Widow Novels & Stories

He lifted her into his arms, and the frail woman clung to him with all her strength. "I love you, Jared. I love you," she confessed with great pain. "I've always been in love with you, but... this wedding not only ruined my life, but it consumes me. This marriage consumes me, it eats away at me and extinguishes everything in me. Sometimes I think Robert is crazy, and other times I think it's me who's crazy, or both of us. I feel like... my soul is fading with every passing second, as if he were capable of doing that. Who did I marry? Why does he hate me? What did I do to him? How far will this go? I know I'm not in a position to confess that I'm in love with you right now; you're his best fr

Domenik moved—closer, never touching, but every inch of him a barrier. “She’s not leaving with you.” The Widow tilted her head. “I never asked her to.” She leaned in, low enough for only Eirwen to hear: “Find me when you’re tired of letting men decide your price.” Then, louder, almost bored: “Run.” A crack split the stairwell. Gas hissed again. The Widow turned and was gone—slipping into the storm, a ghost made real by reputation alone. Chaos crashed back in. Boots. Orders. Guns primed for war.

With tears welling up in his eyes, my son, Luke, said, "Can I spend my final birthday with Mommy before we leave? It's my fifth birthday. Mommy promised she'll celebrate with me." My heart broke into a million pieces listening to his plea. "Alright, we'll spend your fifth birthday with Aunt Stella, then we'll go." After tucking Luke into bed, I opened the drawers and took out Sarah Grant's death certificate. This year was our sixth year of marriage. I never expected it to end with me becoming a so-called widower. I did not even have to sign any divorce papers.

At my husband, Matt Blanchard's, funeral, I forced my in-laws, Albert Blanchard and Thelma Sampson, to sign a document relinquishing their rights to his inheritance. Thelma kneeled on the ground in a frail manner. Her eyes brimmed with helpless tears. "Debbie, Matt is gone now! That means we're going to have to rely on you from now on. Please, you can't treat us like this…" Her face was ashen, and she wouldn't stop coughing either. She looked like she was terminally ill.

A week ago, the news broke that I'd filed a lawsuit against my wife of more than 20 years, Hazel Cooper, the woman who had shared my bed and my life for over half my adulthood. From that moment on, I became the neighborhood's favorite villain. Everyone called me the heartless man who had climbed his way to success and abandoned his wife and child without remorse. In their eyes, Hazel was flawless. She'd married me when I was poor and struggling. She never complained, even when life was hard. She cared for my sickly mother until her final days. She raised our son almost entirely on her own and turned him into a top student, the kind every family boasted about.

The veil clung to her lips every time she tried to breathe. She did not shiver. She did not weep. The widow of Jonathan Hart had been raised to master herself in public. Her composure was a polished weapon, sharper than her cheekbones and colder than the diamonds in her ears. Thirty-four years old, still beautiful in a way that unnerved women and intrigued men, she had always carried herself with a touch of distance—untouchable, enviable. But death leveled all thrones. Now she was simply a woman burying her husband.

Ivy It's been three days since I arrived at this house, and I hadn't seen my husband since the night he bought me. Not that I wanted to see him. The Widower, they called him. Twelve dead wives. Twelve graves. I would be number thirteen. That alone was enough to make a man as cold as the grave. I sat by the window in the room they gave me and watched the gardens below. Perfect flowers. Perfect hedges. Everything was beautiful and controlled and dead inside.

I blinked, realizing I didn’t know she had been married. “I had no idea you were married before.” She looked away as if the memory was too painful to revisit. “I didn’t think it was important. But Anthony has a way of preying on vulnerable women. Especially widows.” A chill ran down my spine. I was a widow, too. Did she see me as his next victim? “How did you two meet?”

Leaning against his shoulder, Nola felt warmth fill her heart. Although Calder was older, everything he did was no worse than what a young man could do. In fact, he did even better. “Tell me about you too. Why did you stay single for twenty years after losing your wife?” Nola was curious. If she had not walked into the wrong room and slept with him back then, would he have remained single forever? “Heh. When a man loses his wife, it is not called being a widow. It is called being a widower.”

she said softly. "Do you really love him so much to marry him?" Gina inquired. Ariana responded with a smile once again. "As far as I know, marrying a widower, especially one with a child, is not easy. This is Indonesia, not a Western country that easily accepts the status of a man or a woman. What I know about this country is the social perception of those who are widowed or widowers, virgins or not. Am I wrong?" the woman asked hesitantly.