Scumbag Marriage Short Stories & Novels

I'm sold into the underground and turned into an anthropodermic fan, suffering endless days of humiliation. It isn't until my spine shatters from a hammered nail that my brother—Daxon Smyth—and my fiance—Joshua Moore—finally arrive. The two men who've doted on me for 20 years swear to make the guilty pay in blood. And I think my salvation has come. But when I overhear their words, I realize the truth—every torment I've suffered is of their doing, all to make me behave and stop me from competing with the true heiress they've found. When another man carries me away from that place, they lose their minds and scour through all ends of the world, trying to find me.

After eight years together, I took a hit for my surgeon boyfriend. Milton Woodard vowed I could ask for anything. Everyone assumed I'd seize the chance to propose, locking him down for good. Instead, I looked him in the eye and said, "Let's break up." Then I walked away without a backward glance. Milton smirked, betting with his buddies that I'd come crawling back in under three days, calling me a desperate lapdog chasing his attention. He was dead wrong because I'd been reborn. In my last life, I proposed to him and won. Overwhelmed by the news, his first love threw herself off a rooftop and killed herself. Milton unleashed his grief-fueled rage on me. On our wedding night, he slashed my face and locked me in a dank, claustrophobic basement. When I got pregnant, he force-fed me supplements until the baby grew too big for me to deliver. I hemorrhaged, torn apart, and died in agony on the birthing table. Now, reborn on the day I saved his life, I was done playing his fool.

I was a soldier's wife. Less than two years into our marriage, I asked Lucian Summers for a divorce because I found a little handmade bracelet at home. It was not mine, and Lucian had never bought me cute little trinkets like this before. Lucian scoffed and said, "All because of that little thing?" I could not be bothered to explain this time, so I replied coldly, "Yeah. It's exactly because of that little thing."

The night before our wedding anniversary party, my husband—Harvey Clarke—receives constant calls from his first love, Cassie Moss. He responds by holding me closer, and I ask, "Aren't you going to pick up? What if it's urgent?" He firmly shakes his head and says he has already moved on. But when he receives news of her at the party, he breaks down right there and then, oblivious to the room of staring guests. When he tries to leave, I stop him in a panic, but he turns to me with a pure look of disgust. "Cassie's dead. Happy now?" The words hit me like a lightning bolt.

Using an alternative account, I secretly join a cycling group chat that my husband, Liam Johnson, is in. One day, an announcement is made in the group chat. "We'll be organizing a weekend mountain biking activity with an overnight stay, with two people sharing a room. To add some excitement, we'll be drawing lots for room assignments." I can't really understand it. Curious, I ask, "What if a man and a woman end up drawing the same room?"

On the very first day Jason and I made our relationship official, he insisted on handing over his salary for me to manage. He said marriage was only a matter of time and that he trusted his future wife to keep the money safe. On the day of our engagement, Jason demanded that I hand over the $960,000 in salary I had “kept” for him over the past four years. “Each month, I gave you $20,000. In four years, that’s $960,000. After expenses, there should be at least $800,000 left, right? I can’t bear to make my parents empty their savings for my marriage. We will use my savings for the wedding, $600,000 as the down payment for the new apartment, and the remaining $200,000 will be my wedding gift to you.” I froze. “But there isn’t a single dollar left!” Jason exploded. “You wasteful woman! You spent all the money?!” His mother also erupted. “So much money, and you squandered it all! What shameful acts have you been up to?! This marriage is off!” Jason demanded to see the accounts. I immediately pulled out the records in front of everyone. Seeing this, Jason’s mother panicked.

In the fifth year of my spiritual practice, my phone suddenly exploded with messages. [Aria, why aren't you replying? Are you really that petty?] Puzzled, I opened Messenger, and froze. My cousin, who never seemed to measure up to me and always went out of her way to oppose me, was getting married, and she expected me to attend. "Sorry, I've been busy lately. I won't be able to make it," I replied politely. However, my courteous response only fueled their ridicule. "Stop pretending! You haven't kept in touch with your family for years. Are you too embarrassed because your life is such a mess?" "She won't even come to her own cousin's wedding? How heartless!" "Let me guess, the real reason she can't come is she can't afford a wedding gift." One cutting remark after another appeared, until Betty Stewart stepped in, feigning concern. "Come on, don't be so harsh on Aria. We're family, after all." "If she's really struggling, I could ask my husband to help her get a cleaning job." Then she sent me the digital invitation, the gold lettering gleaming. When I saw the groom's name, my pupils constricted in shock. Joseph Clark? Wasn't he the short-lived husband who had spent three years sucking up to me just to extend his life?

