Unattainable Love Marriage の短編小説 & 小説

Bertha Cobb's first love, Owen Rountree, made a mistake during his experiment, leading to an explosion occurring in the lab. Eight students died in this explosion as a result. However, Bertha insisted that I take on the responsibility of this accident and admit that the explosion occurred because of the error found in my data. "You're a professor here. Nothing will happen to you if you're the one taking on the responsibility. But Oewn, on the other hand, will get admonished by the victims' families." I got dismissed by the university afterward. In the end, the victims' families burned me to death. My daughter, Leah Callahan, got bullied as well. She was forced to drop out of school later on and died from depression. While Leah breathed her last on her bed, Bertha was in the middle of celebrating Owen's promotion as a professor. When I opened my eyes again, I realized that I was five minutes away from the explosion in the science lab.

On our wedding day, Kayla Rowan left halfway through. No matter how much I begged her to stay, she left without a second thought because her first love, Andrew Quinn, was having surgery. She said sorry to me, but I did not respond with my usual reassurance that everything was okay.

I had been married to Derek for six years, and we had a three-year-old son. He was poor, earning only $2,000 a month, but I had no complaints; I took care of everything at home for him. After getting dinner on the table for the whole family, I finally had a minute to check my phone. A video popped up on my feed: a twenty-two-year-old girl from a rural area whose hands, roughened by years of hard labor, looked like they belonged to a sixty-two-year-old woman. I looked down at my own hands, just as worn and scarred, and stared at them blankly before tapping into the comments. I expected people to feel bad for her. However, to my surprise, the comments section was flooded with a single sentiment: "Why would anyone marry a penniless loser?" One of the top-liked comments came from a couple; in their photo, they were pictured holding hands—fingers tightly intertwined—with the girl sporting a massive diamond ring. The accompanying caption read: "A man who truly loves you would never bear to let you suffer." I felt a pang of envy. Given the choice, who wouldn't want a glamorous life? As I was about to close the app, I accidentally tapped on the couple's photo, enlarging it. In the background, previously too blurry to make out, was a face I recognized. It looked exactly like my husband, Derek Sterling. I froze, and almost against my will, I tapped into the account's profile. Post after post of lavish photos of them together flooded my screen. And then I saw him clearly. The scar above his brow, the one he got when a shelf fell on him while protecting me, was still plainly visible. It was my husband. It was Derek.

At a classmate’s wedding, everyone joked with me, "So when are you getting married?" I said, "Soon." My girlfriend, Fiona Hartley, said she hadn’t thought about it yet. After we spoke at the same time, she looked at me with undisguised disgust. "When did I ever agree to marry you?" That night, claiming it was out of spite, she went out with friends to a get-together centered around her long-cherished first love. I knew then that she had never intended to marry me. So I didn’t try to stop her. I let the wedding plans continue as scheduled. After all, she was never the woman I wanted to marry in the first place.

My wife's first love kills me without a shred of mercy. But my wife, a world-class surgeon, doesn't try to save me. Instead, she comforts her first love. "He's so ruthless! How could he hurt you this badly?" She even tells the police that I've severely injured her first love, claiming she wants to press charges for attempted murder. Then she points at my body and demands that I get up and apologize to her first love. "Charles, stop pretending! You just want me to pity you, right? Get up and apologize to Steven!" she yells.

I'm the scapegoat who was hired by the rich Shelton family to marry into that family under the guise of repaying them for their benevolence. But my wife, Jenny Shelton, hates me for ruining the wedding meant for her and her first love, Jackson Wembley. She has hordes of treasure under her name, and yet she only gives me five dollars every day to survive. I've starved to the point I'm all skin and bones. Jenny, on the other hand, goes through partners like mad. She even drives while under alcoholic influence in order to make her new boyfriend laugh, which results in her crashing into the generator powering in the hospital and causing my mother's death. Later on, Jenny merely throws me a black card. "Wow, you really have the heart to arrange for your mom to live in that small and rundown hospital, huh? Then again, a money-minded person like you is capable of doing everything in this world. "Take this card and get your mom transferred to a VIP ward. Don't think about stealing from this card; I'll always check the bills." But I just throw the black card away and start preparing for my mom's funeral. What Jenny doesn't know is that Jackson had chosen to flee from the altar and abandon her back then. I was just a tool hired by her family in order to comfort her. Now that my mom is dead and I'm done paying back the debt, it's time for me to leave.

