Short Stories & Novels

My wife, Evelyn Shaw, is a germaphobe. She makes us sleep in separate rooms, and even our laundry has to be done separately. She also throws out any dishes or utensils I use, claiming they're filthy. On our wedding anniversary, I find a man's tie and a half-smoked cigarette in her spotless car. When I confront her, she casually smooths her hair without even looking at me. "It belongs to a coworker I gave a ride to. He accidentally left it behind." I don't say a word. One call to Claire Bennett, her company's biggest rival, tells me everything I need to know. She recently hired a young male assistant, Adrian Holt. Claire laughs. "Your ice queen is in the break room feeding the guy cake right now. Last I heard, she couldn't keep her hands off him." I hang up and throw my anniversary gift into the trash. Evelyn Shaw, we're done.

On the third New Year’s Eve since I reunited with my parents, I bumped into their former adopted son, who stole the happy life that I was supposed to have for the past twenty years. Adam Scott was once an arrogant, wealthy young man. However, he was now working as a food delivery rider. As he was more than ten minutes late delivering the food, he kept apologizing to me. “Sir, I’m really sorry. The roads are slippery because of the snow. I fell and spilled your food. “I can compensate you twice the amount. Please don’t leave a negative review for me.” Before I could speak, my parents already teared up and comforted him out of habit. “Don’t worry about the food, Adam. Are you hurt? It’s New Year’s Eve; come in and join us for dinner.” My hand tightened around the doorknob as I reminded them, “Mom, Dad, we only have enough utensils for three people.”

When Mom was seven months pregnant, a speeding car hit hers. Not only did she suffer multiple fractures, but she lost her child as well. Dad was heartbroken. As a top lawyer in his field, he promised Mom that he would seek justice for her. Yet on the day of the court hearing, when Dad saw that the defendant was his childhood sweetheart, he denied being the lawyer for Mom. He turned around and abandoned Mom, who was still in her wheelchair. Subsequently, Mom found her own lawyer. However, during the appeal of the second instance, Dad stood at the place of the defendant, taking on the role of the defense lawyer. Mom’s lawyer lost the case completely. She was charged for falsely accusing the innocent for selfish gain and had to pay a compensation for mental damage of $100,000. Mom’s entire body shook when she received the sentence. Ignoring the pain on her body, she went looking for Dad to question him, only to see him standing with his childhood sweetheart. “Gerald, your wife will surely get mad at you for doing this. What if she asks for a divorce?” Dad draped his jacket over her shoulders and assured her. “Megan, I would never accept this case had I known you were the defendant. You weren’t in a clear mental state during your pregnancy. We just aren’t fated to see our baby alive. Tina was just acting in a moment of spite. She loves me so much, she won’t make things difficult for me.” Mom felt all her energy drain from her body. She released her clenched fists, and the written court judgment fluttered to the ground. Using the remaining dollar in her account, she printed two copies of a divorce agreement.

After I fail my mission, the system grants me three days to say goodbye. For the first time, I become the perfect husband in Kristen Snowe's eyes. I stop waiting up for her when she doesn't come home. I stop fighting with her over the money she keeps giving to her childhood friend, Jake Leigh. On the first day, she scoffs at me. "If you'd acted like this from the beginning, I wouldn't feel so sick and tired of you!" On the second day, she starts to get suspicious. "That's it? You're not mad? You're not up to something, are you?" By the third day, she's the one falling apart. "Honey… Why aren't you jealous anymore?" I smile. "Isn't this exactly what you wanted?"

In Onyx City, the ancient Thorne clan lived by a ruthless blood-pact law. If the clan Lord granted a new fledgling his absolute protection, the reigning Consort had to yield her place. She was required to remove her bloodstone collar—the ultimate symbol of his patronage and power—and fasten it around the neck of the new ward herself, right in front of the entire clan. Mia was that fledgling. Today marked exactly one year since she had been taken under the wing of Lord Luca, the man I considered my mate. Every vampire in Onyx City was waiting for me to break down. After all, I had been his closest companion and deepest obsession for ten years. I was the dying stray he’d saved from a hunter’s silver blade. I had craved him like a drug. I used to wake up in the dead of night, begging for his bite, his blood. I only felt peace when his scent swallowed me whole. They all knew my sickening dependence on him. They had even placed bets, swearing I would never let go. Yet, as Mia tilted her pale, fragile neck at me, taunting me with her sickeningly sweet voice, I didn't shed a single tear. Without a moment's hesitation, I unclasped the heavy bloodstone collar and fastened it around her throat myself. Luca lounged on his dark velvet throne, swirling the blood wine in his goblet. His scarlet eyes gleamed with amusement. "Elara. You've finally learned how to please me." I lowered my eyes, my fingertips brushing my bare, cold collarbone. I said nothing. Luca didn't know the truth. My sealed memories had awakened a month ago. I wasn't some lowly stray who had been clinging to life on the streets. I was the lost princess of the Nightshades, the oldest and most formidable Original bloodline in the dark world. In three days, my brother would arrive to take me home. I would reclaim my true identity.

