Scumbag Face Slapping Short Stories & Novels

My ex, Luca Romano, had a rival family on his tail, so he begged me to hide him at my family's private estate for five days. For old times' sake, I agreed and gave him a temporary passcode that would work for five days. Five days later, I finished my work out of town and returned to the estate. When I entered the passcode, the door wouldn't open. Someone had changed it. I rang the doorbell. A woman I had never seen before came out wearing my nightgown. She yawned as if she owned the place. The moment she saw me, she looked at me with disgust. "So you're the ex-girlfriend who won't leave Luca alone? "You two already broke up, and now you're showing up at his place in the middle of the night? Don't you have any shame?"

It was three days before New Year's Eve when a court summons arrived. The court ruled that I had defamed Ethan Tanner and his mistress when I insulted them in the homeowners' group chat and ordered me to issue a public apology every day for fifteen days straight. Ethan was beside himself with delight as he waved the judgment in my face. "I told you. This is a society governed by law. Shrews who hurl abuse have to pay the price. You better get cracking on those 15 days of apologies and not a day less!" I stared at his smug face. Instead of crying or making a scene, I turned around and set up my phone stand. "Fine. Have it your way. I'll apologize right now." "I'm gonna make sure that you go viral and watch as your whole life goes up in flames," I thought to myself.

Tomorrow was supposed to be my engagement party with my fiance, Jason Miller. To surprise him, I flew back a day earlier after spending three long years studying abroad in London. The moment my plane landed, I called him. But he just laughed and casually dropped a bombshell. He had lost a high-stakes poker game, and he had just wagered me off to his friend as a free maid for a month. Before I could even speak, my phone lit up with a notification. He had added me to his wealthy inner-circle group chat. The title was vicious. [Congrats to Marcus on his new ugly maid!] Jason dropped a photo of me, from before I left the country, into the chat. In the picture, my skin was broken out, my hair was a wild mess, and I had severe buckteeth that made me look completely awkward. The group chat exploded. "Holy crap, Jason! You're brutal! She looks frightening!" "A bet's a bet, Marcus! You gotta bring the monster to the yacht party tomorrow!" Someone immediately set up a poll, betting cash on whether I would actually have the nerve to show up in a swimsuit. Jason instantly dropped ten grand on the poll, betting I would hide in embarrassment. "Sorry to ruin your eyes, bro," he texted the group. "Just think of her as a free circus act." I stared at the screen, a cold smile touching my lips. He never bothered to call me while I was away. He had no idea I spent the last three years in Europe undergoing three hundred thousand dollars' worth of top-tier facial reconstruction and styling. He had no idea that a single unedited photo of my face was now pulling hundreds of thousands of followers online. They wanted a show? Tomorrow on that yacht, I would give them one.

For three years, my husband and I had lived apart because of our long-distance relationship. Then I landed a bridal makeup job in the city where he often stayed for work. I planned to surprise him after I finished the job, but three days before the wedding, I sprained my wrist. I explained the situation to my client and offered her a full refund, but she refused. "Everyone only gets one special day like this in their life, Felicia! I want my husband to see me at my prettiest on the most important day of our lives! I don't wanna be anything less for him..." I couldn't convince her otherwise, so I decided to bring my apprentice, Dakota McCree, to apply the makeup while I guided her. Then I stepped into the reception hall and came face-to-face with a gigantic banner that made my blood run cold. The groom looked exactly like my husband. He even had the same name. Panicked, I spun around and scanned my surroundings. My own little brother was at the entrance, greeting guests. My childhood best friend was dressed as a bridesmaid, busy making sure everything went according to plan. Dakota hurried over to me with our cosmetics case, her face bright with excitement. "Come on, Felicia! The bride's waiting for us!" I stopped her, unwound the bandage around my wrist, and flexed my fingers. "Change of plan. I think this calls for my personal touch."

To help his childhood friend secure a spot in a high-ranking institution, my boyfriend, Frederick Linton, steals my academic report. The two of them use my work to publish a research paper before I can. Then, they proceed to accuse me of plagiarism. After they twist the truth and spread it online, I become the target of a vicious wave of cyberbullying. Eventually, the relentless harassment drives me into severe depression. Meanwhile, Frederick's childhood friend, Elaine Anders, rises to prominence in the academic world using my work. On the day Elaine receives her award, Frederick gets down on one knee and proposes to her. I, on the other hand, end my life by jumping off a rooftop. When I open my eyes again, I find myself back on the very day I finished my research paper.