I used to be a top ballet dancer. The year I was diagnosed with a spinal hemangioma, my boyfriend Julian Blackwood said, "Wherever you go, I go." We'd been together three years. He walked beside me as I went, step by step, from the most luminous dancer on that stage to a woman in a wheelchair. Every time the nerve pain hit and I collapsed, he was the one who lifted me off the floor. Every round of electrostim and acupuncture, he sat in the corridor outside the therapy room and waited for me to come out. Before I got sick, he promised me—the night I finished my final performance of Swan Lake, we'd sign the marriage license. He'd bought tickets for that show three months in advance. I never stood on that stage again. And the marriage license never came up. Until the morning I noticed the collar of his white dress shirt carried a smudge of lipstick that wasn't mine. I heard him on the balcony. A woman's voice on the other end. "Mr. Blackwood, you left your jacket at the hotel last night. I'll bring it over." I stared at that smear of red, and something in me snapped. I laughed. "Send me to Westbrook. The locked-down rehab facility. I don't want to drag you down anymore." Something flickered in his eyes—a brief, animal panic. Then he nodded. He thought I meant rest. He didn't know I'd already signed the papers to donate my body to science. I was going there to die.

After years together, we finally hit our wedding day. At the altar, Damien Huxley had the ring halfway on my finger when his old college crush from Francia called. The guy everyone swore loved me more than his own life? His eyes went red. Then he bolted for the airport. My hand froze midair. Then a stream of comments popped up in front of me— [Oh my god, guys! I just saw his old crush's profile pic—she looks exactly like the new cadaver donor at our school!] [No way. Don't freak me out. Keep that creepy comment away from me!] [Either they're twins, or you need glasses. Chill.] I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. I knew about Damien's old crush—our college classmate. But I remembered one thing clearly. She was an only child...

For the seven years after our marriage, I spend whole nights in the prayer room before he will even touch me. Eric Compton says it is to atone for what I owe Monica Lynch. When his mother, Barbara Lane, pushes me to fulfill my wifely duties again, I overhear Eric's friends laughing. "Let me think. How many rounds of IVF has Avery done this year? She's trying very hard to get pregnant." "She probably doesn't know there's no way she's ever getting pregnant with Eric's kid." Eric scoffs. "Every time we're done, I give her a glass of milk. After all these years of birth control, it'd be a miracle if she got pregnant." He adds, "Everything she's suffered through is just payback for driving Monica away." I smile bitterly and send the recording to Richard Compton. "I'm not the lucky one meant to carry on the Compton name. Can I go now?"

My secret boyfriend, Marco Ross—the fastest rising mafia star in New York—hid a ring in our home. I thought it was for me. Instead, I received a video of him proposing to another woman—Bianco Conti —on our anniversary. The same night, masked men broke in, held me at gunpoint, and forced me to call Marco. A woman answered the call, “Marco, your little orphan is calling again.” Then Marco’s cold tone. “Don’t bother, babe, she’s just your substitute, a stray I keep around, a free woman to warm my bed.” The masked men shot me in the stomach—then fled. What Marco didn’t know? The real Conti heiress… was me. The Bianco he cherished so much… was just an imposter. I once refused to take the Conti name because of Marco, afraid it would ruin us. But if he never cared… why should I? I made one call. “Papa, I’ll come home, take over the business, and accept the marriage alliance—but Bianca has to be go.”

