the side, I stroke the half of my face that is covered in a nasty burn scar. The very thing Jerry scorns is what I've been dreaming of all along. I grab the sleeve of the doctor, Phoebe Harris, and beg her to check on my face. Jerry eyes me in contempt. "What happened to your pride, Isaac? Are you really going to stoop to anything for something as frivolous as your looks?" Simone sends an icy look in my direction as well. "Why does Jerry have a loser like you for a brother?" Nevertheless, she agrees to help me find someone who can treat my scar—on one condition. I, a coding genius, have to work for her, free of charge, for three years. One night, we get drunk and end up in bed. From then on, she starts treating me slightly differently. But one day, I overhear her conversation with her friend. "Someone like Isaac Griffin is just a plaything to me. I'm only toying with him to pass the time."

At a highway service area, the man parked in the next space points under his van and shouts that it's leaking fuel and is about to explode. I am a veteran auto mechanic with ten years of experience. Without hesitation, I slide under the vehicle and, within ten seconds, clamp off the fuel line. The moment I crawl back out, I catch the smell of mineral water. The owner, Billy Dickson, immediately pulls out his phone and starts a livestream while several of his accomplices pin me against the hood. "Watch this, everyone! We set the perfect trap and caught a gang of catalytic converter thieves! See how smoothly he got under the chassis? He's obviously a repeat offender. Every missing part at this service area has to be his doing!" Covered in dirt and grease, I try to explain to the crowd that I only cut the line because I thought the vehicle was about to catch fire and endanger everyone nearby. Billy spits a thick wad of phlegm right onto my shoe. "Who asked you to stick your nose into my business? You crawled under my van because you wanted to steal parts! Either you pay for a brand-new vehicle today, or I'll hand you over to the police and make sure you rot in prison!" Not wanting to delay getting my wife, who's about to go into labor, to the hospital, I grit my teeth and transfer them 20,000 dollars to settle the matter privately. Three days later, on a long downhill stretch of a winding mountain road, Billy's van completely loses its brakes. Black smoke pours from the tires. He recognizes my car and frantically blares the horn. Rolling down his window, he begs me to tell him how to survive. I simply press down on the accelerator and widen the distance between us, my face completely expressionless. "Back for another livestream to chase views? Give me a break. To prove I'm not a car thief, I already threw my wrenches into the river. You'll have to figure out for yourself how to jump out of the van."

The study-abroad list went up on the department bulletin board. Kevin's name sat at the top of the sponsored students column. Mine was stuck in the alternate slot. In front of the whole class, he waved it off like it was nothing. "I'm not going. Can't even afford it." The spot slid down to me. "Congrats, Nathan! You snagged the last public-funded spot!" Classmates crowded around to offer their congratulations. My advisor turned to my parents with a clasped-hand gesture. "Professor Reed, Professor Turner—congratulations! You must be so proud of your boy!" I took the acceptance letter, my chest swelling as I looked at three years of blood, sweat, and late nights finally paying off. Then my mom reached over, plucked it right out of my hands, and passed it straight to Kevin. She grabbed my arm, her face all twisted up with regret. "Kevin's the kid we sponsor—his parents can't afford to send him anywhere. This is his one shot to go abroad. You're our flesh and blood. You need to be the bigger person here and let him have it." Kevin clutched the letter, dropped to his knees with a thud, and thanked her. I stared at that letter—the one that decided my future—and thought about every single night I'd pulled all-nighters over the last three years. They handed my future over to someone else. Fine. If that's how they want to play it, then I don't want this family anymore.

On the way to the hospital in my daughter's car, my legs felt cramped, so I adjusted the angle of the passenger seat. A second later, I heard a soft snap from beneath the seat. A toothpick had broken. I jumped in fright as my daughter, Marissa Langford, slammed on the brakes, her face turning pale. "Why would you touch that? Tyler set that seat to a specific position on purpose. He uses it to check whether another man has been sitting in the passenger seat. How am I supposed to explain this now?" Realizing I'd caused trouble for her marriage, I immediately sent Tyler Ashford, my son-in-law, an apology. Hours passed without a reply. Eventually, all I received was a cold laughing emoji. Thinking Tyler was upset, I bought two expensive bottles of wine and personally went over to smooth things over. However, when Marissa opened the car door, I finally saw what was covering the passenger seat. It was a custom seat cover. Embroidered across it in glaring letters were the words: "Tyler's Exclusive Seat. No Old Bastards or Dogs Allowed". My vision went black with rage. Seeing me standing there without moving, Marissa frowned impatiently. "Tyler's just immature. Are you really going to be this petty and hold it against him?" I laughed. "You're right. I am petty. That's why the $20,000 I give you every month ends today. From now on, you're on your own."

Before a gathering of New York's underworld Families, I slipped into the vintage Chanel gown my mother had left me. As I looked in the mirror, my seven-year-old daughter suddenly said, "Mommy, it doesn't matter what you wear. You're always the ugliest one." Just like that, all the joy the gown had brought me disappeared. It wasn't the first time my daughter had said something cruel. Once, the FBI took me in for questioning and kept me for three days. The moment I got home, I wrapped her in my arms and asked if she'd missed me. She only shrugged. "No, Mommy. You're too stupid. Smart people don't get caught." My husband, Vincent, said sternly, "You can't talk to her like that. We're a family." I asked carefully, "If Mommy's so stupid, will you take care of me, sweetheart?" My daughter spread her hands. "Not me. Daddy said this family doesn't feed freeloaders." I was too stunned to speak. She just smiled at me, all innocence. "Don't be mad, Mommy. I'm only telling the truth." Every time she hurt me, she always added those same words. No matter how much it hurt, I kept telling myself she was simply too young to understand. That she didn't truly mean to hurt me. Until the day she smugly posted one of her "honest truths" on TikTok, hoping the whole internet would judge me. This time, she would regret telling the truth for the rest of her life.