Ronan Blackwell was wrapping his arm around some girl as they stepped out of the hotel elevator. I was sitting right there on the lobby couch, snacking on nuts. The second Ronan locked eyes with me, his face went paler than a three-day-old corpse. The girl in his arms reacted first, shoving him away with a sharp gasp. "Miss West, wait, it's not what it looks like!" she squeaked. I rubbed my forehead. "Alright, drop the act. You're practically bursting at the seams trying not to laugh." Honestly, it wasn't just her. I was barely holding back a massive grin myself. Ronan getting caught red-handed cheating meant I was walking away with ten percent of the family company stock. Jackpot.

The day our daughter got into a top college, my husband, Henry Kushner, handed her five $50 bills. "That's your monthly allowance." I stared at him. "She needs clothes. Makeup. How is $250 a month supposed to cover all that?" Henry frowned. "She's your daughter too. And when I was in college, $250 was more than enough." Ashley looked down at the cash, eyes red. My chest tightened. I turned away and pulled out my phone, ready to send her the money I'd secretly saved for a laptop. Then Henry's phone rang. He jumped up and headed straight for the balcony. The glass door didn't close all the way. His voice floated back inside—soft, warm, worried. "Anna, why would you borrow money from me? You don't have to. "Take the $30,000. Keep it. Don't worry about paying me back. You and Brandon shouldn't have to go without. If he wants to attend a summer program abroad, let him." Anna Currey. The woman Henry had never gotten over. And Brandon was her son. I walked back into the living room, numb. Ashley was on the floor, taping the broken handle of her old suitcase. Trying to save money. She kept her head down, too embarrassed to look at me. I walked over, snatched the beat-up suitcase away, and pulled her into my arms. Forget Henry's $250. We didn't need it. Once the semester started, I was getting a lawyer. And a divorce. Henry could keep his money.

When Derek Sloan's childhood sweetheart, Nina Graham, has another depressive episode, he hands me divorce papers. I calmly sign my name and tell him I'm leaving the country. He looks at me in surprise, then it dawns on him. "You're so well-behaved this time. Did you realize that throwing a fit won't work, so now you're trying a different way to win me back?" he asks. "Going abroad is fine, too. "That way, you won't upset Nina. Once she's better, I'll come get you." I return my wedding ring to him and look at the ugly scars on my wrist. I say calmly, "There's no need to. Let's let each other go and stop dragging this out."

The night before the Global Finals, my boyfriend, our team captain, handed my starting spot to an academy trainee just to indulge her. Every question I got wrong, I had to hand over a piece of gear that had carried me through championships. But every answer had been rigged from the start. In the end, he pulled my account key and gave my Finals seat to the trainee. "Just let her play one match. You're twenty-six, stop being so petty." I snapped my account card in half on the spot and signed the termination papers they'd drawn up. The whole team expected me to crawl back to base. But when the Finals lineups took the stage, I was wearing our rivals' starting jersey, standing on the other side. They still had no idea who had really been carrying whom to those three straight championships.

My boyfriend's tablet, left behind at my place, suddenly lit up with a group chat notification. "Ron, that gold digger's totally hooked, right? When are you taking her to the luxury boutique so we can humiliate her in public?" "Everything's ready. We're just waiting to film her fawning over the designer goods like the greedy little gold digger she is. The guys are gonna love it!" The group chat was called "Exposing Gold Diggers." And my boyfriend Ron was the one who'd created it. I opened the tablet and scrolled through the message history. Screen after screen of vile, disgusting garbage. My blood boiled with every word. So that so-called love at first sight at the designer boutique had been a setup from the very start. He'd spent the better part of a year carefully worming his way into my life, showering me with attention, all while treating me like prey, waiting for the perfect moment to humiliate me for an audience. What a joke. I was the real deal, a genuine heiress from one of the wealthiest families in the country. The gifts he'd gone to such lengths to give me? I couldn't have cared less about any of them. If he was so obsessed with playing people, then I'd give him a taste of his own medicine! Let him see what it felt like to be the one getting played!

Every single time I get intimate with my boyfriend, Lyle Holloway, I notice he always changes the bedsheets afterward. After a frenzied release, I can't help but ask him about it. Lyle gently twirls a strand of my hair around his finger and smiles tenderly. "Of course it's because your best friend sweats buckets. Every time before I do it with you, she gets jealous and insists on going first. Ever since I met her, I've realized that women really are made of water." His response catches me off guard, and I stare at him in utter disbelief. "What did you just say?" He stubs out his cigarette, a half-smile playing on his lips. "Grace, your mom was tortured to death in bed by your dad, not by me. So, every time you lie in bed like a corpse, it really kills the mood. That's your trauma, not mine, and you shouldn't expect me to pay the price for it, got it? "In fact, you should thank your best friend. She's helping you maintain our relationship!" My best friend, Pamela Sinclair, rushes in with tears in her eyes and immediately slaps Lyle across the face. "Apologize to Grace right now, you bastard!" I gaze at the two of them, but all I can taste in my throat is bitterness. Turns out, all these years, I've been nothing more than a burdensome killjoy in Lyle's eyes. I'm done squeezing into a bed that was never big enough for three of us…

