Mga Maiikling Kwento tungkol sa Melodramatic at mga Nobela ng Scumbag na may Marriage

My boyfriend, Timothy Wells, thought I was overly sensitive, so he created an emotional price list. Crying cost $50. Questioning him cost $100. Mentioning his female friend, Camilla Lane, cost $500. He reassured me, "A relationship can only last if both people are emotionally secure." Last week, while I was trying on wedding dresses, Camilla suddenly stepped on my dress train. I fell to the floor, tears spilling from my eyes from how much it hurt. Without even blinking, Timothy deducted $50 from my account. "Be good. Don't cry. Camilla didn't do it on purpose. You're just taking a joke too far." Then, on Valentine's Day, Timothy stayed out all night with Camilla. While tidying his study, I discovered another emotional price list. "$5,000 for Camilla eating her meals without fuss. $50,000 for acting sweet. If she gets upset, grant her a little wish to make it up to her." My phone suddenly buzzed with a notification. Camilla had posted on social media. "Someone said that even my little mood swings deserve to be taken seriously." In the photo, Timothy had his head slightly bowed as he carefully fastened a luxury necklace around her neck. The comments were full of people expressing their envy. I texted Timothy. "Did you buy Camilla a $60,000 necklace?" A second later, $600 was deducted from my account. Then his reply came through. "$100 for questioning me, $500 for mentioning her. That's a $600 deduction." I stared at the transaction for a moment. Then, I called the wedding planner and canceled the wedding. "The bride is perfectly emotionally stable. Stable enough to decide she doesn't want to get married."

My husband, Shawn Payne, goes bankrupt overnight. That very night, he ships me and our son, Tommy Payne, off to a deserted island, claiming it's the only way to keep us safe from his creditors. Worried sick about leaving him to face the danger alone, I sneak back home halfway there, only to find him throwing a wild party, his arms wrapped tightly around a beautiful woman. His best friend, Ryan Foster, needles him. "You dumped your wife and son in the middle of nowhere. How are they going to survive out there?" Shawn shrugs like it's no big deal. "Yvonne's closing down her dog food factory anyway. I had all the surplus kibble repackaged and shipped to the island. It's more than enough to keep them fed for a few years." The woman, Yvonne Sullivan, purrs and snuggles deeper into his chest. "Oh, babe, you're so good to me and the baby," she coos, gently stroking her belly, which isn't even showing yet. He taps the tip of her nose affectionately. "You're so innocent and soft-hearted. If I don't look out for you, who will?" He pulls Yvonne closer and continues, "For your sake, I had to ship that shrew off to some godforsaken island. If she ever found out you were pregnant, she'd tear you apart. Once you have the baby and she turns two, I'll bring them back. By then, it'll be a done deal. There's nothing she can do about it." His words hit me like a ton of bricks. A cold sweat soaks me to the skin. Three years later, right on schedule, he calls. "Hey honey, how are you and Tommy doing? I'm ready to come pick you guys up." I glance at the man beside me, and a rush of satisfaction washes over me. "We're doing great," I reply. "My new husband treats both me and your son incredibly well."

Neville had set up a special wish jar just for me. Every month, I was allowed only three draws to claim his time and attention as my husband. If I drew Dinner, he'd grace me with his presence for a brief meal, as though he were doing me some enormous favor. If I drew a blank, I wasn't even allowed to see his face. I used to tell myself that this was simply his cold, overly analytical, STEM-brained way of expressing love. That was, until Thanksgiving night, when our three-year-old daughter suffered a sudden, severe asthma attack. It left her gasping for air, her lips turning purple. I grabbed Neville by the sleeve and begged him to let me use all my remaining draws if he'd just drive us to the ER. He frowned and violently shook off my hand. "Rules are rules. Stop using our kid to guilt-trip me." Terrified and desperate, I reached into the jar for my final slip. It read: "Don't disturb each other today." Relief washed visibly over his face. Without even glancing at our daughter, he grabbed his car keys and walked out. When our daughter's condition had stabilized, I stood alone at the hospital billing desk with her in my arms. That was when I spotted Neville in a VIP treatment suite in the ER. He was gently pressing an ice pack against his assistant's knee, which had barely a scrape on it. The girl blushed and cooed, "Mr. Murphy, I didn't even have to draw a slip. Why would you take time off work just to stay with me?" Neville's expression softened with a rare tenderness. "The wish jar is meant to keep ordinary people in line. You have unrestricted VIP access." I held our trembling daughter and struggled to keep my tears from falling. It turned out that only the unloved had to leave their happiness to chance. I turned around, tossed the wish jar straight into the trash, and called my lawyer to draw up a divorce agreement.