I was in the middle of a shift when my coworker, Denise Sutton, popped up out of nowhere and slapped me on the shoulder. "Next week is Gerald's birthday, and your family happens to run a seafood restaurant. So here's the plan — I'll chip in ninety-nine dollars, and we'll all go over to your place for a feast to celebrate." Denise counted off the menu on her fingers. "We need lobster and king crab, the fish has to be live-caught grouper, don't skimp on the appetizers, and stock up on beer and soda. Gerald's got gout, so go easy on the shellfish for him. Make sure everything's perfect — don't embarrass our department." She gave me a playful nudge, waggling her eyebrows. "Once Gerald's happy, he'll cut you a bonus worth a few thousand. Won't that make you happy?" "You get paid, you get noticed, and the boss ends up in a good mood. Amy, you'd better be properly grateful to me." I just stared at her, baffled. My family ran a breakfast counter that sold meat pies. Where exactly was the seafood supposed to come from? I turned Denise down flat. Denise just rolled her eyes and walked off. That night, a sign-up thread went out in the work group chat. "Gerald's birthday party is Saturday. I'm treating everyone to a seafood feast, all you can eat, and you can bring family. Reply if you're coming!" The chat erupted in cheers. In under ten minutes, more than fifty people had signed up. [My dad's never even had lobster. Guess he's finally getting cultured, thanks to Denise!] [My kid's obsessed with tuna. Get extra servings for her.] Denise agreed to everything without hesitation, dropped a location pin in the chat, and sent me ninety-nine dollars. Denise: [Amy, hold onto the money. The ingredients better be fresh — don't you dare shortchange your own coworkers.] I looked at the pinned location and smiled. It was the upscale seafood restaurant next door to my family's shop — owned by a man who'd gone straight a few years back after a rougher life, with tattoos running all the way up to his chin. The last person who'd tried to dine and dash there still hadn't gotten out of bed.

At the supermarket checkout, I pulled up my e-wallet. The system froze. While I waited, I shoved the bottled water into a bag. "Miss!" the cashier yelled. "You didn't pay. Trying to steal?" Every head turned. Before I could say a word, my phone rang. "Dr. Andersen, a family of three got hit by a truck. Metal debris went through their chests. You're the only one who can operate!" Owen sounded freaked. I hung up and slapped a ten on the counter. "I'm sorry, but I have an emergency operation waiting. I need to go. Can I pay cash?" "No." She tossed the bill aside and gave me a once-over. "You? A doctor? Yeah, right. "You're not going anywhere until the system's back up." My phone kept buzzing in my pocket. "I don't want it anymore." I dropped the bottled water on the counter and turned to leave. Click. The cashier locked the exit gate. Then she faced the crowd. "She broke the checkout system, and now she's trying to run! Don't let her get away! "Everyone, stay calm. Security and the technician will be here any second." Whispers broke out around me. The smug look in her eyes made my blood boil.

My family goes bankrupt when I'm ten years old. Just like that, I become a fallen heir overnight. Instead of letting me struggle, my dad, Steven Hollister, raises me with even greater care. He insists that I'm the family's only hope. I spend the next eight years living like a porcelain doll. My skin can't have so much as a scratch. Every meal is measured down to the last calorie. I'm forbidden from taking gym class or touching anything sharp. If I come home with even the smallest cut or scrape, Dad berates me for days. My younger brother, Michael Hollister, on the other hand, is given complete freedom. He skips school and gets into fights. Dad barely gives him a second glance. "He'll never amount to anything," he says with a dismissive wave. "This family is counting on you." On my 18th birthday, Dad excitedly announces that the company is finally going to recover and that we'll be rich again. He throws me an extravagant birthday party, but the guest of honor is a young man about my age seated at the head of the table. During dinner, the stranger openly sizes me up from head to toe before nodding in satisfaction. I assume he's the investor who's about to save my family. That night, I happen to glance at Dad's phone just as the screen lights up. A notification shows a massive wire transfer. The payment note reads, "Final payment received. We'll deliver the goods as scheduled."

I heard a corpse speak to me in the police department's autopsy room on my first day of internship. It all began when my supervising pathologist flipped through the autopsy report and remarked flatly, "Classic suicide. Close the case." The captain of the homicide unit nodded without a word. Beyond the doors, the victim's mother had fallen to her knees as she sobbed in despair, nearly fainting from grief. I was the only one who heard the woman's raspy voice saying in protest, "I didn't kill myself." The hemostatic forceps slipped from my hand and clattered into the metal tray. Everyone turned to look at me. My supervising pathologist frowned at me in displeasure. "Summer, I know you're an intern, but you can't even keep your composure?" I stared at the corpse's pale, bluish face. The next second, I heard her speak once more, "The killer is in this autopsy room." The air in my lungs froze. Then, my eyes slowly settled on my supervising pathologist's bloodstained hands.

When I touch someone else's personal belongings—things they have had direct contact with before—I can hear the items voicing their owner's thoughts. The day of my grandma's funeral, I clutch the emerald bracelet she wore for over 30 years and hear it shout, "The house mustn't go to Michael! He hit me!" Michael? That's my uncle's name, and right now, he's bawling his eyes out in front of Grandma's casket, seemingly grieving even harder than everyone else.