My in-laws were old-fashioned. They insisted that spending New Year's in their hometown was a must for a smooth year ahead. We could not get train tickets, so we decided to drive back. When my wife’s first love heard about it, he insisted on coming with us. He even brazenly took the front passenger seat from me. “Charles, I get carsick easily. I can only sit in the front.” Evan shot me a disdainful look. "It's just a seat. Why are you being so touchy?" “If you knew how to drive, would this even be an issue?” My in-laws chimed in as well. “You’re a grown man. Why are you making such a fuss over something so small?” Outnumbered, I had no choice but to squeeze into the back seat with my in-laws. Then, when we were passing a toll booth, Yvonne spotted a stray dog and was suddenly overcome with compassion. “That poor dog. Let’s bring it home with us.” I immediately objected, “The car is already full. If we bring a dog too, we’ll be over the limit. We won’t even be allowed on the road.” Before I had even finished speaking, Evan turned on me without hesitation. “Charles, in that case, why don’t you give up your seat for the dog? You can just take a cab back!”

Within the circle, everyone knew I had been Leo’s most devoted, submissive admirer. For thirteen years, I chased him relentlessly, transforming myself from an uneducated, middle-school-dropout, illegitimate child of a wealthy family into an Ivy League economics master’s graduate. Only then did his mother finally acknowledge me, and I became Mrs. Smith. However, after the wedding, I no longer meddled in Leo’s company, cooked, or served him. While he stayed up late planning strategies for his first love, I traveled the world with friends. He would accompany her to Paris fashion shows, and I celebrated my cat’s birthday at home. I understood that a commercial marriage could never produce love. Everything I had poured my heart into was just my own foolish obsession. In my past life, I handled his company’s internal conflicts for him. Yet, he frowned, scolding, “You’re reaching too far.” I cooked soups for his stomach ailments, only to see him hand them off to his overworked first love, brushing it off, “She works harder than I do.” Even on the day I had a car accident, he lit fireworks across the city just to see her smile. I begged him, but he looked down at me from above. “Nicole, what we have is only a transaction.” Then, I opened my eyes and found myself back at our engagement banquet, watching him leave midway to comfort his heartbroken first love. This time, I did not chase after him. Instead, I picked up the microphone and said before all the guests. “Sorry, everyone. My engagement with Leo is canceled.”

My husband's ex got kidnapped with me. The guy gave him a choice. "Your ex or your wife. Pick one." Maverick didn't even flinch. He chose her and walked off. After that, hell broke loose. I got tortured till I died. Much later, Maverick decided I was worth remembering. Sent people to find me. Too late. I was already rotting in a dump.

I was the pack's chief healer, but my fiancé Domine was just an ordinary warrior from the neighboring pack. I didn't care about that because I believed in the guidance of the moon goddess. I worked hard to earn money, bought a house, and supported us both. But just a week before our Mating Ceremony, I discovered that Domine wasn't some ordinary warrior, but actually the Alpha of neighboring pack. He hid his identity to get close to me just to seek revenge for his first love. Three years ago, his first love secretly entered the forbidden zone and ate poisonous fruit. I fought with all my might to save her life, but she framed me for intentionally poisoning her and causing her to lose her wolf. Domine believed her. He even promised to publicly extract my heart’s blood during the ceremony to supplement Ella's strength and turn me into a complete cripple. He even stole my father’s life-saving medicine to make scented candles for her, which caused the death of my only relative. After discovering the truth, I didn't hesitate to turn around and leave. But Domine, who harbored a deep hatred for me, completely broke down. He knelt in the snow for three days and three nights, begging me to look at him just one more time.

After a year of hustling overseas, I came home to find that my DINK husband had a child with his first love. We had a massive blowout, but he remained unnervingly calm. "Lucy's husband can't have children. She stood by me through those dark years—now I owe her this," he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Even my in-laws tried to persuade me. "Raising a child is security for old age. Just think of it as your own—won't it be good to have someone to care for you later on?" I looked at Thomas Wilson, a wave of pain crashing through me. "I can raise the child," I said finally, "but you have to cut off all contact with Lucy. That's my bottom line." Thomas didn't hesitate. He threw a divorce agreement in front of me, his tone turning cold. "Lucy and I are the child's biological parents. I won't separate from my own blood." "Fine," I said. "Then let's get divorced."

