Short Stories & Novels

I’m the public lover of Tara Brewer, the underworld queen. She often dotes on me and treats me like I'm her most precious treasure, and she goes as far as to claim that she wants to give birth to ten children for me. But when I'm getting beaten up by others while completely drenched in my own blood, Tara doesn't recognize me at all. Instead, she turns to comfort her beau, Brandon Holden. "That filthy bastard has crossed you, honey! You can just beat him to death! I'll be your safety net!" Only then do I realize that Brandon is Tara's lover this whole time. As soon as Tara's words fall, she snatches the boxing gloves from Brandon and begins punching my face, which has a mixture of blood and tears streaking down my cheeks. At the same time, she says icily, "Don't worry. Once you're dead, I'll inform your wife so that she can pick up your corpse."

The house was on fire. My husband–a firefighter–rescued our son first. And the kitten his first love had left behind. Then, to comfort the frightened woman, he rushed off without a second thought. When his colleagues asked my son if anyone else was still inside, he glanced in my direction… and shook his head. "There's no one else." I was later found screaming for help, barely alive. Outside my hospital room, my son looked at me with disappointment. "Why didn't you just burn to death in there? "If you were gone, Aunt Maya could be my mom."

Silver burned. Holy light seared. I screamed my brother’s name, Theron, into the communication crystal. My consciousness was fading. His cold voice finally crackled through. "What now?" I fought through the pain, my voice weak. "Theron, please… help me…" He cut me off, his voice a razor's edge. "Enough! Lilith is hosting the Blood Moon Festival. Stop causing trouble. If you’re tormenting her out of jealousy again, I’ll throw you in the sun cells myself." The line went dead. Lilith. Our manipulative little adoptive sister. Was she really more important to him than his own blood? The silver poison and searing light consumed me. I shattered. My tears turned to ash, my body right behind them. Congratulations, Theron. You're free of your annoying sister. You don't have to lock me up anymore. Because I'm already dead.

My husband, Cesare Ferrante, the most feared Don of the Ferrante family, had always hated children. Yet everything changed the moment my stepsister, Bianca Moretti, moved in next door with her six-month-old baby. Suddenly, my husband became obsessed with that child. He personally fed the baby formula, sang lullabies, and carried the baby everywhere he went. Every day, he came home exhausted at dawn, yet his face glowed with joy, as if that baby occupied his entire soul. I became invisible to him. Three days ago, someone forced my car off the road, and I crashed into the median. Blood streamed down my forehead, and my vision swam. I called Cesare 55 times. He did not answer a single call. Instead, he posted a photo of the baby on his social media. [My little angel smiled today!] I had had enough. Tonight at the family banquet, every member of the famiglia was seated around the table. I raised my final toast, then set down my glass. "I want a divorce." They all froze. "Are you insane?" My parents' voices rose in unison. Cesare grabbed my wrist, disbelief written across his face. "Giulia, you want to divorce me just because I was busy taking care of the baby and didn't answer your calls? You're actually jealous of a six-month-old child?" I did not meet his eyes. Instead, I stared at the glaring kiss mark behind his ear. "Since you love that child so much," I said calmly, "I'll make it easy for you. Go be that child's father."

As the news broadcast reported a random serial killing near my residential complex, I knew—I had been reborn once again. In my first life, my husband insisted on going out in the middle of a snowstorm to buy weapons for self-defense. I locked every door and window, waiting at home, anxiety clawing at my chest. I never imagined the killer could pick locks. Before I could even react, a blade plunged into me, and I died on the couch. In my second life, I didn't hesitate. I hid in a concealed storage room, holding my breath. But the door was still pulled open. A man wearing a rabbit mask stared straight at me. "Found you," he said. In my third life, I ran to the police station. I rushed inside and told the officer on duty that the killings weren't random—that the murderer was coming for me. They looked at me like I'd lost my mind. Then my husband arrived in a hurry and took me away. But the moment we reached our front door, a heavy hammer smashed into the back of my head. Through the blinding pain, I forced my eyes open, but I never saw who killed me. Now, staring at the grave expression on the news anchor's face, agony surged through every inch of my body. Rebirth isn't a reset. The damage accumulates—and sooner or later, it will torture me to death. Without hesitation, I walked into the kitchen and set a pot of oil to heat. And I waited… for the moment the lock began to turn.