Whitney Westbrook clutches her pregnancy test results, her heart brimming with joy as she imagines how thrilled Lennox Graham will be when he finds out she's pregnant. But a little girl suddenly rushes out from around the corner, startling her. "Mommy, hurry up and divorce Daddy! He's going to get you killed!" Whitney's first thought is: Whose kid is pulling a prank on me? She manages a strained smile, then crouches down to meet Nola at eye level. "Sweetie, you've got the wrong person." "No, I don't!" Nola suddenly raises her voice. "Mommy, Daddy doesn't love you at all! He's always been in love with Winona!" Whitney's expression freezes. People in their social circle occasionally mention that Winona Sterling is the only woman Lennox ever loved in his youth. Yet everyone insists it's nothing more than a youthful infatuation, something that no longer matters. "Who are you, exactly?" Whitney's voice trembles. "My name is Nola Graham." Nola sobs so hard she can barely catch her breath. "You just found out you were pregnant when Winona got divorced. After that, Daddy devoted himself entirely to her. After you gave birth to me, your health never recovered. When I was five, you closed your eyes in your hospital bed and never opened them again." Nola throws her arms around Whitney's legs. "I made a wish at your funeral, and that's how I got here—to stop this from happening to you." Whitney takes a sudden step backward. Her rational mind tells her that none of this makes sense. A little girl suddenly shows up claiming to be your future daughter and telling you that your own husband will be the death of you. Even a novel wouldn't dare come up with a plot like that.

After I lost my five-year-old daughter, I slit my wrists for the 49th time in a haze of grief. My husband was bandaging the wound when he suddenly broke down. "You and our daughter got into that car accident because I put sleeping pills in your milk. "I've already stayed by your side through your treatment to atone for what I did. How much longer are you going to torture me?" I stared at Nicholas Halston, my eyes wide with disbelief. He took a deep breath, as if a weight had finally lifted from his shoulders. "The woman I've been seeing on the side for the past three years is actually your foster sister. "I drugged you because she wanted to do something reckless in the house that day. I was afraid you'd find out and divorce me. "I didn't know you'd leave the house afterward." The relief on his face felt like a rusted blade driven straight into my heart. After I drank the milk, the nanny rushed in to tell me our daughter had a high fever. I couldn't reach Nicholas, so I drove her to the hospital myself. Halfway there, drowsiness overwhelmed me. I slammed into an oncoming car, and our daughter died on the spot. Grief and guilt consumed me. I hated myself for the carelessness I believed had killed her. I never imagined that Nicholas and Rosalind Sommers were the true culprits. I laughed and cried like I'd lost my mind. Nicholas spoke again, his voice heavy with endless exhaustion. "Whether you want to have another child and start fresh or keep trying to kill yourself, that's up to you." The next second, his phone lit up with a pregnancy test report from Rosalind.

My CEO husband told me he had a last-minute job to handle. He said that because of it, he couldn't accompany me to retrieve the body. Then I went online and saw a photo my husband's secretary had posted as a birthday status update. [Thanks for the red velvet cake, Mr. Mitchell! Happy birthday to me!] I smiled and left a comment. [Happy birthday.] That single comment sparked a frenzy among my colleagues. They immediately began placing bets on how big of a scene I would make. Then he called. "Lucy is just celebrating her birthday, Brianna! Why do you have to ruin it by showing up in the comments?! Don't you know how sensitive she is? How is she supposed to feel comfortable at work now?! "She's only been here for two years. She doesn't even have any friends! What's wrong with me looking out for an employee and keeping her company on her birthday? A lucky girl who grew up in a wealthy family like you wouldn't understand! "If you want to talk about this, fine. Wait until I get back. But delete that comment right now! We can always wait another few days before retrieving his body. Where is your father going to go anyway? He's already dead!" I clenched my fist and replied, "That won't be necessary." By the time he returned, we would already be legally divorced.