The new intern had a habit of calling my husband "Daddy." "Daddy, I am having the worst luck today. Could you please go buy me some feminine products?" "Daddy, I cannot get the zipper on my dress unstuck. Can you help me?" "Daddy, why do you not have my hair tie around your wrist? I think you deserve a punishment. Wear two. Pink ones, okay?" I frowned as irritation simmered beneath the surface. My husband waved it off with a casual smile. "She is just being playful. Do not take it seriously. She is young and enjoying the novelty. She will get over it soon enough." I said nothing. I waited until the night of the company’s annual gala. She suddenly stumbled in front of everyone and fell straight into my husband’s arms. Her eyes glistened with tears as she looked up at him. Her voice sounded soft and pitiful. "Daddy, my foot hurts so badly. I think I twisted my ankle." To my disbelief, my husband crouched down in front of the entire room, slipped off her high heels, and gently massaged her ankle. The room fell silent. No one seemed to know where to look. A few people turned toward me with clear sympathy in their eyes. I rose from my seat in a calm and unhurried manner. "Since everyone is here, I have an announcement to make." I looked around the room before I delivered the words that stopped every conversation. "As of tonight, the company will have a new CEO." The intern shot to her feet. "What?" She stared at me in disbelief. Her expression twisted with anger. "You are nothing but his wife. What makes you think you have the right to take Daddy’s position?" I smiled. I turned toward my husband, who had remained silent throughout the entire exchange. "Seth Hawkins. "Tell her. "Do I have the right?"

My ex-boyfriend was banished from his pack. He begged me to let him hide out at my neutral clinic for five days. We had been together for four years. For old times' sake, I gave him a temporary access code. The day I wrapped up an emergency house call for another pack and rushed back to the clinic overnight, I couldn't get the door open no matter what I tried. I rang the doorbell. Slippers shuffled inside, followed by a woman's impatient voice. "Who is it? Don't you know pregnant women need their rest at night?" The door cracked open, the chain lock still in place. A heavily pregnant stranger stood there wearing my white coat, glaring at me with undisguised contempt. "You must be Evelyn. "Ronan told me all about you. He already rejected you in front of everyone. How shameless can you be, chasing him all the way here to harass him?"

The stray cat I adopted had recently started looking at my boyfriend, Logan Bennett, and his female best friend, Chloe Dawson, like they were complete idiots. Then one day, Chloe climbed into the passenger seat of Logan’s car again and shot me a provocative smile. A fierce little voice suddenly rang out in my head: “Human, that woman is calling you an idiot in her head! She’s also planning to get your man drunk tonight! Hurry up and slap her! If you do, I’ll make sure you find money on the street when you leave!” I froze and stared down at Mochi in my arms. So my cat could not only talk, but also read minds and predict the future? Fine. From today on, Mochi and I would make these two shameless cheaters pay—and make sure everyone knew exactly who they were!

The day I found out I was pregnant, my husband, Julian Calloway, told me he had been reborn and wanted a divorce. “Three months from now, I’ll go bankrupt. You’ll work yourself to death helping me pay off my debts, and you’ll die young. “This time, I absolutely refuse to drag you down with me. Take this $9,000,000. We’ll get divorced—” Before he could finish, I picked up the pen and signed. “Fine. Just transfer the money to my account.” That evening, while I was gathering my things from the living room, I overheard Julian’s secretary, Naomi Foster, speaking smugly through his phone. “I can’t believe she’s actually that stupid. How did she ever get into Harvard? “You made up some ridiculous story about being reborn and going bankrupt, and she actually believed you.” Julian chuckled. “Who cares? If she leaves quietly with the money, isn’t that better than having her make a scene?” I raised an eyebrow. Of course I knew he was lying. Because I really had been reborn. And in one month, Julian Calloway really would go bankrupt.

I had been able to see the labels above people's heads ever since I was little. When I was three, my grandpa held a family dinner at his house. Dad showed up with his secretary, Vivian Clarke. The moment she walked through the door, she went straight to Mom's seat. She rubbed her lower back and smiled sweetly. "Mrs. Lincoln, I hope you don't mind. Mr. Lincoln and I have been working on a project all day, and we're exhausted." I looked around the room. Above Eric's head was a glaring label. "Cheater." Above Mom's head was a dull gray label. "Loser." And above Vivian's head was a brightly shining label. "Ultimate gold digger." I immediately tugged on Eric's sleeve and asked loudly, "Dad, what do ‘cheater’ and ‘gold digger’ mean?"