I am a real estate agent. For the past three years, I have been the top seller in the industry. It is not because I am a smooth talker; it is because I can hear houses speak. The houses will chatter about a hollow wall, a leaking pipe, or a window with a bad seal. During move-out inspections, I point out exactly what tenants try to hide. When showing a place to renters, I warn them about hidden red flags. I have been doing this so long that both sides treat me like family. Then, one Friday, a regular client, Eleanor Wilson, shows up. "Devan, the tenants at the Eastmere place are moving out." Eleanor is in her 60s. Her husband is long gone, and she lives off the rental income. She is a sweet soul. She charges 20% below market rate and even makes cookies for her tenants during the holidays. The couple moving out this time is Henry Johnson and his wife. They run a fruit stand at the local market and have a six-year-old daughter, Lea Johnson. "Lea is missing," Eleanor says, her eyes welling with tears. "She vanished outside the market last month. Just like that, in the blink of an eye. Henry and his wife have been searching for a month. They're worn out and broke. They just can't take it anymore." A heaviness settles in my chest at her words. I grab the keys and head out with her. Eleanor gasps for air with every flight of stairs we climb. I walk ahead of her. The moment I slide the key into the lock of Apartment 602, the doorknob vibrates violently against my palm. A second later, I dial 911. "I want to report a case of murder. There's a hidden body on the sixth floor of 18 Montclair Heights, Eastmere. The victim is their daughter."

After stocking the house for the winter holidays and waiting for my wife to come home, I found an anonymous advice post online. "My lover died suddenly of an illness and left behind a baby boy. My husband is infertile. How can I convince him to raise the child willingly?" Someone in the comments offered a vicious solution. "Easy. Tell your husband you found an abandoned baby beside the road. Say the child feels destined for both of you and awaken his desire to become a father. "Once he believes the baby was sent to him, your desperate husband will treasure your secret child." The calculation behind it was breathtaking. Just as I was marveling at how impossible it is to read a woman's heart, my wife came through the door carrying a bundled infant. "Aaron, look at him. I just found this baby in the alley behind the campus. Somebody left him out there in the middle of winter. "Fortunately, he smiled the moment I held him. I think he was sent to us for a reason. We should begin the adoption process tomorrow."

A great white shark appeared during our holiday to the beach. My wife, Eunice Fuller, was a marine animal trainer. She deliberately cut our daughter Violet’s finger and used her blood to lure the shark away. She did that to save her first love’s son. By the time I arrived, the surrounding water had turned red with blood. I called Eunice and demanded an explanation. All I got was an impatient outburst. “For God’s sake, the rescue team’s already there! What more do you want? I taught her how to swim. What’s so wrong if I told her to hold off the shark for a little while?” I stared at Violet’s mangled body. My eyes were bloodshot with fury. I should have ended this marriage long ago. I would make every last one of them pay for this.

I was reborn on the night of the mafia gathering, where a drugged Ronan pinned me down, his eyes hazy with lust. This time, however, I didn’t give in. Instead, I shoved him off and called my stepsister—the girl he actually loved. I loved Ronan. In Twin City, he ruled like a king, yet he was constantly hunted by rivals vying to drag him down. In my past life, when he was drugged and forced himself onto me, I didn't push him away. That single night resulted in my pregnancy. My father, the don of the Sorrento mafia family, forced Ronan into marriage for a strategic alliance between our families. On our wedding day, my stepsister, Susan, left Twin City in tears, only to be brutally tortured and killed by a street gang in the slums. Before breathing her last breath, she had dialed Ronan’s number ninety-nine times, begging for help. Yet, to prove his absolute loyalty to me, he ignored every single call. Even when her battered, lifeless body was delivered back to him, his face remained stone-cold. However, while I was dying from a hemorrhage during childbirth, Ronan stopped the doctors from saving me. As my consciousness faded, his hatred-filled voice echoed in my ears. “If you hadn’t climbed into my bed and forced me to marry you, Susan wouldn’t have died in that tragic accident! Her death is entirely your fault, and you shall pay for it with your life!” Then, I took my last breath, only to wake up on the exact night Ronan was drugged.

