Melodramatic Short Stories & Scumbag Face Slapping Novels

On the day my father died, his seven most trusted men all met violent deaths within the same twenty-four hours. Hugh Castillo sacrificed his legs to butcher the gang and put me in power. “Taz, don’t be scared. Those monsters are gone. You’re finally free.” In the years he lay paralyzed, I tried over a thousand experimental drugs and prayed at every church across the country. I hunted down every possible remedy, praying for just one that would bring him back to his feet. When Hugh learned of this, he swallowed a bottle of pills one night to end his life. After he was revived, he smiled and wiped the tears from my face. “Taz, I don’t want to be a dead weight. You deserve a better life than this.” That night, we held each other and wept. We swore that from then on, no matter what, we would never leave each other behind. But seven years later, a sweet-looking girl showed up at my door with a thousand photos I was never meant to see. “Every month, while you were praying to God in churches, Huey was busy trying out new positions with me. “Ms. Sheargold, don’t you know that used goods like you kill a man’s desire? It was no wonder he’d rather play the cripple than touch you.” I looked through every single photo, then put them up for auction underground.

I was the best liar in the slums. I'd stolen church donations and forged medical records to get relief money. I'd even framed Clara Gray, my younger half sister, and gotten her kicked out of our home. Yet Alpha Logan Blackwood had taken one look at me at an underground auction and marked me as his. A werewolf took only one mate. For life. For three years, I'd played his sweet, submissive fated mate. Then someone brought Clara back from a casino. Clutching so-called evidence, she stood before him and sobbed. "My sister's been rotten since she was a child. She doesn't deserve to be your mate." Logan's expression turned cold. Right in front of me, he took Clara back to the pack house. "I thought you were my destiny. Turns out you're just a snake." That night, the backlash from his rejection killed me in the pack house basement. When I opened my eyes again, I was back at the underground auction. The auctioneer had already raised his gavel. Before he could bring it down, I pointed at a man in the corner. "I'm selling my life to Kane Ashcroft."

My cheating wife suffered brain damage in a car accident. Her entire vocabulary shrank to "yes" and "no." She couldn't say another word. Better yet, every answer had to be true. Someone up there was watching over me! I asked her, "Were you cheating on me with my friend?" Her face went pale, but she couldn't stop herself from saying, "Yes." "Did you transfer any assets?" "Yes." "Is your bank card PIN your first love's birthday?" "Yes." Thanks to her inability to lie, I got my friend sent to prison and took all her assets. She couldn't even curse me out. Then one day, a pretty barista hit on me while making my coffee. I turned to my wife, who just stared blankly. "Are you even my wife? Doesn't that make you jealous?" She blurted out, "No." I froze and stared hard into her eyes. A long moment passed before I asked, "Then is my wife, Shannon York, dead?" "Yes and no."

It is the third year of my marriage when the video of my bodyguard, Julian Sutherland, holding an umbrella over me in a downpour goes viral. Overnight, the internet becomes obsessed with the "Icy Protector and his Forbidden Heiress." Netizens are relentless; they dig through the archives until they unearth a ten-year-old clip. In the video, a girl was holding a pair of high-heeled shoes while sprinting through the Folander airport. My friend teased, "No way, Ms. Serina Brown. Are you really flying back home to confess to that poor man? What could you possibly see in him?" The camera shakes, capturing my youthful face. I was just a reckless 20-year-old. "I love Julian. I love everything about him." That night, after seeing the video, Julian loses his composure and bursts into my room. "I didn't know you loved me back then. I thought… I thought… God, it was never supposed to end like this." I pull my coat around me and stand rooted on the spot, remaining silent. Suddenly, a mocking laugh echoes from behind me. Someone places their hand firmly on my waist and says, "Are you trying to reminisce about your love with my wife right in front of me? Do I look dead to you?"

