Aphmau Instagram Novels & Stories

The night before our wedding, my mother needed a fifty-thousand-dollar emergency deposit for surgery. I went to my fiancé, Major Adrian Hayes, hoping he would listen before it was too late. He only saw the number. He paid the deposit in the end, but something between us broke that night. That money became the beginning of every name he would ever use against me. After that, every time I asked him for help, he sent me one hundred dollars. When I was in a car accident, he sent one hundred dollars. When I begged him to attend my mother’s funeral, he sent one hundred dollars. Eight months ago, I found out I was pregnant. I sent him seventy-seven voice messages, desperate to tell him we were having a baby. He never listened. He only sent seventy-seven payments of one hundred dollars. Later, when I started bleeding and was rushed into emergency surgery, I called Adrian and begged him to come to the hospital, to answer the doctors, to save our child. He sent one hundred dollars again. At the same time, Madeline’s Instagram story showed Adrian in his dress uniform beside her at a lavish officers’ charity gala. The comments all treated them like the perfect match. I stared at the screen until my hand went numb. I was begging for him from the edge of an emergency room while he stood under chandeliers beside another woman, looking as if he had already found the wife he wanted. By the time Adrian finally turned his phone back on, his staff officer’s voice was shaking. “Major Hayes... your wife and the baby did not make it.” And in that moment, Adrian went feral.

While on vacation, I return to my hometown to help my parents harvest pears. After seeing my Instagram post, my son's homeroom teacher, Ernest Dugan, sends me a private message. "So you sell pears, Mr. Miller? The kindergarten hasn't finalized next month's fruit supplier yet, so we'll order from you. You won't suffer any loss from this deal. I'll pay five dollars per pound. You just need to arrange transportation and deliver them to the kindergarten." I almost laugh out loud. My family's pears are the famous Green Jewel variety; they are known as the "Hermes of pears". They sell for over 100 dollars per pound on average. Five dollars wouldn't even cover the cost of a single pear. Even though Ernest is being ridiculous, I still reply politely, "Sorry, all of our pears are reserved. You'll need to find another supplier." To my surprise, Ernest immediately posts photos of my family's pears in the parent group chat. He writes, "Next month's fruit selection for the kindergarten will be upgraded to Green Jewel pears. If anyone wishes to buy some for personal consumption, feel free to place orders below. The price is five dollars per pound." The chat group buzzes with activity as parents rush to place orders one after another. Three days later, they block the truck carrying my shipment to Windford. Determined to force the sale, they surround the vehicle and refuse to let it leave. Before they can ransack the truck, several military-plated vehicles arrive and seal off the road. A group of officials steps out with stern, angry expressions. One of them coldly demands, "These are pears specially ordered for this weekend's state banquet. Who said you could lay a finger on them?"

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.

On graduation day, I caught Julian—the boy who had been my shadow for twelve years—pinning another woman against the wall, kissing her hard. His hand smacked her ass before he scooped her up and carried her into the hotel. When my call interrupted him, he just hung up impatiently and texted back: "Aria, stop playing the fragile little girl with your panic attacks. I'm not your babysitter anymore." "I'm the next in line for the Valerius family. I have real business to handle. I don't have the energy to be your nanny." Then, he coldly sent me a link to some newly developed AI personal assistant app. "If you're that lonely, go chat with the AI. It's way more useful than you clinging to me every day." I stood frozen, tears streaming down my face. A suffocating wave of heartbreak and loss swallowed me whole. My parents died saving his parents—the current Don and Donna of the Valerius Family. We grew up together. He took care of me for twelve years. I always thought he loved me. I even thought we'd get married one day. But now, I was just a burden. An annoyance. Watching his back disappear into the hotel lobby, I numbly downloaded the app. "What color should I wear to the graduation party?" "Burgundy. It complements your pale skin and hugs your curves perfectly." "I want to change up my jewelry too..." "You have beautiful collarbones. You don't need anything complicated. A minimalist platinum necklace would be perfect." "Where should I go for my solo graduation trip?" "Your private account shows a love for the Mediterranean. Go to the Amalfi Coast. The sun will look good on you." "Okay. I'll listen to you." Wait. Something was wrong. Why would an AI app know about my secret Instagram account?

At the National High School Football All-Star Game, my boyfriend Evan had just been named MVP. Sophia, the cheer captain, immediately posted on Instagram. Caption: "Guess who got a little something from the champion himself~" The photo turned out to be a pair of Evan's worn underwear! Scrawled across them in lipstick were the words: "For my dearest Sophia." She held them up with her long acrylic nails, pouting for the selfie. The internet exploded. "Why does she have his underwear?" "Isn't it obvious? They're totally together." "Sitting here waiting for the official couple photo." Within seconds, a close-up of the two of them cheek-to-cheek surfaced in the comments. Congratulations and teasing flooded the feed. I gripped my phone, a chill spreading through my entire body. Evan had promised to go public about us ages ago but kept putting it off, saying he needed to prove himself first. He'd been stalling ever since. Now here I was, his actual girlfriend, and I didn't even get an invite to his victory party. I took a deep breath and called him. "Explain." On the other end, Evan's voice was lazy, almost amused. "The fans grabbed everything off me. Jersey, pads, all of it. Sophia insisted on keeping something as a souvenir, so I gave her the underwear. No big deal." "The Instagram post is just riding the hype. Don't be so uptight about it." Then Sophia's voice chimed in. "Yeah, honey, Evan and I are like brothers! I've seen everything on him already. It's just a pair of boxers, so don't be so petty." I listened to their increasingly flirtatious banter through the speaker, then slowly pulled off my engagement ring and tossed it aside. "Fine," I said to Evan. "I'll be the bigger person. Why don't you skip the 'girl bro' thing and just make her your girlfriend? I'm tired of watching this act."