Eight months into my pregnancy, my husband finally makes time from his police duties to go to a prenatal checkup with me for the first time. The moment we step into the hospital, his satellite-encrypted phone buzzes urgently. The caller ID flashes briefly, and just like that, the man who's always calm and collected panics. "Honey, it's a red alert. Another international fugitive just crossed the border. I… I'm sorry…" He's clearly anxious, yet his tone is firm, leaving no room for argument. After apologizing, he rushes off. As I watch his SUV speed out of sight, my fist clenches tightly, crumpling the prenatal checkup sheet. I flag down a cab, slide into the car, and swiftly instruct the driver, "Follow that car. Don't lose it." A Red Notice for a fugitive? What a joke. My father, who works at the National Security Agency, barely catches wind of a notice like that. Yet, somehow, a mere police chief who only assists with cases is suddenly tasked with catching a high-priority criminal. Fine, then. I can't wait to meet the superior who's given him such an urgent assignment.

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.

I married Kael Throne—the infamous king of New York’s mafia—not for his power, not for his fortune, but because I loved him. He was unlike any man I’d ever known. A man who could have a thousand women at his feet, yet dismissed them all with a single glance. I believed his faithful love until the day I learned the existence of a college girl. He’d “respected” me enough to keep her hidden… until I forced the truth into the light. Kael didn’t rage. He didn’t deny it. He only looked at me with that calm, dangerous gaze and said, “Then we divorce.” I refused. He offered me his money, his casino, his everything. Still I said no. Because I loved him. That’s when his love turned black. He had me kidnapped. My mother, too. All to force my signature on those papers. “You found out,” he said, almost bored. “And there’s no more fun in hiding. Leave now, Vivienne. Give me—and Nyssa—our happy ending.” I watched as the man he’d sent slit my mother’s throat. My answer came too late. Kael Throne was a monster. I collapsed, my head cracking against the floor. And when I opened my eyes… I was back on the day I first learned Nyssa existed. This time, I didn’t confront him. I played the perfect wife, smiling sweetly while I waited for the perfect moment to vanish from his life forever. I just never imagined that when I finally disappeared… Kael would lose his mind.

For six years of marriage, Cyran Valehart and I lived with measured respect, as if we were partners holding the same scale in perfect balance. For the sake of my equestrian career, I refused to have children. He shouldered the gossip, endured the judgment, and stood beside me without hesitation. But when I rode into what should have been my final international competition, he went back home with his first love—her hand resting protectively over her swollen belly. "All these years, you chose the horses over me," he spat. "That damned competition meant more to you than our family ever did." His voice shook with righteous anger, but his next words cut far deeper. "Six years ago, I abandoned Celia once. Now she carries my child. I won't betray her again." In that instant, my marriage became nothing but a title. I was reduced to a wife in name only, a figurehead in his home, a shadow he no longer cared to see. During the very competition meant to crown my life's work, Cyran laced a sharp needle beneath my saddle, each stride of my horse a fresh stab of pain meant to break us both. I lost the match. My horse collapsed with a shattered leg. And in that fall, my dream and my marriage were crushed together—ruined by the very man who once swore to protect them. Later, he paid with everything he had, desperate to make amends. But no matter what he sacrificed, Cyran Valehart was already behind me, nothing more than a ghost I would never turn to face again.

My stepson, Lucas Lincoln, is trapped in a fire. After calling the fire brigade, I quickly ring my husband, Jasper Lincoln. Jasper is the leader of a search-and-rescue team, after all. But to my dismay, Jasper is currently keeping his ex-wife, Yvonne Schmidt, company. Yvonne has won the "Forensic Doctor of the Year" award, and so they are out celebrating it. My phone calls are rejected again and again. Jasper never once calls me back, even after Lucas' cries for help disappear entirely. By the time the fire brigade arrives to quell the flames, Lucas has been burned to a crisp. I tell Jasper what happened to our son, but he only gleefully says, "He was nothing but a troublemaker who'd contribute nothing to society. If he's dead, then so be it. This way, he won't grow up to become a menace. "Yvonne happens to be giving a public talk tomorrow and is still in need of a specimen demonstrating burn injuries. She can use Noah's corpse for her demonstration since it's still fresh." I sneer. So Jasper thinks that my own son, Noah Green, is the one who died in the fire. I immediately send Lucas' blackened corpse to Yvonne's operating room.