During the bridal pickup ritual, my maid of honor, Heather Monroe, locks me and Nicola Sanderson, my fiancé's best friend, in the same room. According to local tradition, the blindfolded groom must carry the woman he believes to be his bride to the bridal car. Afraid that my fiancé, Julian Bennett, might mistake me for someone else, I purposely wear the couple bracelet we've shared throughout our seven years together. But when Julian feels the bracelet on my wrist, he pauses for only a second before letting go. Then, he walks straight over to Nicola and sweeps her into his arms. Our family and friends burst into laughter. "Childhood sweethearts really do have the best chemistry!" "Julian, why don't you just switch brides today?" I chase Julian to the door and remind him that he's carrying the wrong person. But he only pulls Nicola closer. "I'm just following the rules. You should've spoken up earlier if you didn't want this to happen." The bridal car can only seat one bride. Julian helps Nicola into the car and hands her the bridal bouquet. Then, he tells me to take a taxi to the hotel on my own. Nicola's boyfriend, Larry Connell, can't bear to watch any longer. Without a word, he opens the door of another car for me. It's not until the wedding ceremony begins that Julian finally remembers me. He sends me a message, saying, "Stop messing around and come to the hotel now. We need to get married." I look up at Larry, who has been abandoned just like me, then turn off my phone. "Julian and Nicola want to marry the wrong people? Fine, then let's do the same, Larry."

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…

After the car accident, one of the Johnson sons was dead and the other gravely injured. When my devout, devoted husband woke up in the hospital, he called out, "Dorothy." He claimed that his body then held the soul of his brother, Elias Johnson. I went mad, calling doctors, priests, anyone I could, desperate to bring my husband back. It was not until that night that I overheard his conversation with our son: "Father, you've loved aunt for years. You even kept yourself chaste in your private prayer room, waiting. Now, finally, you can be with her openly." The man in the bed reached out to stroke our son's hair. "If it weren't to stop your mother from destroying her relationship, I wouldn't have married her." I hid in the shadows, still reeling from their words, when I saw what happened after our son left. The husband I had always known, icy, composed, and ascetic to maintain his devout faith for seven years, was then holding his sister-in-law close on that tiny hospital bed, sharing a warmth meant for lovers. The next day, I applied for Jim Johnson's death certificate and burned our marriage certificate. At his grand wedding, I climbed aboard the helicopter sent to fetch me. However, my once-cold husband went mad, chasing after us down several streets, desperate and unhinged.

My blood-bonded vampire mate left me while I was pregnant to be with his "first love" in the human world. When danger struck, he abandoned our son to protect her human child, who was not in any danger. While our son was struggling with lethal UV burns and calling for his father through a high fever, he was celebrating under citywide fireworks with that human boy, who only had a common cold. He even took the life-saving serum I had prepared for our son, just to use it for the boy’s "pre-transformation conditioning." He coldly stated, "Vampires are resilient; he’ll endure it. Human children are too fragile." After four years of raising our son alone, I finally decided to leave. I officially cut our blood ties and moved away with our son. Only then did he find out that his "first love" had been lying to him all along. After learning the truth, the arrogant vampire prince wept and begged for us to come back.

I'm the Donna of the Vitale family, the wife of Domenico Vitale, the woman everyone is expected to bow to. Yet whether I need to access family funds, arrange a car, make a doctor's appointment, or even prepare a gown for a party, I must submit an application first. The woman who approves every request is Camilla Marino, Domenico's most trusted secretary. He says this is family protocol. As the Donna, I should be the first to follow the rules. Things change when I suffer a massive hemorrhage during my pregnancy. My request for emergency medical treatment is pending approval, yet I have already waited longer than I should have. I call Domenico and beg, "Domenico, please. Tell Camilla to approve it. We're going to lose our baby." He gently scolds me for trying to bypass family protocol. "Do as Camilla says." Just like that, he hangs up. That night, I lose my baby, as well as whatever love I have left for Domenico. I file for divorce and leave with nothing but a few clothes I owned before the marriage. He's convinced I'm doing this out of jealousy toward Camilla, that it is a calculated scheme to make him come crawling after me. He even tracks me down at my new place of work and publicly orders my medical treatment to be stopped, certain that once I lose the Vitale family's money and protection, I'll have no choice but to beg him. Trembling, our private physician tells him the truth. "Don Vitale, Signora miscarried a long time ago."

On Christmas Eve, I giddily wait for my husband, Hunter Gibson, to come home while nursing my eight-month pregnancy. Unexpectedly, Hunter bursts through the front door with his childhood friend, Winter Jones, in his arms. I attempt to help him out, only to get shoved to the floor instead. My belly bumps into a corner of the coffee table, causing pain to shoot up my nerves. Cold sweat soon beads on my forehead, and yet Hunter doesn't even spare me another glance. "Get out of my way! Someone drugged Winnie's drink at the bar! If I don't purge the poison out of her, she'll die!" As I shield my belly, I dig out my phone. "I'll call an ambulance for her—" But Hunter snatches my phone away before hurling it at the floor, breaking it into splinters. Then, he grabs me by the neck angrily. "Are you trying to ruin Winnie's reputation? If word gets out, how is she going to live with her head hung high?" In order to prevent me from "ruining his plan", Hunter decides to trap me on the balcony while disregarding my pleas and the fact that I'm only wearing thin pajamas. "You should take some time to cool off! Once you've finally learned your lesson, you're only permitted entry!" I can only slam my palms onto the glass door desperately with tears running down my face. There, I'm forced to watch as Hunter and Winter go at it like desperate rabbits on the carpet in the living room, with the Christmas songs serving as their ambiance. A heavy snowfall has occurred that night. At the crack of dawn the next morning, Hunter finally remembers that I exist. He calls my number, yet my phone was turned off. Furious, Hunter yells, "Where the hell did you go? Winnie's stomach is in discomfort! Get your ass back here right now and cook her some soup!" What he doesn't know is that I'm right outside the balcony door. The thing is, dead people are incapable of answering phone calls, not to mention Hunter has already broken my phone, to begin with.

