Cheating

I married Rafe Maretti—the man who owned the Maretti Casino empire. Sophisticated, ruthless, but sinfully charming. By year three of our marriage, I introduced my little sister to his nephew, Adam Moretti—twenty-five, all sharp smiles and sharper ambition. He ran the dirtier side of the family’s business—arms, drugs, the kind of trade that dripped blood and money in equal parts. I married the powerful, irresistible uncle. She married the young, dangerous nephew. It was supposed to be our fairytale. Then one day, I got kidnapped in Rafe’s casino. Snatched by a rival mafia family desperate to force Rafe to sign over one of his biggest, most profitable casinos. Except Rafe didn’t answer the phone or even notice I was gone. The kidnappers grew impatient. First, it was slaps. Then punches. Then they shattered my leg and buried a knife in my stomach. Still no word from my husband. Until finally, after what felt like a hundred unanswered calls, a single message came through. "I’m with Bianca. She’s having a stomach. Stop calling." Once the kidnappers realized I had no value, they dumped me in a rotting warehouse like discarded luggage. It was Isla, my sister, who found me. She got me out. And then the brakes failed. The car spun out. Isla went unconscious beside me. I tried calling Adam. Isla’s husband. But as soon the call went through, all I could hear was. “Leave me along. Isla, I am in the middle of something here.” When I clearly heard a woman’s voice in the back. If not for a passing stranger, Isla and me wouldn’t have made it to the hospital, let along have survived. So when I opened my eyes again, the first thing I thought was: I’m divorcing that sorry bastard. The Maretti can go to hell.

On my husband's birthday, I poured my heart into preparing a feast and selecting the perfect gift. Yet, he didn't come home. Instead, I received a picture message—a snapshot of him at the hospital, standing outside the OB-GYN ward, his hand resting tenderly on his childhood crush's belly. Beneath the photo, a message read: [The best birthday gift and a symbol of our decade-long bond.] Furious, I called her. "Don't you know he's married?" Before I could say more, my husband snatched the phone and lashed out at me. "Yvonne just wanted to share the joy of becoming a mother. Why are you overreacting? "Yvonne and I have been best friends for over a decade. Your petty jealousy is disgusting!" I once believed his busyness was for our future, but now I knew—he had been busy supporting the girl of his dreams through her pregnancy. Clutching my own stomach, I bit my lip to stop the tears from falling. Ten years of love had drained away. It was time to let go.

To everyone else, I'm the wife of Stefano Pace, the man who runs this city's underworld. To others, I am living the kind of luxury every woman in town envies. But what no one knows is that in three days, I'm leaving my husband for good. It started when I took Stefano's car to wash and spotted a black stocking that wasn't mine wedged in the passenger seat cushions. It was balled up and still reeked of sickly sweet perfume. The sight of it was like a knife to the heart. I knew that perfume. It is Isla Torelli's. She's Stefano's underboss, the only woman besides me who's ever taken the passenger seat. My hand trembled as I gripped the stocking, but I kept my cool. I thought back to our wedding seven years ago, when Stefano stood in front of the whole family and vowed, "If I ever betray you, then betray me a hundredfold!" He probably did not think those words would come true.

Beta Max and I were at the Civil Affairs Bureau, ready to register our marriage. We were just waiting to take the final photo when he got a phone call and left. He abandoned me right there at the marriage registration office, leaving me stuck in an impossible situation. I called him—no answer. I messaged him—no reply. In the end, I had no choice but to call his childhood sweetheart’s number. Beta Max answered. “Louis, can you stop being so annoying? Grace twisted her ankle—I need to take care of her today. Stop calling and waking her up. We’ll reschedule the registration.” I bit my lip and murmured into the phone, “This makes it the seventh time we’ve rescheduled.” “So what? The Civil Affairs Bureau isn’t going anywhere—it’s not like it’s going to disappear!” My face was blank, but it felt like my heart was being carved open. A staff member looked at me with pity and asked, “Alpha Louis, are we still doing this?” I gave a small nod. “Yes. Let’s go through with it.”

"Ms. Hall, these are the details of the feigned death service you booked with us. The date of death is set for the wedding, half a month from now. The cause of death will be suicide by drowning, and the deceased is yourself. Please confirm and sign here." Wendy Hall nodded. Without hesitation, she signed her name at the bottom of the document. The bustling street was alive with chatter and movement. As Wendy walked home alone, she glanced up, and there it was—the giant screen on a nearby building, looping a video of Grayson Bryce proposing to her.

My fiance is the best Neuro Healer among the werewolves. His first love is his little stepsister, who once took a fatal silver arrow for him. Now, her old condition has flared up, and she has a fatal silver venom disease. She only has 21 days left to live. In order to stay with her in her final days, he pours his newly developed "Memory Lock Potion" into me to eliminate all my memories of him by force. He says, "It's just 21 days. Once she's gone, I'll feed you the antidote myself, and you'll remember me again." In those 21 days, he holds a grand bonding ceremony for his stepsister, dances with her during the Moon Goddess Festival, and makes an oath swearing that they will become mates again in their next life. Finally, he sends her off. After 21 days, the potion wears off, and he kneels in the rain with tears and blood all over his face. He asks hoarsely in an accusing tone, "The potion only lasts for 21 days… why have you forgotten me completely?" I just look up impassively at him. "Sorry, but who are you?"

On the way to get our marriage certificate for the twentieth time, Rolf Trivett regretted it once again. In eight years, this was our twentieth attempt to get the certificate. But every time we reached City Hall, he would always say he needed time to care for his seriously ill childhood friend and couldn't promise to marry me. This time, I couldn't take it anymore and asked him, "If she’s never going to get better, does that mean you’ll never marry me? What am I to you?" Rolf immediately lost his temper and yelled at me, "I've already promised to take care of her for life. Can you stop being so selfish? "Besides, we've been together for eight years. What difference does it make if we don't get this certificate?"

Tammy, who my husband Steven used to mentor, was in the car crash with me. My liver had ruptured. I was drenched in blood. Steven didn't even flinch. He yanked Tammy out first, and she only had a scratch on her forehead. While I was unconscious, barely hanging on, he was freaking out about her getting a scar. When I came to, completely done, I chucked the divorce papers at his face. He went feral—ripped them up and said I'd only leave him over his dead body. I used to hate when he pulled that line. But now? If that's what it takes, so be it.

I was four months pregnant when I discovered that my husband had fallen for our young family helper. He dropped to his knees and started slapping himself repeatedly with such force that blood rolled down from the corner of his mouth. He sobbed, swearing it was just a drunken mistake, swearing to me he'd never see her again. Thinking of the baby growing inside me, my heart softened, and I tore the divorce papers. The day I went into labor, I suffered serious complications. The baby was stillborn, and the umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck. He didn't even get the chance to cry. I was drowning in grief, but then my husband walked into the delivery room holding the family helper's baby in his arms. "Don't be sad, Kelda. She's willing to let you raise her child." My anger ran so deep that I bit my lip until it bled. It was all my fault! I had been treating him too well all these years. He had completely forgotten what I, Kelda Shaw, was really capable of.

My mother-in-law was obsessed with picking mushrooms. She said mushroom stew with chicken was incredibly nourishing. She often made it to boost my husband’s health. However, she never let me have any, not even a sip of the broth. Every time, she came up with some excuse to send me out on an errand. If I refused, my husband’s fists and kicks reminded me to obey. So, this time, I obediently went out like always. Even though I just had a miscarriage five days ago and the sun outside was scorching, I had to go.