The admissions office calls and says my daughter's admission fee has been paid, asking when I'll come to handle enrollment. I'm completely stunned. My daughter, Natalie Steward, is top of her class. She's already guaranteed a spot in the city's best high school, Dream High School, with no admission fee required. Upon questioning my husband, Arnold Lewiston, he claims the admissions office must've made a mistake. He says, "I just wanted to surprise you, so I pulled some strings with the principal to get her into the accelerated track. You should talk to the teachers and make sure we get the best homeroom teacher so I can look good." As soon as I end the call, I slam the accelerator and head straight to the admissions office. On my way there, I call Lynn Warrens, my best friend who works in the State Department of Education. "Help me check under whose name Arnold paid the admission fee for his illegitimate child. I'm going to withdraw them from the school!" I say.

At my graduation ceremony, I finally gathered the courage to confess my feelings to my longtime crush. But before I could, I was hit by a car. When I opened my eyes again, he was standing right in front of me with a frigid glare. "You're awake? Perfect. Then let's discuss our divorce." I blinked at him, completely dazed. Divorce? Wait—what? I hadn't even confessed yet. How on earth had this turned into a divorce?

On the fourth day after my son's death, I decided to secretly dissolve my military marriage with my husband. Before that, I had three days to settle everything for my son. On the first day, I tricked my husband into signing the cremation papers. On the second day, I went to the school and collected the textbooks my son would never get to use. On the third day, I cooked a table full of dishes and begged my husband to celebrate our son's last birthday. He agreed, but soon after claimed he had a mission. Instead, he spent the entire night setting off fireworks with his childhood sweetheart. That night, I cooked. Then, I sat alone before my son's photo and ate all my son's favorite foods. The next day, my husband returned, guilt flickering in his eyes as he handed me a brand-new backpack. He said it was a gift for our child's first day of school. But he didn't know—our child would never have a first day of school.

Right after returning from a business trip, Cecelia Moore held her ultrasound report as she hurried to the private suite at the club. She was eager to surprise her husband, Francis Rivera. Just as she was about to open the door, she caught a few words drifting through the crack that stopped her cold. "…So, Fran, did you really marry Cecelia Moore just to protect Melody Green?" In that instant, every drop of blood in Cecelia's body seemed to freeze—she couldn't move.

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."

My fiance's childhood friend, Tori Kerr, calls him 999 times, begging him to cancel the wedding. "I see it in the tarot cards. You can't get married this year. Cancel the wedding right now." Mikael Jardine hesitates and says, "Tori's tarot readings are always accurate. Let's just listen to her." My temper flares up immediately. The invitations are already sent, and the venue is booked. How can we just cancel it? Seeing that I'm angry, Mikael ultimately decides not to listen to her. In a fit of rage, Tori blocks him. I thought that was the end of it. But on the wedding day, Tori suddenly storms onto the stage. The first thing she does is shout at my mom and ask her to leave in front of the guests. Tori says, "I read it in the tarot cards last night. Your mom's rising sign clashes with Mikael's. She can't attend the wedding. Besides, your mom's just a cleaning lady. She doesn't deserve to be here!"

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.

I was a wedding planner, and I personally designed my husband's wedding to his mistress. I had been with Victor for five years. Three of those years were swallowed by the pandemic. The remaining two were spent married, pregnant, and raising a child. The wedding I had always dreamed of existed only as "next time" whenever it came out of his mouth, until the day I received a new wedding planning request. The client was a young woman, her eyes curved with laughter, her smile bright and full of hope. "This is the venue my boyfriend chose himself," she said softly. "He insisted the wedding had to be held here." I took the file from her, and my gaze stopped on the venue name. The church in Clairmont. The very church I had mentioned to my husband countless times, the place I had dreamed of more than anything else. I was just about to smile and marvel at how someone in this world shared my taste so perfectly when the groom's name leapt into view. Victor Langford. My fingers froze on the page. Across from me, the girl was still wrapped in her happiness. She added gently, "We've only been together for two months, but he said he wants to give me the best wedding possible." I curved my lips into a smile and fixed my eyes on that familiar face—the man I had lived with for five years. After all this time, the day I planned Victor's wedding had finally arrived. Too bad the bride wasn't me.