To defuse the bomb strapped to the hostage, I had no choice—I cut off all her clothes. My clueless new wife, Dana Poole, blasted it online. She cried as she faced me. "Why not at least leave her underwear on? You were saving her, I get it—but did you have to take everything? Doesn't a girl's dignity matter? With cameras everywhere, how is she supposed to live after this? You couldn't even cover her up?" The backlash exploded. The unit benched me to calm things down. So I stopped caring. I followed procedure, no improvising, no extra effort. Then one day, at the busiest mall in the city, Dana's mom got strapped into a brand-new linked bomb. This time, the whole unit panicked.

I, Lilian Newton, am the top luxury goods repair specialist. 90 percent of the store's revenue comes from me. Three years on the job, I turn a little shop that nearly goes bankrupt into a nationwide chain. Just because I am two minutes late to work, the new manager locks the front door and plans to take the staff on a trip. I ask her why I was not informed. She scoffs and says, "The capable should do more work. We are going on a trip. You stay behind to work overtime. If you can't handle it, then get lost!" I laugh in exasperation and call my husband right away. "I hear you're planning to fire me. Is that it?"

Liam Dunlap, my girlfriend's junior apprentice, bragged that he could defuse a bomb with one hand. Then he slipped. The timer began to race. Terrified, he dropped his tools and ran. I stepped in at great risk and saved the hostage. For that, I was commended. Liam, on the other hand, was condemned across the internet and faced severe disciplinary action. My girlfriend tried to speak up for him, but I stopped her. "If you defend him now, not only will your promotion be revoked—people online will come after you too." Later, unable to bear the pressure, Liam jumped to his death. Every line of his suicide note blamed my girlfriend for not standing by him. She said nothing. She simply burned the letter in silence. After that, she rose step by step from a frontline officer to a model figure in the police force. On the day I was kidnapped by criminals, she came in person to defuse the bomb strapped to me—using only one hand. She looked coldly at the device on my chest and said, "See? It can be done with one hand. Why did you all have to drive Liam to his death back then? If I had protected him at the time, the one in my position today… should have been him." The bomb detonated. I died on the spot. After I opened my eyes again, I saw her running around desperately for Liam. She didn't know—the hostage was the mayor's son.

I had been married to my husband for 27 years, but the love between us had faded long ago. Even our children could see it, and they were the ones who tried to persuade me to get a divorce. "Mom, you and Dad are still young. You still have time to pursue your own life." "Yeah, Mom. You shouldn't force yourself to live like this anymore. We'd support you if you got divorced." With their encouragement, my husband and I finally ended our marriage. My daughter even helped introduce me to someone new. Not long after the divorce, I began a new relationship. But just as I was preparing to remarry, my ex-husband suddenly sued me. He accused me of cheating during our marriage. My own children appeared in court and testified against me. They confirmed his accusations. No matter how hard I tried to explain, no one believed me. In the end, I walked away from the divorce with nothing. My new boyfriend and I were dragged through the mud online. [You shameless old woman. One foot in the grave and you're still chasing another man!] [At your age, you’re still getting divorced? Hope you and your little side piece stay together.] A few self-righteous, extremist internet vigilantes broke into my home. They tied my boyfriend and me to a bed, poured gasoline over us, and set us on fire. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the very day my children first tried to convince me to get a divorce.

To attract more potential customers, my wife decided to join the cycling community. During the two months I was away on a business trip, she posted new cycling routes every single day on the map and became a well-known cycling socialite in the local scene. A neighbor suddenly sent me a video. The location tag pointed straight to my backyard. [Dude, your wife is something else. Already found herself a riding partner? Looks like the bike’s not the only thing getting ridden.] In the video, an unfamiliar lace panties hung on the handlebars of the bicycle. The lush grass swayed rhythmically, with an undulating figure occasionally peeking from behind it. I dialed her number. “What are you doing?” She squealed, “I’m out for a ride, honey. I’ve been landing a lot of high-quality clients lately. I’m working really hard to make money!” “Oh?” I smiled. “With your body?” I tightened my grip on the phone and enunciated each word, “It’s pretty dark in the backyard. Want me to turn on the lights for the two of you?

On my son, William Lewis' birthday, I secretly visit the learning center he studies at in hopes of giving him a surprise. But when I tell the teacher that I'm Will's father, the latter frowns in response. "You say you're Will's father?" I nod, feeling a little displeased. Although my wife, Amelia Garrett, is the one driving William to and from the learning center, there's absolutely no reason for the teacher to doubt me like this. But suddenly, the teacher smiles brightly at me and tells me he'll bring William with him soon. As I watch him walk through the door, I decide to not take this matter to heart. The next thing I know, the teacher reappears with two burly guys flanking him. "That's the one! He intends to kidnap children from my class!"

