Journey Ends Novels & Stories

Suzy was the only normal person in our family. While our father drank himself into oblivion, our mother gambled away everything, and I descended into mental illness, she sacrificed everything to pay our debts and keep us alive. She even found the best doctors to treat me. We all carried a lifetime of guilt for dragging her down. Then she became engaged to the heir of the most powerful family in the country. Only after I died in a psychiatric hospital did I uncover the horrifying truth. Suzy had been chosen by a system. My father's alcoholism, my mother's gambling addiction, and even my mental illness were never accidents. They had been carefully engineered to create the perfect tragic backstory for her, shaping her into the resilient, selfless heroine. We were nothing more than disposable tools in her mission, used until we had served our purpose and then discarded.

My husband, Ivan Sanders, found out that his first love, Brenda Waters, had gotten divorced. That very night, I asked for a divorce. Ivan smiled. "Are you sure? I'll call my secretary and have him cancel the custom dress from Butterfly." I blinked. Um... on second thought, maybe I should think it over a little longer.

After years of investment from my company, my boyfriend finally broke into show business. At last, he won an Oscar. True to his promise, he married me. Then, during a backstage interview, he said, "It was transactional. I had to marry her in exchange for the funding." His braindead fans came after me soon afterward. They stalked me and, one day, poured sulfuric acid over my face. The attack left me disfigured. He sent me to the hospital, but that was just another part of his scheme. Before long, the world believed I had died from complications. When I returned to life, I decided to invest in someone else. After all, he was the only person who had mourned my death and given me a proper burial.

Three days after I died, my fiancé got a call to ID the body. He just scoffed. "She's dead, so what? Call me when she's in the ground." The cops, out of options, hit up my backup contact—my childhood friend. He actually laughed. "She's really gone? Not my problem. Burn her or whatever." Then my body hit the internet— And suddenly, both of them looked like ghosts.

I was Johan's secretary for seven years. After another night together, he tossed me a check. "I'm bored with you." I gave him a teasing smile. "I've got less than three months left. Couldn't you wait a little longer?" He frowned. "Yara Yelton, you should know your place." My smile froze. He had no idea. I never joked about that. Later, he panicked. By then, it was too late.

Two days before New Year's, my boyfriend, Jeffrey Graham, planned to spend the holiday at the beach with his assistant. I did not argue or complain. Instead, I thoughtfully packed his bags for him. However, he mocked me, saying that I had finally learned to be considerate now that I was pregnant. After he left, I wasted no time and went to get an abortion. Why? In my previous life, I tried to use our child to stop him, but his assistant ended up being brutally murdered at the beach. Jeffrey appeared calm on the surface after that incident, but just when I was about to give birth, he cruelly cut open my abdomen and killed my baby. That was when I realized—he had been holding a deep grudge against me all along. This time, I was determined to make him lose everything.

Despite my parents' objections, I stay by Julian Grant's side for ten years. He goes from having nothing to building his own empire. The moment it's time to fulfill our ten-year promise, I proudly tell my parents I'm going to marry him. But then, he gives the vice president position meant for me to another woman. I confront him only to overhear a woman's hesitant voice behind the door. "Mr. Grant... you gave me the VP role, but what about Ms. Jones? Aren't you two getting married?" Julian's tone is cold and sharp, though his face is calm and unaffected. "Noelle's been with me for ten years. Who else would even want her? Relax—she won't dare make a scene." The words hit me like a slap to the face. Without another word, I turn and make a call to my arranged marriage contact. "Are you free?" I ask. "Let's get married."

On the third day after my death, Eliza Sutton received the call to claim my body. She was resting in another man's arms. She said nonchalantly, "He's dead, huh? Just cremate it and call me afterward." My body was fed to the flames and reduced to ashes. When the staff were done, they contacted Eliza again. Irritation flashed in her eyes as she snapped, "I heard you. I'm on my way."

The day my husband left the country on a business trip with his assistant, I learned—by sheer accident—that his archenemy was plotting revenge overseas. Without a second thought, I raced to the airport and stopped him from boarding the plane. But his assistant went ahead, alone. And over there, she was killed brutally. Not a trace of her remains was ever found. When my husband received the news, he fell apart. Wracked with guilt, eaten alive by remorse, he spiraled into a relentless, violent mania. In the past three years, I'd been in and out of hospitals more times than I could count because of him. And this time, he pushed me so far—I lost our child. Then I overheard a conversation between him and his secretary. "Sir, Casey is still alive. Why keep pretending you're sick? Aren't you afraid your wife will find out and leave you?" "Leave me? What right does she have to be angry?" He laughed coldly. "If she hadn't stopped me from going abroad, Casey would've never been lured away by that bastard. Everything Linda's suffering now—she brought it on herself."

I was a housewife with severe OCD and a serious cleanliness obsession. I accidentally entered what I thought was a wholesome parenting game where I beat the crap out of my rebellious son, smothered my adorable daughter with love, and ripped out the corpse-stitching on my husband to sew him back up. On the day I cleared the game, the three of them tearfully sent me off. Only during the final settlement did I learn the truth: my husband was the ultimate boss of the horror game. My son was an infamous demon who left no players alive, and my daughter had crushed the skulls of a hundred players. Wasn't this supposed to be a parenting game? Turns out, I had walked straight into a horror game.