A month before my wedding, I've discovered a series of suspicious transfers made by my fiancee, Irene Lambert. The recipient is none other than her first love, Blake Chandler—the man she has never truly forgotten. For seven years, she has sent him 50 thousand dollars every month without fail. When I place the bank statements before Irene and demand an explanation, she barely looks up from her work. "Blake injured his right hand saving me. The money is simply compensation for what happened. Don't worry, money's the only thing I'll ever give him," she says evenly. I refuse to let the matter go, but even my friends urge me to overlook it. "It's only 50 thousand dollars. With how wealthy Irene is, she'd consider a watch at that price too cheap to buy for you. As a man, you've got to be the bigger person," they argue. With our wedding only a month away and seven years of history between us, I finally give in. That is, until I discover that our housekeeper, Olivia Harper, prepares a child's meal every afternoon and delivers it to Irene's office. When I confront Olivia, she stares at me in confusion. "Isn't that your child, Mr. Sanford? He's already around five or six years old—and he calls Ms. Lambert 'Mommy'."

Just after I finish a meeting, the parents' group chat for my daughter's kindergarten suddenly buzzes with activity. Someone shares a viral post. The poster writes, "A daughter is always her daddy's sweetheart. She's already using her allowance to buy her dad a birthday present! I wonder who my gentle, wealthy little princess will marry someday." The one who shares the post adds excitedly in the comments, "She's the one and only successor to the Webb family in Jemton! She's a true heiress!" The parents in the group chat eagerly offer their sycophantic compliments. They can hardly wait to offer their own sons as potential suitors for the little girl. But I'm puzzled. Other than my wife, Lucy Webb, I don't think there is any other family with the surname Webb in Jemton. Then, I open the photo attached to the post and instantly freeze. The sweet little girl smiling as she holds the gift is unmistakably my daughter, Emilia Webb, whom I personally drive to and from kindergarten every single day.

In my past life, Noah Luther, my brother, runs away from his engagement. The bride, Julia Zimmerman, shows no resentment and simply switches the arrangement to me right on the spot. She is courteous and thoughtful toward me after the wedding, but that all changes when Noah crosses someone abroad and has his limbs crushed. She actually spends the whole night in the study after learning of that incident. I assume Julia is worried about my safety when she sends over a dozen bodyguards to me the following day, a gesture that touches me deeply. I suddenly lose consciousness out of nowhere the next day. Then, I get abducted to an abandoned factory and have my hands and legs crushed bit by bit. It's so painful that I try to bite my tongue to commit suicide from the agonizing pain. Julia walks in slowly, looks at my condition, and says wistfully, "So that's how much pain he went through back then." When Noah trips and falls during rehabilitation and loses a tooth, Julia violently pulls out my tooth with pliers that very same night. She looks at my bloody mouth and says calmly that she's only doing this for my sake since I eat too much. Soon after, I "happen" to fall down the stairs when Noah sprains his back, forcing me to stay in bed for three months. Julia even breaks a cup and drives the shards into my hand when Noah accidentally slices his finger while chopping vegetables. Noah later dies in a car accident abroad. Julia drags me to a bridge over the river and jumps off with me, saying, "You're just a stand-in for him. He's dead now, so you shouldn't live either." I open my eyes and find myself back on the day Julia arrives to talk about the wedding arrangement. Noah has already fled through the back door, so she looks at me coldly and says, "I'll marry you, then." I merely smile and say, "I'm already in love with someone else, so please find another person for this marriage, Ms. Zimmerman."

