Cheating Simcity Buildit

I had been secretly in love with my childhood friend for nine long years. When we finally got married, my family and friends thought I was the happiest person in the world. After I became pregnant, he used the excuse of "helping an old classmate" and invited the most beautiful girl from our class into our home. During the worst of my pregnancy, when nausea and exhaustion hit hardest, he took her to the hospital, made crafts with her, and watched sunsets with her. He even had the guts to accuse me of being small-minded and petty and acting like a bitter, jealous wife. Only then did I realize that it was just my foolish fantasy that I lived my dream of marrying my childhood sweetheart and had a happy life. I let go of the love I had for him and of the future I thought we would share. Now, however, he was the one who regretted it.

The day my mother brought her childhood sweetheart back to the villa, my father—who had already quit smoking—stood on the balcony and smoked through the entire night. Back then, his colleagues at the research institute all envied him for having a wife who was a CEO. They said he should have stayed home and enjoyed life—why work so hard outside when all he needed to do was keep a firm grip on the household finances? But my father never agreed. "Those things are all external," he would say. "As long as the feelings are still there, we'll be fine whether we're rich or poor. And if one day she no longer loves me, I'll leave with nothing and walk away alone." He never expected his words to become prophecy. My mother truly did stop loving him. Later, when she appeared before the media, arm in arm with that man, my father didn't look back. He boarded a flight overseas and disappeared from our lives. And as I stared at the photo in my social feed—my fiancée's hand entwined with someone else's—I knew it was time for me to leave too, just like my father had.

Three years into my marriage with Shawn, I found out I was pregnant. I nervously but joyfully prepared to surprise him with the news. Yet what I received was the news of Shawn’s accidental death. Devastated by the blow, I miscarried the child and killed myself in despair. However, after death, I saw him drinking and mocking me with his rowdy friends. “Samantha is so dumb. I can’t believe she really fell for that prank. Does she really think I’d be fooled by her? I’m not an idiot like her. What, she’s pregnant? If she was going to make up something to fool me, she should have at least made it more believable.” But our child really was gone, and I had really died.

When the yacht was sinking, and only one spot was left on the lifeboat, Hendrix Zuckerman chose me. I was rescued, but Yana Bridgeton didn’t make it. She couldn’t wait for the second lifeboat and drowned in the ocean, her body lost forever. Hendrix pretended not to care and went through with our wedding as planned. For five years after our marriage, he trampled me into the dirt, blaming me for Yana's death. When I couldn't take it any longer and wanted a divorce, he decided to die with me. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day the yacht accident happened. This time, I’ve decided to give the chance to survive to the one he loves most.

On the day my sight returned, our family doctor, Anna Leone, stood right in front of me and mouthed to my husband, Don Marco Vitale, "Double the lubricant tonight. I promise it'll send you straight to heaven, my Don." Marco pressed a gentle kiss to my eyes. Then he turned away and replied with the same silent lip movements, "You little tease. That mouth of yours—and the one below—I'm crazy about them both." The two of them exchanged a knowing smile, convinced their secret was flawless. What they didn't know was that not only had my vision fully recovered—I was also fluent in lip-reading. My gaze drifted to the bottle of lubricant sitting brazenly in the wall cabinet. I said nothing. Instead, I quietly sent a single text message: [Papa, I've decided to come home.] In three days, I would vanish completely. All I would leave behind for them would be the hollowed-out fortune of billions—and that bottle of "lubricant" I had replaced with high-strength industrial superglue.

Because I saved my husband during a car accident, I lost my eyesight. He wept, promising to treat me well for the rest of our lives to repay my sacrifice. I cooperated with the treatment wholeheartedly, hoping for a full recovery. But on the day I finally regained my sight, I stumbled upon something that shattered my world. In our marital home, his first love lay beneath him, her flushed face betraying the passion of the moment. Their bodies intertwined, and the air around them thick with stifled moans—a vivid tableau of infidelity. "She's just a blind woman. Why haven't you divorced her yet?" the woman murmured impatiently, her voice laced with disdain as she moved against him. My husband, immersed in pleasure, still mumbled an excuse. "My love, just a little longer. Soon, we'll be together openly…" I turned and left without a word, pretending I had seen nothing. As I walked away, I remembered the witch's sacrificial ritual in the misty forest—only a few days away. My husband's betrayal cut deep, carving wounds I couldn't ignore. I made up my mind to return to the forest, to embrace my identity as a witch once more, and to sever all ties with him. Yet, after I disappeared, word reached me that he was searching for me everywhere like a madman. Rumor had it he had completely lost his mind.

After a wild, drunken class reunion, I woke up next to a male model. I had no clue what I was doing since it was my first time in this kind of situation. I called my best friend for help on what to do, and while the male model was still out cold, I left my wallet and bolted. When I got home, my best friend dragged me over to show me a picture of her new boyfriend. My jaw dropped. The guy in the photo was the spitting image of the man I had just left.

I begged my husband ninety-nine times to go with me to Jay Boone's concert. On the hundredth time, he finally bought two front-row tickets. Dressed to the nines, I was stopped at the entrance by security because I couldn't produce my ticket. By the time the concert ended, I still hadn't been able to get through to him on the phone. News broke that my husband and his young girlfriend were at the concert, requesting "Sunny Day" from Jay Boone. The story shot straight to the trending charts. There's no rain in the lyrics of "Sunny Day." Because the only world caught in a torrential downpour was mine.

After Caesar Shepherd went overseas with his lover, Florence Lane, about a month passed with no news about Ivy Rivers. Only then did Caesar realize something was wrong. When he had time, he gave his secretary, Morgan, a call. "How's the wound on Ivy's leg? Is she still angry at me for taking her skin for Florence's skin graft?" The opposite side of the line was quiet for a long time. Then, Morgan said softly, "Ms. Rivers was discharged from the hospital and left the residence a month ago." Caesar finally remembered Ivy's eyes full of despair and determination on the day he protected Florence in his arms when the hotel collapsed. That wasn't sorrow. No. That was goodbye.

I'm dressed in flip-flops and shorts when making an inspection of the five-star hotel my husband just acquired. When the front office manager spots me, she immediately calls for security with a disgusted look on her face. "The hotel's WiFi isn't meant for people like you to use. Hurry up and pay me 200 thousand dollars in Internet costs, then get lost!" I calmly tell her that I'm the owner of the hotel, but that only makes her sneer. "The owner of the hotel? Hey, old hag, you're putting on an act in front of the real deal! This hotel was a birthday gift from my husband to me. Aren't you fantasizing a bit too much?" Oh? Since when did Ian Lambert get another wife behind my back?