I was born without the ability to feel pain. When I was three years old, my nanny got annoyed with my crying and secretly pinched my arm until it bruised. I barely reacted, but all ten of her fingers dislocated at once. When I was eight years old, my older cousin shoved me into a swimming pool. I choked on a little water, but she ended up on the pool deck, struggling as water somehow filled her lungs. Later, my family brought in an elderly man who said I was protected by a powerful spell. Anyone who deliberately hurt me would suffer tenfold the pain in my place. From then on, no one in my family dared lay a finger on me. At 24 years old, my family arranged a marriage alliance with the Gardner family. At the engagement party, Hayden Gardner's beloved, Bailey Burke, suddenly poured warm coffee over her own wrist. She looked at me with red-rimmed eyes. "Sienna, if you don't like me, just say so. Why did you bump into me on purpose?" Hayden immediately swept her into his arms and ordered me to apologize. Mom stood beside me, shooting me warning looks. She had warned me beforehand that Bailey loved to blame others and play the victim. Mom had told me not to get drawn into her games. Looking at Bailey's barely reddened wrist, the whole act struck me as unfair. So I held out my arm to her. "If you insist I spilled it on you, then go ahead and do the same to me." Bailey froze for a moment, then let out a scornful laugh. "You asked for it. I'll give you what you want." She turned, grabbed a full kettle of freshly boiled water from a server, and flung it straight at my arm. The next second, Bailey's smile froze.

I am born with a body that draws men in, but the moment I marry, I develop a terrifying allergy to them. Every time my husband and I try to be intimate, my skin erupts in violent rashes, and I nearly suffocate. Still, I want a child so badly that one night I climb into his bed in secret, willing to gamble with my life. Strangely, nothing happens—no hives, no swelling, no shortness of breath. My husband even takes me to a clinic, where the baby is confirmed healthy. For the first time, I believe life can return to normal. Eight months in, we share a bed again. The allergic reaction hits instantly, worse than ever, and I'm rushed to the hospital. When the procedure ends, he is nowhere to be seen. I step into the hallway and hear him talking with his friends. "Did you see her face? Swollen like that. Ridiculous." Leonard Carter swings a vial of the custom serum he has been giving me and snorts. "I engineered this formula myself. It makes her break out the second a man touches her. It keeps her off me. "She wanted a baby so badly. Fine. She's carrying mine and Hannah's. That should make her feel accomplished. "When she gives birth, I'll let her spend the rest of her life calling herself Mrs. Carter." Blood drains from my face. The child I've been cherishing isn't even mine.

The night before my wedding, I accidentally connected to Jonas Whitford's Bluetooth earbuds. I was about to disconnect when I heard him talking to his future self, the version of him from 10 years later. "Don't marry Elodie Chandler! "She found out the marriage license was fake. "She killed your first baby with Luna Fairweather, and then she ruined Luna's face with acid!" A chill ran through me. It felt as if a bomb had gone off in my head. The Luna he spoke of was Luna Fairweather, my best friend. Just moments earlier, she had slapped Jonas across the face because he forgot to pull out my chair. Everyone knew the two of them could not stand each other. I stared at Jonas in a daze. He stood out on the balcony, smoking, his tone completely casual. "Don't worry. I'll be careful this time. "I won't let Elodie lose her mind, and I won't let Luna get hurt ever again, not even a little. "I'll keep them both safe."

