Spouse Cheating Stories

I had been in a relationship with Zachary Dawson for seven years and engaged for three when, out of the blue, Ruby White, the daughter of his mentor, moved into our home. Sitting casually on the bed that Zachary and I shared, Ruby lounged with an air of nonchalance, her voice playful and teasing. "Zachary, the dental god, sure has a nice bed," she remarked with a smirk. "I can only imagine what it would be like to spend the night with him in this bed." I captured the scene on my phone and sent the video to our family group chat with a brief message: Looks like Zachary might have a new girlfriend Zachary rushed home, wrapping his arms protectively around a tearful Ruby. He pointed at me, his voice seething with anger. "My mentor's dying wish was for me to take care of Ruby! If you can't accept that, then move out!" Honestly, my brows furrowed deeper than the wrinkles on the bedsheets Ruby had sat on. Fine. I didn't need the bed, and I didn't need a fiancé anymore.

It's my daughter, Noelle Peace's first day at the kindergarten. But the teacher kicks us out instantly. "Mr. Peace's son has been studying here for a year. Since when does he have another daughter?" This leaves me feeling confused. Noelle has only reached the minimum age to start her education. How is it possible for that child to study here for a year? After investigating the truth, I find out that the new assistant, Myra Larson, had enrolled her own child into the same kindergarten as Mrs. Pearce a year ago. I seek her out, only for her to flash her marriage certificate with my husband, George Pearce. "I know you. You've been pestering my husband all these years, haven't you?" The official stamp of the courthouse is shown on the marriage certificate, clear as day. The date is five years ago. But the thing is, George and I have been married for three years.

I receive a message one day. "Your condoms have been delivered. Total to be paid: XX dollars." I distinctly remember that I've never made such an order, but the address and phone number are mine. I call my husband, but he only says differently, "My godsister ordered them. She's too shy to use her details, so she used yours. It's not like it'll affect you." I nod silently. She might as well not have them if she can't afford to pay for them.

Ten years ago, the Harrington family went through a home invasion. My mother, a maid, shielded Liam with her life. Holding my hands tight, Liam promised, "Andrea, don't worry. I'll protect you forever." I believed him. Our bond grew naturally, and we had a beautiful daughter together. Then, she was diagnosed with leukemia. In her last days, all she wanted was to spend one birthday with her dad. I called him, desperate to make it happen. "Millie doesn't have much time left. All she wants is one birthday with you. Can you come?" His voice on the other end went icy. "Really? This your latest stunt? Using your dead mom wasn't enough, now it's our daughter for pity? Disgusting." I tried to deny it, but he cut me off. "Don't mess with her head. Learn from Vivian—she's got a real heart." That night, our daughter passed away. Later, Vivian posted on social media: [Finally taking that couples' trip someone promised me!] I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I just texted Liam: [We're done.]

The day before Chris Carter and I were supposed to get engaged, my parents sent me to prison. Three years later, when I was finally released, Chris was the only one who came to pick me up. I knew he despised me. I trembled, keeping my head down, hoping to slip away unnoticed. But he blocked my path, frowning. “Emily York? You stink.” He pinched his nose and told me to get in the car. I fell to my knees, desperately begging him not to take me home. If he did, I would die. He looked at me with chilling indifference and said, “Then go ahead and die.” I agreed. But later, he cried and begged me to stay alive.

Before my mother passed away, the person she most wanted to see was her beloved son-in-law, Anthony Brosnan. She supported Anthony financially for five years, and the latter started his own business after graduating. At that time, I accidentally walked into his office and instantly fell in love with him at first sight. However, Anthony changed after three years of marriage and fell in love with his secretary. I called him over a dozen times, and it was the secretary who picked up the phone. "Anthony is cooking right now. Do you need something?" Just as I was about to speak, my mother overheard the voice. Her eyes widened in disbelief, and she passed away filled with resentment. Anthony, since I had lost my mother, you meant nothing to me anymore.