The night the hurricane made landfall, the emergency alert had barely stopped sounding when my sister-in-law, Brielle Rourke, called again. I listened to her helpless sobbing, then calmly handed the phone to my husband, Caleb Rourke, who was busy boarding up the balcony doors. Whatever she said, he kept agreeing to it. He pulled on a rain jacket and gave me that practiced, guilty look. "Her window's broken, Lena. She's all alone over there. I'll patch it up and I'll be back before the worst of it hits, I promise." Once again, it wasn't a discussion. It was an announcement. Five years of marriage, and every storm had gone exactly the same way. The moment the thunder started, her call came right on schedule. I used to fight about it, but he always said, "My brother died young. Brielle's raising his son by herself. We help when we can." "You're a grown woman, and a strong one. You can look after yourself and our son, right?" The wind split the glass, and the shards opened my calf to the bone. I reached for the baby sweater I'd never finished knitting. Tonight, Caleb, I don't think your son or I need you anymore.

When my dad was diagnosed with cirrhosis, my husband was indifferent. "That illness is a bottomless money pit. We'll end up broke with nothing to show for it." My dad happened to hear every word. That night, he quietly left behind his entire life savings and bought a one-way train ticket back to his hometown alone. A week later, at the dinner table, my husband suddenly pushed a medical report in front of me, his voice tight with panic. "My dad has liver problems, too! Hurry and get him in to see the best specialist in the city!" I stared at him, my heart turning to ice. But on the surface, I showed nothing, nodding without hesitation. "Of course. If he's sick, we should get him the best doctor and make sure he receives the best care possible."

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."

It's the fifth year since I eloped with my boyfriend, Leonard Goodman, and he has gone bankrupt again. My father has tried his best to separate us. He has cut me off financially and left me to fend for myself. In the past five years, I've worked as a janitor and a street vendor. It has been an extremely rough time. But I'm doing all this to help Leonard start his business. I'm rooting for him to stabilize his income so that my father will give in and bless our marriage. However, throughout the past few years, all his attempts to start a business have ended in failure. This time, he's ten million dollars in debt. He looks at me with eyes full of remorse. "Rena, I'm so sorry for dragging you through five years of hardship without making you my wife." I shake my head and tell him it's okay and that I'm willing to go through everything with him. To help him pay off his debt, I secretly take on side jobs at a massage parlor without telling him. Today, I'm attending to a wealthy socialite. She earnestly instructs, "Make sure to watch your pressure during the massage. My body is naturally sensitive and delicate, so my skin bruises very easily. "My husband is a possessive man, and he only allows his marks to remain on my body. Last night, he couldn't control himself and left 108 hickeys on my body. He'll definitely be counting them later." When she finishes speaking, her phone on the table suddenly lights up. On her lock screen, the man holding her in a deep kiss is none other than my boyfriend of five years, Leonard himself.

My ex-fiancé made me do a blood test the night before our wedding. The next day, he threw the genetic report on my face and dumped me over defective genes. The reason was that the Zimmer family only wanted perfect heirs, and he said that I was not worthy. He broke off the engagement, and instantly married the girl-next-door with perfect genes. Five years later, he reappeared in the hospital, clutching his ill son. He saw my daughter who had similar rashes, and he thought I had given birth to his daughter in secrecy. Little did he know that my daughter had nothing to do with him and only had a mild seafood allergy. I would not be defined by the so-called defective genes again, while me and my daughter live happily and healthily, it was their turn to be destroyed.

At our engagement party, my fiancé’s so-called girl best friend showed up wearing a wedding dress identical to mine and stood next to him as they greeted guests. Everyone assumed she was the bride. I wasn’t angry. Instead, I calmly picked up the microphone that had fallen to the floor and tapped it twice. The next second, the LED wall lit up. The surround-sound system came alive. And every socialite in the city heard the unmistakable moans my fiancé and his “best friend” had made together on a mountain road the night before.

Everyone knew that the crown prince, Mathias Cavendish, was a handsome man with a calm and composed demeanor. He was a dream suitor for every woman of marriageable age in the city. However, no one knew how wild he was with Seraphina Montclair when his body pressed against hers every night and he thrust hard into her in all sorts of positions in bed. On the 1,001st night he met her through the secret passage, Seraphina lay weakly in the messy sheets, feeling sore all over. Mathias looked down at her after being fully satisfied, and she finally worked up the courage to say, "Your Highness will be marrying my older sister at the end of the month…" Her fingers clenched the corner of the covers as she said almost inaudibly, "Would you be willing to give me a place by your side on the same day?" Mathias was wearing his clothes when he suddenly paused. "No." He turned to look at her, his cold yet handsome face lit up under the flickering candlelight. "I promised Cordelia that she would be the only woman by my side. Your presence shall never be known to her." Seraphina turned pale instantly. "What would that make me?"