Clarice and Kyle both followed the same travel vlogger. I didn’t think anything of the situation since the three of us had been friends since high school. The strange thing was that they had a private group chat that didn’t include me. I only found out because Kyle accidentally sent a message in our group chat. “I got us a table reservation at that restaurant for Sunday. Don’t be late.” It took less than a second before the text was deleted. I asked, “What restaurant? Let’s go together.” Kyle typed back, “Oops. Wrong chat. I’m having dinner with a colleague.” Clarice stayed silent throughout. It took some time, but I started connecting the dots. Whenever the three of us had something planned, one of them would cancel at the last minute. Previously, Clarice said she’d get the tickets for the music festival, but somehow, she could only secure two. Those went to her and Kyle. During our last camping trip, Kyle said that he only managed to borrow two sets of gear. When I offered to rent my own, Kyle brushed me off, saying that it was just too much of a hassle and that there was always a next time. That same weekend, Kyle and Clarice posted photos from that exact campsite, twenty minutes apart. For six months, I convinced myself that I was just unlucky. Looking back now, I realized that I had been singled out. So I left the group chat. No explanations. No accusations. I muted notifications from travel apps, ticketing apps, and restaurant bookings. Then, I booked a solo trip to Lake Tahoe, a ticket with no refund and no amendment allowed.

On my second day of employment at the city hall, I took over my colleague’s tasks. A young man came requesting for a new copy of his marriage certificate. It was far from his first visit. My colleague, Bernard Anderson, laughed. “This is the 99th time he’s here to get a copy of his marriage certificate again! We have all of his information ready, so the process wouldn’t take long.” I was stunned. “99th time?” Bernard laughed. “That’s right. He married a rich older woman. They always fought, and they would tear up their marriage certificate whenever they fought. “He’s so immature. Only an older lady would be able to tolerate him. I heard his wife is from the wealthiest family of our city, the Jameson family.” Immediately, I frowned. “The Jameson family has always kept a very low profile. Is his wife a fraud?” Bernard immediately stopped me from talking. “Don’t say that, she’s the rightful successor of the Jameson family, Mae Jameson.” I was stunned. My phone slipped from my hand and fell onto the desk. It was a photo of Mae and I on my lockscreen. Before me, the young man’s face fell. He snatched my phone. “Who are you? Why do you have a photo with my wife?”

Three days after the SAT scores were released, I came across a post asking for advice. [Both my older and younger sons are going to Northbridge for college. How should I split their living expenses so it's fair?] The comments were almost unanimous. [Why is this even a question? They're both your kids. Give them the same amount. That's the fairest way to do things.] I was about to scroll past when the newest top comment caught my eye. The profile picture belonged to my sister. [Don't judge when you don't know the whole story.] [I'm their older sister, so let me be honest. You can't raise two boys the same way.] [The older one is pretty average-looking, and he's awkward and quiet. Even if you gave him money, he wouldn't know what to spend it on. Meanwhile, the younger one is outgoing and handsome, with great style. One pair of his limited-edition shoes costs over $2,000.] [If you ask me, the older one should get $800, and the younger one should get $8,000. Each child should get the amount they need.] Beneath her comment was a reply from my childhood best friend, Whitney Jones. [Couldn't have said it better myself!] [Besides, we'll all be in Northbridge anyway. We can keep your younger brother company, so your mom won't have to worry about him back home.] Staring at the screen, I suddenly laughed until tears blurred my vision. When we were kids, we would play hide-and-seek. All of them would sneak off together, hand in hand, leaving me alone in the dark attic, covering my eyes and counting. Back then, I honestly believed that if I searched hard enough, I would eventually find them and become part of their little world. However, every time I opened my eyes, they had already slipped away with my younger brother, leaving to buy ice cream without me. It turned out nothing had changed since then. They were still walking side by side toward the bright lights of Northbridge, while I remained nothing more than an afterthought, someone brought along just for the sake of the picture. I deleted every university in Northbridge from my list and replaced them with schools in the far south, more than a thousand miles from home. I was done playing the loyal supporting character in someone else's fairy tale. Their game could go on without me.

Everyone thought my sister, Nyssa, was the cursed one, except me. I knew that on my eighteenth birthday, Death would come to claim me for the Underworld. I was the Dark Elf Death had chosen. But to protect my sister, my family chose to sacrifice me. My parents abandoned me, my kin reviled me, and Caelum, the elven prince I had loved for centuries, chose to stand by Nyssa's side. They said I was a harbinger of disaster. They told me to offer Nyssa my blessing. Little did they know, they were pushing Death's true acolyte toward her awakening. When the Night of the Shattered Moon arrived, I finally met my fate. I died in the mortal realm and was reborn as the Underworld's new emissary. And those who once hurt me would come to pray for my forgiveness, trapped in the eternal punishment I had wrought. I was no longer a girl who waited for love.

