Bias Drawing

My fiancé wants to marry me in a pizzeria. At the same time, he promises to give his true love the rest of his life on a luxurious cruise. Our wedding is only 48 hours away, but I don't want him anymore.

My husband is the perfect doctor… or so everyone thinks. However, he delays the critical treatment of an accident patient so he can accompany his first love's son. Later, he even secretly switches out a patient's medication and watches as she dies from the pain. That way, he can take her heart and perform a heart transplant for his first love's son. What he doesn't know is that the patient whose heart he's taken is his daughter's. She's disfigured in an accident after her treatment is delayed. He calls her family's phone number, hoping they'll agree to donate her body to contribute to the medical field. That's when he hears my phone ring.

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.

The seventh time I planned to register for marriage with Piero Conrad, he didn't show up again. I was about to text him and ask when he would arrive when I stumbled upon his childhood friend's post. [Celebrating the 999th day since marrying my dear, from the past to the future, it's always been you.] The video showed a marriage certificate, with Piero's name listed as the husband. The registration date was May 20, three years ago. I realized that was why he never showed up those seven times. He was already married to someone else.

We have been dating for ten years, but Vincent Carter has never been romantic toward me. However, before our wedding, he has someone deliver a delicate bracelet and an elegant dress to me. I take photos of them happily, only to find a card tucked inside the dress that's not addressed to me. Just as I'm about to contact Vincent, I see a post from Emily Foster, his childhood sweetheart, on her social media. "Someone stole something that belongs to me!" That's also how I find out Vincent has also bought her an apartment. The address stated on the card is for the unit downstairs. The gift is meant for unit 701, but it's delivered to me by mistake. I pick up the items and go downstairs, just in time to see Vincent gently comforting her in his arms. The moment he sees me, his face darkens with irritation. "Can you stop overreacting? You're always suspicious for no reason. Emily and I grew up together. If we were going to be together, you wouldn't even be in the picture!" If it were before, I would've been furious and demanded an explanation. But now, I simply let out a chuckle and toss the gifts onto him. "I wish you both the best, then."

Yasmine Silva gave everything to Leo Quinton over fifty years of marriage. After he was injured on a mission and left disabled, she left her respectable and steady job as a TV station host to stay by his side and massage his legs every day. He said he never wanted children. She endured ten miscarriages and was left unable to have any. Even then, she never once complained. Everyone said Leo was blessed to have a wife like Yasmine. It was only after Leo passed away that Yasmine, who had cared for him all her life, learned the truth. To him, she had never been a blessing. She had only been a burden that kept him from his wife and son.

After another one of Winifred Clayton's dramatic suicide threats, Edgar Snider secretly starts a relationship with her behind my back under one condition—I can never find out about it. He says, "I can be with you, but Wanda is everything to me. Whatever happens between us, she can never know." Winifred pretends to agree. Then, she sends me a video of her and Edgar living together, my son included. "No matter what happens, Edgar will never leave me. So stop deluding yourself—you were never a match for me." What she doesn't know is that I never plan to compete. In just one month, I'll be on a flight to Avernia, gone from Edgar's life for good.

On the day of the SAT exam, my girlfriend’s childhood friend, Benedict Casper, forgot his admission ticket at home. She insisted on retrieving it for him, but I begged her not to go. In the end, Benedict missed his final chance for taking the exam and, overwhelmed by despair, he jumped to his death. Years later, my girlfriend, Ella Simpson, and I graduated from Whitmore Institute of Technology, landed high-paying jobs, and built a picture-perfect marriage. But on the anniversary of Benedict’s death, she stabbed me repeatedly, her voice trembling with rage, “You killed him. If I’d gotten his admission ticket, he would’ve never jumped.” When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day of the exams. Ella’s frantic voice rang in my ears, “I have to go back, Dominic. I need to get Benedict’s ticket!” This time, I smiled and said, “Go ahead. Be careful on the way.”

When I was six, I spilled hot water, slipped, and burned my face. My face was ruined. My parents learned their lesson and never let my younger sister do housework. To everyone they met, they praised her beauty, her charm. They turned to me with nothing but disdain. When I was ten, I had a high fever. They didn't think much of it and let it drag on until my brain was damaged, leaving me slow and dull. They learned their lesson again. From then on, if my sister so much as coughed, they would rush her to the hospital in the dead of night, showering her with care. I was like a failed experiment. Every mistake they made with me, they corrected for her. I was ugly, silent, dim-witted, unwanted. She was beautiful, sweet-talking, clever, adored by all. When I was diagnosed with depression, I gathered what little courage I had and told them. Mom lashed out, called me sick in the head, and accused me of being petty. If I was so capable, she said, I might as well die. It wasn't until my sister pushed me off a high-rise that they found out, by sheer accident, that she wasn't their child at all. I was their one and only biological child.

After eight years of marriage, I finally get pregnant with Claude Frey's child. It's my sixth round of IVF, and my last chance. The doctor says I can't put my body through it again. I'm overjoyed, ready to share the good news with him. But a week before our anniversary, I received an anonymous photo in the mail. In it, he was bending down to kiss another woman's pregnant belly. That woman is his childhood sweetheart, the one his family watched grow up. She's gentle and well-mannered, and the kind of daughter-in-law every parent dreams of. The funniest part is that his entire family knows about her pregnancy, except me. I'm just the punchline in their joke. It turns out that the marriage I've been holding together despite all my wounds is nothing but a carefully crafted lie. Fine. I don't want Claude anymore, and I'll never let my child be born into a world built on lies. I book my ticket to leave on our eighth anniversary. It's also the very day he's supposed to take me to see the sea of roses. Before we got married, he promised me a sea of flowers all my own. But instead, I find him in front of the rose garden, kissing his pregnant childhood sweetheart. After I leave, he starts searching for me everywhere. "Don't go, please?" he begs. "I was wrong. Don't leave." He finally remembers the promise he'd made to me and plants the most beautiful roses in the world in that garden. But I don't need it anymore.