In the third year of our marriage, I couldn't stand the sexless relationship anymore, so I slipped some drugs into my wife’s soup. Cindy's cheeks became flushed, her eyes became hazy, and she gave me a seductive look. This was the first time she had behaved like this around me... However, when she realized that it was me, she grabbed my throat, furious. "I told you, my career is my top priority right now. Romance should be set aside first. How could you drug my soup? Do you only think with your lower body?!" I tried to explain, but she tossed me into the cold swimming pool despite the fact that I was still recovering from surgery. "Soak in the pool water to clean your filthy mind!" I pleaded desperately, but she completely ignored me and even had people keep watch to prevent me from getting out. It wasn't until I was shivering and turning blue from the cold winter night that she finally showed mercy. I stumbled back to our room, only to hear her suppressed moans. And the guy on top of her was none other than her brother-in-law! This was what she meant by putting her career first? I wiped away my tears, went downstairs, and called my father-in-law. "Stanley, I agree to let Cindy be a surrogate, but you have to promise me one thing."

"She's only eight years old, and she's already spreading rumors about her sister!" "She even stole our neighbor's emergency money!" "Worst of all, she conspired with human traffickers to sell her own brother!" In the underworld courtroom, Mom and Dad rushed to accuse me of my "crimes," talking over each other in a frenzy. They thought this was just a dream, and in the middle of it all, they did not forget to warn my sister and brother standing nearby. "You two better watch carefully. This is what happens to disobedient kids after they die!" I instantly understood. As the middle child, I had once again become the "example," the one sacrificed in their lesson. 'Mom... Dad... this isn't a dream. You locked me in the freezer, then took Grace and Tommy on vacation. I was locked in there for three days. I was so cold, my whole body frozen stiff...'

To take care of my paralyzed mother-in-law, I quit my job and spent three years as a full-time househusband. That day, after cleaning up her waste, I hid in the bathroom with a cigarette between my fingers and came across a post on my wife’s boss’ Instagram. [You’re meant to be with me in the end. Since that freeloader can’t give you happiness, let me take you to the paradise of Maldev.] Above the caption were two plane tickets. Someone commented below. [That homemaker husband of hers is definitely clinging onto her. After all, she’s his meal ticket.] The boss replied. [Don’t worry. Tonight she’ll go home and come clean. She’ll say the company was caught falsifying accounts and is facing massive fines, and that she might need to serve jail time. [To keep that guy from getting dragged into it, the only option is divorce. He’s as timid as a mouse and will take any chance to flee.] I stared at the screen, stunned, until the cigarette burned my fingers. Ten minutes later, my wife rushed home, panic written all over her face. She dropped her bag on the floor. “Honey, something’s gone wrong with the company’s finances. They’re accusing us of falsifying accounts. I was solely responsible for the accounts. I might need to serve 10 years in prison, plus fines of more than ten thousand dollars. “We need to sign the papers before they seize our house. I don’t want to drag you and mom into this.”

I spent five years taking the blame for a truth that could have destroyed my Alpha. In Blackthorn Pack, everyone mocked me as the wolfless Omega who couldn’t bear an heir. They said I was unfit to be Luna. They said Adrian Hale should cast me aside for a stronger woman. What none of them knew was that Adrian was the infertile one. I burned the report myself and let the whole pack shame me for his weakness. I gave up my studies, my pride, and everything I loved to protect him. Then his mistress got pregnant. And I heard the truth with my own ears. “She has no wolf, no pack, no one to stand up for her. Even if she makes a scene, the Elders’ Council won’t take her side.” That was the moment I understood. For power, for bloodline, for status, Adrian had already chosen Lydia Ashcroft, the Alpha’s daughter carrying a child he couldn’t possibly have fathered. So I severed our mate bond. I took nothing from him except the look on his face when he opened the medical report I left behind. Patient: Adrian Hale. Diagnosis: congenital azoospermia. Infertile. What Adrian never knew was that I was never wolfless. I was the lost daughter of a Lycan King. And in my bloodline, a wolf does not awaken until her family calls her home. The one who could never have children was never me. It was the man who begged the world to believe otherwise.