The day before our wedding, my fiance, Brandon Foster, and his girl bestie pulled out their wedding certificate at the casino. Brandon shrugged as he said, "It's just a joke—we'll be divorced tomorrow, and everyone knows that Wanda and I are strictly platonic." Wanda Stiles, however, was smiling provokingly. "Come on—they say marriage is sacred, so you guys can quit gawking already and hand us our wedding presents!" Everyone around the table laughed, with someone saying, "Alright! I own a business in the West End, and you can have it for your wedding… if you beat me at the dice game. Table rules." I didn't argue and merely sat at the table, smiling faintly as I met Brandon's frown. "The dice roll decides the wedding gift, no? I'll play too."

Ophelia Hart had been married to Rowan Cabell for five years. He had been cheating on her for four and a half of those years. His list of mistresses could probably stretch all the way from Merion to Freeka, and the condoms he had gone through could practically wrap around the entire globe. However, Ophelia never made a scene. Whenever Rowan brought another woman to bed, she would quietly prepare a cup of warm water and a box of his favourite lemon-flavored condoms. When they were done, she would calmly arrange for the maid to clean the room. It was all because of the first rule in the Hart family’s code for women—'A husband’s infidelity is never an excuse for anger or confrontation. Never make a scene. Never raise your voice. His comfort must always come first. Violate this rule, and you will pay the price yourself.’ Ophelia had once paid that price for six months. Those six months were more than enough to make the lesson unforgettable. Hence, when Rowan wrapped his arms around Lydia Beaumont and passionately kissed her in front of everyone, then loudly announced that he was going to marry her, Ophelia merely reached into her bag. She pulled out a pack of strawberry chewing gum, offered it to them with both hands, and said sweetly, “Kissing feels better when you’re chewing gum.” Everyone burst into laughter and started cheering. They thought she had finally learned her lesson. However, they had it all wrong, because she was about to leave…

Nicholas Jordan, my fiance, throws a bachelor party three days before our wedding. It is then that his best friend, Clara Gunter, rushes over in a panic, yelling, "You can't marry her, Nicholas!" The people around Nicholas look completely confused. Clara gasps for air before snatching Nicholas' glass and downing its contents. "You said your fiancee has a mysterious background, but I asked my uncle to look into her, and I found out she's a gold digger who cons people into marriage! She has been married thrice and has slept with three other people. "You'd better not behave like a fool and take responsibility for someone else's discarded baggage, Nicholas!" Nicholas' expression shifts for a split second, but he still tries to defend me. "There are so many people with the same name, so it's definitely not my Lillian!" Clara pulls him close against her chest and asks coldly, "Has she brainwashed you? There are only two people by the name of Lillian Naughton around here—one is a gold digger, and the other is the billionaire heiress of the Naughton family. "Do you really think your freeloading fiancee could possibly be the latter one?" I merely sneer at Clara's false accusations. From this moment on, nobody from Gunter Group is ever setting foot inside any retail counter owned by Naughton Group.

On our anniversary, Gus King overslept again. When he woke up, I was curling my lashes in front of the mirror. He looked apologetic. “I’m still adjusting to the time difference. Please try to understand.” For the past month, he and a junior labmate had been traveling around the world collecting marine samples. I calmly put away my mascara. “It’s fine. I made plans with a friend instead. This makeup is too nice to let go to waste.” He relaxed, though his expression turned a little strange. After all, in the past, I would have thrown a fit and cried at him. Gus hugged me from behind and smiled. “You’re getting so mature, sweetheart. By the way, I saw the new photos you posted. Where did you go?” “Oh, Seaview City,” I said casually. “While you were away in the North Isles.” He froze. I’d spent the whole first year of our relationship begging Gus to take me to Seaview City to see the ocean. He always said he’d take me when he had time. For our second, third, and fourth anniversaries, he kept telling me to be more understanding, then headed off with his junior labmate to their next destination. In the fifth year of our relationship, I suddenly stopped waiting. It turned out that traveling alone was pretty fun too.