On the day I returned to my alma mater for its centennial celebration, my assistant sent me a screenshot of a social media post. "I hope my girl's first time performing onstage at eighteen goes perfectly." In the photo, an unfamiliar girl stood backstage in my custom-made gown, looking as graceful as a white swan. The post was made by my husband, and he had hidden it from me alone. I was staring at the photo, about to message him and demand an explanation, when the girl appeared onstage at the celebration. I was seated in the front row. She looked exactly as she did in the photo, singing the song my husband had composed for me. After a moment's thought, I took out my phone, recorded her performance, and sent it straight to him. "Honey, what a coincidence. I just found my missing gown and necklace here at the school. "This girl is even singing the song you wrote for me. Anyone who didn't know better might think she was some obsessed fan trying to be me. "Tell me, if I call the police right now, how many years do you think she'd get?" The moment my message went through, a spotlight swept across the audience and landed squarely on my husband's face. He appeared on the big screen holding a banner covered with messages cheering the girl on. Without hesitation, I rose from my seat, turned to him, and smiled. "Fancy seeing you here, Honey."

The night before the Fourth of July holiday, my husband gathered the entire company for what I thought would finally be our long-awaited public announcement. Instead, his clueless assistant burst into the room wearing a wedding dress. "Cameron, I'm here to marry you." He didn't turn her down. If anything, his eyes softened with unmistakable affection as he promoted her to vice president on the spot. The entire company erupted in cheers for their love story. When my coworkers noticed me standing frozen off to the side, one of them couldn't resist reminding me. "Stephanie, you've been with Mr. Cox for nine years. You can't let a moment this special pass without saying something!" I smiled, walked onto the stage, slipped off my wedding ring, and tossed it to Poppy Campbell. "What kind of wedding doesn't come with a ring? Here, take it."

Seven days after my husband’s funeral, I saw him at the airport, about to leave the country with my best friend. He was holding my best friend’s hand with one hand and pushing a suitcase with the other. My parents were right behind them, apparently there to see them off. When I stepped into their path, Adrian Shaw didn’t look the least bit guilty. Instead, his first instinct was to pull Chloe Bennett protectively behind him. “Hailey, faking my death was my idea. Chloe had nothing to do with it. “She’s pregnant. If you want to lose your mind over this, take it out on me.” My fingers tightened around the pregnancy test results in my pocket until my knuckles turned white. Adrian only frowned at me. “Don’t worry. I still love you. “I’ll spend summers with her in the Southern Hemisphere, then come back north to be with you in the winter. That way, neither of you gets neglected.” The people around us stared at me like I was the punch line to some cruel joke. Chloe’s eyes reddened as she tucked herself against his chest. “Hailey, I’m sorry. I’ve been in love with him for years. “I know this is wrong, but feelings aren’t something you can control. Not when three people are involved.” With that, she reached for the suitcase that had already cleared inspection and started to leave. But I’d worked in customs enforcement for five years. I’d learned to spot things most people would miss. And the heart-shaped stone inside her suitcase was giving off a faint, icy glow unlike anything I’d ever seen from an ordinary mineral. I hit the alarm button without hesitation. “I’m sorry, ma’am. You’re suspected of carrying an unidentified restricted item.” “You’ll need to submit to an inspection immediately.”

Three days until the Whitfield Scholarship exam. Out of nowhere, a neighbor from our old street called to ask how much the villa had sold for. "The way that mother and son throw money around, it must have gone for a fortune." I had no idea what she was talking about. The villa was the wedding gift my mother gave me. I would never have sold it. Three years ago, my son had just won a place at the best public high school in the city. My husband said Noah was coddled and had no idea how ordinary people lived. To break him of it, we moved out of the villa and into a cramped, aging walk-up. Three years of high school. I lived that lean life beside him, buying marked-down produce. Noah traded his phone for a cheap flip phone, and he grew quieter every year. He stopped asking for spending money, and he never dared ask for a review course. He worked through his textbooks and borrowed practice books from the boy at the next desk. I asked my husband whether we were being too hard on him. "Anyone destined for greatness can survive a little hardship," Daniel said. Then my neighbor sent me the photographs. My son had gone without for three years, treating one exam as the only road out. The son of Daniel's childhood sweetheart was living in the villa my family gave me, attending an elite prep school, dressed head to toe in designer labels. He would not even have to sit the exam. A large enough donation was buying him a place at a school overseas. Furious, I pulled every transfer my husband had made. I was going to find out exactly who had been spending the money my son went without for three years.