Anonymous Confessions

My son, Kaden Watt, shouted at me menacingly, “I don’t have to pretend anymore! I bet you didn’t know that I could hear your conversations with the System. I never once thought of you as my father. Every bit of it was an act. A man that desperate makes me sick.” My wife, Silvia Watt, walked in with her true love, her affectionate eyes reflecting hostility. “If it weren’t for fear of the System punishing Simon Bartone, I would’ve filed for divorce a long time ago. My son doesn’t deserve a spineless man for a father. Watch yourself, or I’ll come after you.” The trio stood there, as if they had their perfect ending. I curled my lips. Well, who was to say that I wasn’t acting too? A player in a game could never fall in love with NPCs.

After I help my boyfriend register his company and successfully land his first deal, he finally decides to make our relationship public. But his junior from college, who's always had this weird hostility toward me for no reason, beats me to it by sliding into the seat next to him. She leans against my boyfriend's chest, her voice smug and satisfied. "Didn't you say you'd wait until the company officially launched? So why the rush now?" My boyfriend says nothing. Instead, he hands her a share certificate and announces to the entire room that she's the company's largest shareholder. The room explodes. Everyone starts whistling and cheering them on. The junior takes the opportunity to kick me while I'm down, throwing insults my way. My boyfriend doesn't just fail to stop her. He actually joins in with his own snide remarks. "Sure, you helped me set up the company and brought in our first client, but she's the one who can actually take us somewhere." I don't get angry. I graciously acknowledge the junior's new position. I want to see how far they would get without me, their biggest asset and most valuable connection.

On our fifth wedding anniversary, my husband, Damian Pyke, once again left me for his first love. He said, "Taking care of a child alone isn't easy for Waverly. You're both women—can't you show her some understanding?" Not only was I willing to understand Waverly Benson, but I was also ready to step aside entirely so they could raise her child together. So, I packed my bags and applied for an overseas architecture program through my workplace. However, he eventually regretted it, crying and begging me not to go.

The day my husband, Lucas Maxwell, helps his childhood sweetheart—Cecilia Brown, who has cancer—lose her virginity, I leave behind a divorce agreement and walk away. Before I leave, I drop a comment beneath a photo of them on his social media. Their fingers are tightly interlocked in the photo. "Let's get divorced. I wish you both a lifetime of happiness." A minute later, he calls me. "How did I end up marrying someone as selfish as you, Fiona Sinclair? Do you really have the heart to let her die without leaving anything behind?" I sneer, "You're no longer my husband. How is that my problem?" That's when he panics.

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.

For five years, I quietly supported my boyfriend, helping him rise from a lawyer's assistant to a partner at a top-tier law firm. At the annual awards ceremony, I was thrilled, ready to celebrate publicly and surprise him. But then, he walked on stage with a female coworker, their behavior cozy and intimate. "Cade owes his success to my brilliant strategies behind the scenes," Caitlyn boasted. Cade smiled, echoing her words, "Absolutely, without Caitlyn, I wouldn't be where I am today." The audience erupted in applause, congratulating them. I stood at the back of the crowd, frozen. Leaving the venue, I called my assistant. "Cut off all networking support for Cade Gilliam. End all cooperation. That shady case he took on? Stop smoothing things over. Let him face the consequences."

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?"

Back when I was 20, I supported a girlfriend. I paid for her education and even found the best doctors for her mother, who had cancer. The sweet, brilliant girl stayed with me for four years. However, my family went bankrupt after my parents died. I even injured my eyes and broke my legs. I watched her have a heart-to-heart talk with her childhood friend, tears in her eyes. I left without a word, and she never sought me out. Years later, I saw her again while picking up trash outside a hotel. She had become a wealthy CEO and was about to marry her childhood sweetheart. Her gaze at me was cold and indifferent. I bitterly asked, "Do you still hate me?" Yet, with tears streaming down her face, she replied, "Yes… I wish you were dead."

The day my wife slept with her terminally ill “male best friend” to take his virginity, I left a divorce agreement behind and walked out. Before I left, I commented under their hand-holding photo on Instagram. [Let's get divorced. I wish you and Theo a long and happy life together.] One minute later, she called me. "Logan, how did I end up marrying someone as selfish as you? Can you really let him die without someone to carry on his line?" I sneered and replied that she wasn't my wife anymore, so that wasn't really my problem. She panicked.

That night, I got off work early and brought home some late-night snacks. When I opened the door, I saw a pair of high heels carelessly tossed in the entryway and Gregory’s blazer thrown over the couch. His heavy breathing and the woman’s moans could be heard through the gap between the door and its frame. I was all too familiar with this sight. This time, I did not storm out like I used to. Instead, I sat quietly at the dining table and finished my cold pizza.