[Wanna do it?] I accidentally sent the message meant for my bestie to her brother, Gerald Cooper. Ten minutes later, I received his reply. [In the Maybach downstairs. Come down.] To my surprise, her brother was very well endowed too. That night, things got heated and we almost lost control. When we sobered up, he promised me that he would bear responsibility for his actions. He treated me well and doted on me, giving me anything I asked for. However, there was only one rule: I must never admit in public that I was his girlfriend. Five years later, he brought another woman home. With his arm wrapped around the woman, he told me that she was his girlfriend. I confronted him, asking, "If she's your girlfriend, then what would that make me? I waited five long years for you!" He chuckled indifferently and said something that chilled me to my bone. "Wait for me? Did I tell you to wait? Nyssa Bennett, don't ever fall in love with someone so desperately. It's terrifying." So it turned out that my love for him was nothing but trouble. From then on, I tried to live without him, let go of my feelings, and finally left him. But one week later, when I was exchanging my vows with another man, Gerald was standing there in the aisle, looking up at me with reddened eyes.

I stumbled across an encrypted folder on my husband's phone, filled with photos of a little girl I'd never seen before. From newborn to first steps, sorted by month—two full years' worth. But the child in those photos wasn't our daughter. When I confronted him, he said she was a girl named Rosie from the children's home I sponsored. The director sent growth updates, and he'd been saving them for me. I never imagined that my warm, thoughtful husband would use my charity to spin a lie. Because every single photo was geotagged to the apartment complex next to his office. And the children's home was on the other side of the city. I didn't call him out right then. Because I wanted to know whose child she really was.

My fated mate, Riven, was the Alpha of a pathetic pack on the brink of collapse. For five years, I was his shadow, his strategist. I built his pack from nothing until the Alliance finally recognized us, and we were set to move to the fertile lands. Riven promised we'd have our mating ceremony once we settled in the new territory. But at the celebration feast, the night before the move, he threw me in a cell. He publicly announced that Jenna—the she-wolf carrying his pup—would be the pack's Luna. I couldn't believe it. I screamed at him, but he just sneered and pointed to a crystal pulsing with dark magic. "Jenna already has proof of your betrayal! Sleeping with Alphas for their support. You make me sick!" I begged him. But he just sliced my cheek with the silver-edged rejection letter, formally casting me aside. But he didn't know who I really was. I am the Alpha King's daughter. The strategies, the power, the alliances—they weren't his. They were mine. So I took it all back.

Everyone said Alvin Danford and I balanced each other out. We were meant to be. I'd always been lucky. I'd win free meals, score a phone in a drink promotion, or enter a drawing at the company holiday party and walk away with a four-figure cash prize. Alvin was the opposite. Bad luck followed him everywhere. His e-bike got stolen while he was making deliveries. Just when he'd saved some money, a family emergency hit. He finally landed a steady job, then got slammed with an unexpected expense. Every prize I brought home went toward one of his emergencies. I never minded. I believed we balanced each other out. My good luck made up for his bad luck. Then, five years into our relationship, I won my biggest cash prize ever: $20,000.

On my wedding day, the officiant had just asked me whether I would take this man as my husband. Then my fiancé's secretary shoved her way onto the stage, heavily pregnant, sobbing that her baby couldn't grow up without a father. The whole audience was in an uproar. Adrian grasped both of her hands, turned to look at me, and kept his voice mild. "Vivian, she's stood by me for five years. That has to count for something." "The baby's already seven months along. I can't let him come into this world without a name." "You'll remain Mrs. Locke and we can treat her as part of our family. The three of us will build a harmonious life together." I looked at the big backdrop screen behind him, emblazoned with both our names side by side, and I started to laugh. "Adrian, did you forget?" "For this wedding, the hotel is mine and the guests are all those I invited." "Even that tux you're wearing was paid for with the card I gave you." I pulled off my wedding veil and dropped it onto the floor at his feet. "You want to give her a name? Fine." "First, cough up every last cent you owe me."