Nolan Gallagher had taken a compulsive liar, Wendy Saunter, under his wing as his god-sister after she claimed she could bring him financial luck. No matter how outrageous Wendy's claims were, Nolan always went out of his way to make them come true. When Wendy publicly livestreamed to the entire internet that Nolan would abandon his wedding for her, he left me standing at the altar 99 times. When Wendy bragged in front of our friends and family that Nolan would divorce me for her, he married and divorced me eight times, turning me into the laughingstock of our social circle. Whenever I showed the slightest sign of displeasure, Nolan would dismiss casually, saying, "She's childish. She's just making up a few stories. Don't take it seriously." For the sake of the child in my womb, I had swallowed my anger and given in time and time again. But I never expected Wendy to make another boast while I was in labor, claiming she could hear the voice of the baby inside my belly. "The baby says he wants to come out at three in the morning." Just to fulfill a careless boast Wendy had made, Nolan had forcibly pushed my nearly full-term baby back inside me. When my child finally came out at three in the morning, his little body was blue and purple. He was already dead. That also happened to be the day our divorce was set to be finalized. What Nolan didn't know was that for my ninth marriage, the man I was going to marry would be his sworn enemy.

The fertility clinic called to inform me that my embryos were ready for transfer. I touched my abdomen, still numb from the anesthesia of that morning's egg retrieval. Even with cutting-edge medical technology, embryos couldn't be prepared this quickly. Before I could call back to clarify, my husband stopped me. "Mom's been pressing us hard. I pulled some strings to fast-track the process so you can get pregnant sooner. Imagine twins! My buddies will be green with envy." Silent, I drove straight to the clinic and dialed 911 on the way. "Hello? I'm reporting a fertility clinic involved in illegal surrogacy."

For five years of marriage, my husband, Caleb Sullivan, had only one rule when it came to buying household appliances: if he could get it secondhand, he would never buy it new. He had found our refrigerator on an online marketplace, picked up our washing machine from a local seller, and even complained that the robot vacuum I had spent six months waiting for at a discounted price of 300 dollars was too expensive. "We're not putting our lives on display for other people. What matters is that the machine works." I had always assumed he had grown up poor and was simply afraid of going back to those days. That was until my best friend, Yasmine Owens, moved into her new home and Caleb asked me to help her unpack her deliveries. A 500 dollars robot vacuum, a 2,000 dollars washer-dryer set, and even the coffee machine I had wanted to buy last year but could not bring myself to splurge on were all sitting in her kitchen. I stood there, stunned for a long moment. "Did you strike it rich or something?" Yasmine laughed as she unwrapped another package. "Caleb bought them for me." Caleb did not even look up. "She lives alone, so it's safer to have new appliances. You and I both know how to find good secondhand deals. There's no need to waste money." When I got home, our old washing machine, which had been leaking for a while, broke down again. I took our shared tablet to list it on the online marketplace, but when I opened the app, I discovered Caleb had forgotten to log out of his account. I tapped on his purchase history and found a total of 47 orders—every single one had been delivered to Yasmine's address. The sideboard, the floor lamp, the juicer, the old television… The first dozen or so purchases were all things Caleb had told me he had found at a bargain over the years. Things we had been using in our own home all along. As I stared at our leaking, battered washing machine, it finally dawned on me—it was not that he knew how to find good secondhand deals. He had simply been waiting for Yasmine to wear things out first.

I married the same man nine times. And each time, he left me for his first love, divorcing me nine times as well. The first time we parted, I lost control and threw all his belongings out the door. By the fourth divorce, I begged him to leave his luggage behind out of fear he might never return. The eighth time, I had learned to obediently pack his things, careful not to upset him. My breakdowns, my pleas, and my obedience always brought him back to me. Each time, he honored his promises. And each time, we divorced again, just like before. Until this time. This time, I packed my own things and left without telling him. A month from now, I will be gone for good.

For seven years, I stood by Reese Moretti as he fought his way up from a mafia nobody until he stood as an equal among the Three Families. Then I got pregnant with Reese's child. He promised me the wedding of the century. I was overjoyed and couldn't wait for our future together. Until his childhood sweetheart, Layla, came back, and everything changed. Layla was frail, and she'd once done Reese a great favor. Without even realizing it, he began to favor her over me—his fiancée. One week before the wedding, Layla shoved me to the floor. She leaned in close to my ear. "Ivy, if Reese walks in and sees us both on the floor, who do you think he'll worry about?" Before I could react, Layla suddenly screamed and collapsed. When Reese rushed in, Layla was clutching her chest, whispering weakly that her old heart condition had flared up. "Reese, I can't breathe. I don't think I can hold on much longer." Before I could say a word, Reese scooped Layla up in his arms and rushed her to the private medical wing. Blood spread beneath me. In that moment, the pain in my body was nothing compared to the agony of my heart tearing apart. Seven years of love and the child not yet fully formed inside me vanished in that single instant. Heartbroken and numb, I decided to leave and let them be together. But Reese refused to let me go.