When I Left Him, My Husband Begged Me To Come Back Novels & Stories

Everything I Bled For She lost the baby on the stairs. She lost her husband to the woman who pushed her. Anna Whitfield spent two years trying for a baby with the man she loved. The night she finally got her two pink lines, she ran home to tell him, and never made it past the staircase. His mistress pushed her. His mistress’s baby survived. Hers didn’t. And when Anna woke up in a hospital bed, broken and bleeding, her husband wasn’t holding her hand. He was feeding grapes to the woman who put her there. That should have been the worst night of her life. It wasn’t even close. Because the Whitfields don’t let go of what they think belongs to them, and Anna is about to learn exactly ho

The nurse blinked. “I’m sorry?” “I said no.” This time my voice was firmer. “I don’t want to see him.” She hesitated, clearly caught off guard. “But he insists he’s your husband.” A bitter smile tugged at my lips. “Husband?” I almost laughed. “What kind of husband ignores his wife while she’s screaming in pain?” The nurse fell silent. “What kind of husband tells his wife there’s no money for her medication…” “…then buys another woman a mansion?”

But she just want to run away from all these crazy situation to heal herself. She pick up her suitcase just enough for her to carry she is leaving lightweight, ready where ever her feet will carry her. Just away from here. She never spare a glance to her husband who is crying and begging her not to leave, for she knows if she does her conviction will be shattered and she will end up running back to him.

I regret turning my back whenever she needs me. This feels terrible. The last thing I remember about our marriage was the pain and suffering and last night I heard how she loved to be with him. Her moans, her groans for pleasure and her cries to reach that highest part of lust—everything is etched on my memory. It was so painful. I couldn't accept it. I couldn't accept that she's happy again and I’m no longer the reason. I couldn't listen to them because it breaks my heart. I couldn't even face them, so I ran away.

"This is insane!" "This is justice," he spat. "You destroyed everything. My reputation, my company, my future." We were at the edge now, rocks crumbling beneath my feet as he pushed me backward. "You think you can just walk away from me? After everything I've done for you?" I stared into his eyes, seeing nothing of the man I'd married—only a hollow shell consumed by rage and entitlement. His hands tightened on my arms as he pushed me another inch backward. Small stones skittered over the edge, falling into empty space behind me.

“I heard you wanted to see me?” “I did.” He said, his face lacking the usual charm and softness. It was surprising. “What’s the matter?” “I saw him.” He said, his voice stern. I frowned, “Who?” “Your husband.” he replied, “He came back, didn’t he?” My brows climbed up my forehead, “You remember?” He nodded, “You’re making a mistake, Cassie. Don’t take him back in.” I let out a dry laugh, “I’m not-”

It had been like that for over a decade now, and I promised to fix it for her, but I never got a chance. After my marriage with Armstrong, I became a housewife, and he never allowed me to go out except occasionally. I suddenly heard a strange voice called my name. “Zara aruthur,”

I begged. It was unlike me, Nick Jones begged no one but I did. I begged my wife to stay with me. I missed being near her, I missed everything about her, and I was not above begging to get it.

Three days after my daughter was born, my husband was killed by a car while running to the store for some groceries. I was so devastated I passed out. When I came to, his funeral was already over, and a stranger was standing in my living room. "I'm your husband's twin brother. I'll be around to help take care of you and the baby." Later, I locked myself in the bathroom with his urn, sobbing uncontrollably, when I overheard his childhood buddies talking through the open window.

whenever I reached for him in the dark. Apparently, he had been saving his energy for her. Our bed. The expensive sheets I had bought for our anniversary. The throw pillows I had carefully arranged every morning. The room where I had cried myself to sleep more nights than I cared to count, wondering why my husband felt like a stranger. "God, I've missed this. I've missed you so much." Missed. Past tense. Which meant this was not the first time my best friend had been fucking my husband in my bed.