For over thirty years, my wife Janet faked being broke—for her flimsy ex. When our son Asher landed in the hospital, I begged and borrowed from everyone I knew. Still came up fifty bucks short. Janet? Said she was tapped out. So my mom sold off her own meds to cover the bill—never told me. She died without treatment. I handled my mom's funeral alone. When I went to pick up Asher from the hospital, I found a stash of Janet's old shopping receipts. Custom suits. Million-dollar watches. A damn private jet. I grabbed them and stormed off to confront her. Asher cut me off. "Dad, Mr. Sackett's sick. Mom's just helping him out. Why are you freaking out?" I stared at the kid who only lived because my mom died. It felt like something cracked inside me. Janet barely looked up. "Connor's educated. He deserves the finer things. Unlike you—crying over fifty bucks like some househusband. See? I didn't give you the money, and Asher's fine." Fine. If that's how they see it, I'm done with this family.

Chase Grimm's aide-de-camp sent me a screenshot of an Instagram Live status. Guess who it came from. His new secretary. She was showing off a meticulously prepared lunch from a lunchbox. My handiwork, no less. I made it for him. The caption read: [He's a dark, cold CEO… and a shiny knight who saved a hungry princess with a gastric problem from eating mac 'n' cheese again!] Chase almost never posted on Instagram. Yet there he was, sharing a photo of a cup of ridiculously spicy mac 'n' cheese, captioned: [I have missed this.] The nerve of this prick. Then my mother-in-law sent an entirely unsolicited text: [What the heck were you doing?! You're supposed to make him a proper lunch! He can't stand spicy food!] After all that, I decided to call a supermarket. "Hi! I'd like to order 100 cups of instant super-spicy mac 'n' cheese and have them delivered to Grimm Co. Please and thank you." "Ain't I generous?"

Tony Gambino never forgave me. His childhood sweetheart died saving my life, and for seven years, his hatred was a constant, silent burn. I fasted. I prayed. I begged for absolution. He met my penance with a cold sneer. "I'll only forgive you when you're dead." The words were a knife to the heart. So why, when we were both poisoned, did he shove the only antidote down my throat? As the poison claimed him, blood trickling from his lips, he choked out his last words, "Scarlett... in our next life, let's never meet." Later, I tried to visit his grave. His sworn brother and Consigliere, Richard Bruno, blocked my path. He pressed a gun to my forehead. "I don't know how you have the nerve to show your face here, Scarlett. He'd be alive if he hadn't saved you. "I should never have let him give up Elma for you. You're a curse. Everyone who gets close to you gets destroyed." Their eyes were unanimous in their blame. And they were right. So I watched his gravesite from a distance, my own guilt a heavier stone than any marker. Not long after, I was killed in a gang crossfire. When I opened my eyes, I was seven years in the past. This time, I made a different choice: I let Tony go—so that everyone might live.

My girlfriend, Celia Winters, had her first love save her life before, so she promised to do three things for him. The first time, he called her away to ride the Ferris wheel with him when I was supposed to propose to my girlfriend. The second time, he asked her to accompany him to see the northern lights while I was ill and hospitalized. I had a crush on my girlfriend for eight years, so I endured all of this. It was not until our wedding that my girlfriend publicly admitted that she had not married the one she loved the most. She comforted me, "Zane, I'll have nothing to do with Shane anymore after this. Could you please forgive me again?" However, I did not want to endure it any longer. Since she had not married the right person, I would let her marry him!

For eighteen years, my wife, Elizabeth Connerty, never once reached out to her first love, Lucas Ryder. She committed herself fully to me and cooked warm meals for me. She attended every parent-teacher conference for our daughter. She carefully planned our family trips year after year. That was how we lived—quietly, steadily, and happily—for eighteen years. But after our daughter celebrated her eighteenth birthday, I turned to Elizabeth and said, "Let's get a divorce." She stood in the doorway of our daughter's bedroom, staring at me in stunned silence. I added calmly, "When our daughter was born, you promised me that once she turned eighteen, we would divorce."