I stand before the grave of my late wife, Casey Hill, having repaid her debts for five years. When I return home, I realize that our dog, Pudding, has gone missing. It is the only memory Casey has left me. I search everywhere frantically, eventually finding it hovering between life and death in an alley. Standing at the side is a girl. She points at Pudding and laughs gleefully to her friends. "Are you guys seeing this? This little guy is tough. We've played with it for so long, and it's still breathing!" I shove her aside and pick it up, my eyes bloodshot. The blood on Pudding's fur makes my heart ache so much I can hardly breathe. The girl utters a yelp as she falls to the ground. Furious and embarrassed, she picks herself up and kicks me hard in the head. "You bastard! How dare you push me for this filthy little beast! Do you know who my mom is?" With my head spinning from the blow, I suddenly hear a woman's voice. "Jenna, what's wrong? Who bullied you?" I snap my head up. There it is, the face I have wished to see in my dreams for the past five years.

In the fourth year after my husband, Jayden Stone, falls to his death, I finally save enough to pay off the 300,000 dollars in debt he owes. I drag my sick body there to repay the debt, but a security guard shoves me to the ground. "Today is the wedding of the century for Marilyn Jagger, the Jagger family's true heiress. Get lost, you filthy beggar!" I turn my head and see Jayden's face in the wedding photos. How is that possible? I watched him fall off a cliff and die! I go around to the hotel to find out the truth. Instead, I overhear Jayden's friends joking. "Jayden even faked his death just to marry Marilyn. Now that's true love!" "She's the real Jagger heiress, after all. A fake like Vivian Jagger doesn't even deserve someone like Jayden." Jayden clears his throat. "With Marilyn's health, she won't make it through this year. I'm marrying her to fulfill her final wish," he says. "When the five years are up, I'll go back to Viv." I clamp my hand over my mouth as blood seeps through my fingers. But Jayden, I won't make it to the fifth year.

Seven years into our secret relationship, award-winning actress Seraphine Winslow draws a truth-or-dare card during a special episode of a variety show. With a helpless smile, she confesses to the audience, "Actually, I've been in a seven-year relationship. He's incredibly handsome… And he's right here with us today." The internet explodes. The host immediately seizes the moment, urging the reigning Best Actress to call her partner on stage. My heart pounds so hard I can barely breathe. Seraphine has never told me this is part of the program. For seven years, I've stood by her side as her manager and watched her climb from an unknown rookie to the most celebrated actress in the industry. She picks up her phone and makes the call. The studio falls silent. Then, a ringtone pierces through the stillness and echoes through the audience. Everyone turns toward the sound, but I'm too stunned to move. My phone isn't the one that's ringing. Seraphine rises from her seat, walks into the audience, and takes a young man's hand. Leading Will Norman onto the stage, she turns to him with a gentle smile. "Don't be nervous, darling." A bitter smile hangs on my lips. Without another glance at the stage, I open the message Dad sent earlier. "Dad, I'd like to meet the woman from the blind date you told me about."

The day I receive my acceptance letter from a top-tier university, I'm over the moon. On my first day of school, I pick up some greens and sauteed chicken from the cafeteria and place them on my tray. A single bite of the greens sends a wave of spiciness straight to my head. I scramble for water, desperately trying to cool the burn. My parents, who tagged along to help me settle in, immediately confront the cafeteria manager. "What is wrong with you people? Students come here from all over the country! Why would you make simple greens devilishly spicy?" The manager looks at us in confusion. "It's just seasoned with a couple of dried chili peppers. It's not spicy at all." Refusing to back down, I drag over a few students nearby to taste it, but everyone says it isn't spicy at all. My parents quickly soothe me, saying it's probably just a regional taste difference, and tell me to eat the pickled olives we brought from home instead. I nod through my tears and scoop a generous portion over my pasta, planning to make do with the meal. To my horror, a huge mouthful of olive pasta hits me with that exact same searing heat! The explosive spice makes my throat swell and constrict at an alarming rate. No amount of water helps, and breathing grows harder by the second. In the end, I suffocate to death. Even as I draw my last breath, I can't wrap my head around it. It's just olive pasta without a speck of chili in sight. How could it possibly be that spicy? When I open my eyes again, I'm back to the first time I sat down with my tray in the cafeteria.