Old commander, Peter Howell, slipped and fell into the water, while his guard—my brother, Joe Castro—was off setting off fireworks with our foster sister, Felicity Castro. After getting a second chance at life, I didn't run to find Joe like I had before. I jumped in without hesitation and dragged Peter out. Last time, I went to get Joe. He made it in time and saved Peter, and from that day on, Peter treated him like a hero. His career took off. But Felicity had started a fire with the fireworks. Her face was badly burned, and she couldn't handle it. In the end, she took her own life. Joe stayed eerily calm and told me it was just an accident. But the day my college acceptance letter came, he grabbed the iron poker from the fireplace and smashed my leg. His face twisted with hatred. "Commander Howell knows how to swim. Why did you have to drag me there? "If you weren't trying to get my attention, Felicity wouldn't have gotten hurt. She wouldn't have died! And now you think you get to go off to college and start fresh? Not happening. "Your future, your life, you'll use it to pay her back!" He beat me until everything went black. When I opened my eyes again, I was back to the day Peter fell into the water.

At the New Year's Eve dinner, my mom suddenly assigns some rules to me and my siblings. She claims that those who don't fit the criteria aren't allowed to eat at the table. Rule number one: One must have spent at least 50% of their time keeping Mom company at home last year. Rule number two: One must have gone shopping with Mom all the time. Rule number three: One must keep giving Mom allowance. But it appears that I, the oldest sibling, am the only one who doesn't meet the requirements. My little sister, Chelsea Cage, begins acting coquettish immediately. "All Cassidy cares about is her business, unlike me, Mom! I care about you!" Meanwhile, my younger brother, Cameron Cage, lectures me with a frown, "What's the point of you being able to earn more money than average people? No matter how good a breadwinner you are, the fact that you don't care about Mom completely nullifies it!" My mom tells my siblings to sit around her happily. Then, she criticizes me in a sarcastic tone. "As parents, when we become old, what we need is our children's company, not cold hard cash." I'm pissed off, to say the least. I'm the breadwinner of this family, and yet these freeloaders get to put on airs in front of me. The reason why I don't go shopping with my mom is that she's never satisfied with whatever gifts I've picked out for her during the times I did go out with her. That's why I gave her money straight away. I didn't give my mom any allowance at all because all the money is regularly deposited into the supplementary card, which she has. Since my long-term efforts are worth nothing compared to my siblings' sweet talk, I suppose I can quit being the ATM of this family.

I was a retired mercenary. A middle-aged man like me, without any ‘proper’ skills, could only work as a stockkeeper at a private company. On my first day at work, the warehouse lost an important item, and I was accused of stealing it. My new colleagues scoffed. "Hand over what you stole, you penniless loser! This warehouse hasn't lost anything for eight years. If you hand over the stolen item, we'll submit an appeal letter on your behalf when you get arrested by the police." I stepped forward to look at a mark left behind in the corner. "I can find what was stolen." The entire warehouse fell silent. When my boss arrived after hearing the news, he scrutinized me condescendingly. "If you can find the stolen item, I'll give you half of the company shares. If you fail, you'll have to pay with your life!"

[This month’s property management fee is $1,500. Please make the payment on time.] My wife, Grace Anderson’s phone screen lit up. I glanced at it and then took the phone. “Did the management office miscalculate this? Our management fee should only total up to $28 a month.” Grace stood up abruptly and tried to snatch her phone back. “He must’ve miscalculated! Let me talk to him.” However, I had already clicked on the link and read the page. [Cloud Mansion, property owner: Ken Smith.] The young male nanny cooking in our kitchen had the same name. Something snapped in my brain. The three of us were living in a very small house, but Grace had bought a mansion for our manny!

As the male lead, Henry Johnston, forces himself on me, a row of comments suddenly appears before my eyes. "Henry is about to misunderstand and think Aria drugged him! The angst is about to begin!" "I'm thrilled just thinking about Henry regretting dearly after Aria dies!" "Keep up the act, Henry. After she dies, you'll be hugging her corpse and crying every day." That is when I realize that I am the tragic female lead in a story where I am destined to be tormented until I die. The readers treat my death as a highlight to push the plot forward. They are counting down to my death. As I look at Henry, who is panting on top of me, anger courses through me. I grab a table lamp and smash it into him, killing him on the spot. Who says that the one who dies in a toxic romance story must always be the female lead?