On the night of my 30th birthday, I waited until the early hours of the morning, but my husband, Theodore Hawk never showed up. Instead, I came across an Instagram post from his childhood sweetheart, Emily Gallagher. [What romantic is not the starry night, it is having you by my side.] In the picture, she was wearing a delicate, sky-blue camisole that revealed just enough to charm and seduce. A man stood close behind her, his hand firmly gripping her waist. The scene was set in the seaside villa that Theodore had gifted her, their figures intimately entwined under the soft glow of the night. Someone had commented beneath the post: [I can’t stand you two being this lovey-dovey all the time! Just get married already!] Emily had responded with a shy-face emoji. I had just liked the post when Theodore, who I had failed to reach all night, blew up my phone with calls. "Are you out of your mind, Camilla? Emi and I grew up together! If we wanted to be together, we would’ve done so long ago! Why are you being so petty?" Looking at how Theodore gently held her in his arms, comforting her, I realized something. Letting go of someone you’ve loved for seven years... can take only a moment.

By my third month on the job, I discovered that my coworkers had been calling me "the old crow" behind my back. The nickname came from none other than Jace's condescending secretary—because at 32, I was still clutching onto an eight-year relationship that hadn't ended in marriage. I confronted Jace. "Do you know your employees have been calling me the old crow?" He didn't even bother to look up. "That's just Sadie—she speaks her mind and means no harm. You're 32; why get so worked up over what a young girl says?" Then he gave me a faint, mocking smile. "Though honestly, it's a pretty fitting nickname." It felt like a cold hand had wrapped around my heart. So that was it—eight years of my youth, nothing more than a joke to him. I turned and walked away, handed in my resignation, and blocked every way he could reach me. But for the first time, the man who had always seemed so calm and untouchable finally panicked. "Elara," he pleaded, "please come back."

On my birthday, I personally prepare 16 dishes. After setting up the candlelight, I open a bottle of red wine. I take a photo and send it to my husband, Eric Sinclair. "I'm working late tonight. Don't wait for me," he replies. I choose to believe him. But after midnight, I notice an Instagram story posted by Shirley Huxley, his secretary. Eric was there with her, dressed in the trench coat I once gave him. They sat side by side in the VIP seat of football stadium where my favorite Super Bowl take place. Entwined in a passionate embrace, they kissed beneath a sea of shimmering lights and the roar of thousands of fans. That game is the one I have always longed to experience with him. I look down at the cold food on the table. Eric's words keep ringing in my head. "I hate kissing." "Marriage is a partnership, not about love and kisses." Though we've been married for ten years, we've never shared a single kiss. Meanwhile, he's out there, kissing Shirley openly and passionately. Despite it all, not a single tear falls from my eyes. The next day, Eric settles into his chair, completely unfazed. "Return the gallery to Shelly," he commands. I nod quietly, saying nothing. Suddenly, Layla Sinclair, my daughter, comes running down the stairs and throws herself into Shirley's arms. "Aunt Shirley, you're my favorite. I don't like Mom!" In that instant, it hits me—the home I devoted my heart and soul to means nothing anymore. It doesn't matter that I've been married to Eric for a decade. Now, all I want is to find myself again. I decide to accept an invitation from the Parisoir School of Fashion Design. From this moment on, I won't wait for them to come home, and I won't look back.

When news of my arranged fiancee's death arrived, I didn't cry or make a scene. Instead, I quickly reclaimed her shares and had the death certificate issued. I did it because I've been reborn. In my past life, Dad was worried that women would eye my fortune as the heir to the wealthiest family. So, he arranged for me to marry one of three women he personally picked. I chose the most outstanding one, Monica Harris, and married her. However, just three days after our wedding, she died suddenly. Heartbroken, I was persuaded by the remaining two women to give up on marriage and remain single for life. At 80 years old, when I returned to our special place in Sunmere Valley to reminisce, I saw Monica. She should have been dead for 60 years! She stood beside Liam Rogers, my driver who'd gone missing decades ago, surrounded by their children and grandchildren, living a picture-perfect life. I realized I'd been deceived my entire life. The shock sent my blood pressure soaring, and I died of a stroke on the spot. When I opened my eyes again, I was transported back to the day I died. This time, I'm going to find out exactly how someone who's supposedly dead keeps on living.