Midnight Novels & Stories

I was getting married, but my boyfriend of five years did not know it yet. Lately, he had been driving a female coworker home every night and coming back late. She had a terrible memory and was always leaving things behind in his car. First it was earrings. Then adhesive bra inserts. Then intimate photos. One night, at midnight, she called to say she had left her allergy medication in his car. My boyfriend pulled his pants back on and rushed out the door to deliver it to her. Because of her, our wedding had already been postponed 19 times. After five years together, I decided to give him one last chance. "Either stop driving her home, or the wedding is off." He stayed silent all night. After that, he actually started coming home on time. I thought things were finally getting better. Then, one week before the wedding, I opened the front door and found half the furniture in our living room gone. The woman next door poked her head out and ran a hand over my washing machine with a smile. "Amanda, we're neighbors now. Ignatius loaned me the money to buy a house. He said I could use some of these old appliances until I get settled." My hands trembled as I opened my banking app. The $300,000 wedding fund we had spent five years saving was gone. Every last cent. This time, I did not even have the strength to argue. Then my mother called. "Sweetheart, how would you feel about moving the wedding to Rose Garden? I think your current venue doesn't do you justice." I looked around the half-empty living room and laughed. "Sure. And while we're at it, let's replace the groom too." After all, my mother had remarried into one of the wealthiest families in the country. My five stepbrothers had been waiting years for me to come home. And among the men around them who wanted to marry me? There was no shortage of candidates.

The night before I officially registered my marriage, my friends convinced everyone to play a "mystery box game." The female guests each placed a gift into a box, and the gifts were randomly given to the men at the party. Everyone said it was the fairest way. When I opened my box, there was only a thin card inside. It said, "Thanks for participating." The entire room instantly went silent. Some people couldn't hold back their laughter. My fiancée, Charlotte Kilbourn, reached over and straightened my collar. "Your luck is still terrible." Lyra Sharpe, my childhood friend who grew up with me, whispered, "Just smile. Don't make people think you're a sore loser." Meanwhile, Connor Winfield got the hidden prize in the same round. Inside were a limited-edition mechanical watch personally chosen by Charlotte, a couples' island vacation package I had dreamed about for three years, and a handwritten note from Lyra that said, "We'll always protect you." I forced myself to laugh along, then placed the card back into the empty box. I thought winning a game was just about luck. But when I went to the restroom, I overheard the host checking the prize list in the lounge. "Ms. Kilbourn, you didn't give out the prizes wrong, did you? The hidden prize went to Mr. Winfield, and the participation prize went to Mr. Rayner." Charlotte answered calmly. Lyra laughed and added, "That's right. He won't take it seriously." Standing outside the door, I suddenly remembered the night I turned 18, when I stood in the rain waiting for the midnight fireworks at my debut party. Charlotte and Lyra had given the only umbrella to Connor. Then they turned back and told me, "George, you're closer. Just run a few steps and you'll be fine." That night, after I walked home soaked in the rain, I still believed I was just unlucky. But tonight, I finally understood the truth. They had never planned to give me that umbrella from the beginning. So this time, I tore the card into pieces and canceled my marriage registration appointment. I didn't want to play a "lucky game" they had already planned for me anymore.

After the Ferguson family went bankrupt, I gave up everything I had and followed Ethan Ferguson to Stormbay. Five years later, he had fought his way back into the top three on the Forbes rich list. He rebuilt the empire everyone believed he had lost for good. He never mentioned marriage, no matter how much we had been through together. I did not understand the reason until the night before Memorial Day. I woke after midnight and saw Ethan standing alone on the terrace of our beachfront house. The cold ocean wind swept through the darkness while he lit three white candles one by one. Their flames flickered softly against the night. He faced the distant horizon across the sea and lowered his voice. “Mom, Dad… I’m sorry I couldn’t come see you again this year.” He paused, and his expression softened. “However, please keep watching over Vivi. Keep her healthy… and bless the two of us with a long, happy life together.” Warmth spread through my chest as I listened. My health had never been good, and every year near Memorial Day, Ethan refused to let me exhaust myself with the long trip home. He always went alone to visit his parents’ graves while I stayed behind in Stormbay. This year, when I saw the homesickness in his eyes, I decided to surprise him. I wanted to make the trip in his place. I never expected my entire world to collapse the moment I arrived at the cemetery. Ethan’s name was carved into the headstone. Beside it was the name of another woman. Olivia Ferguson. My gaze drifted lower. A framed family photograph sat at the foot of the headstone. Its edges had curled from the ocean wind. In the picture, Ethan held a little blond-haired boy in his arms. The child looked no older than three. Olivia stood beside him, smiling softly at the camera. A sharp pain cut through my chest. Only then did I understand the truth. The “Vivi” Ethan prayed for was never Vivian. It had been Olivia all along.

During the two months that I was away for a competition, my neighbors insulted me in the neighborhood’s common group chat. [The girl living on the ninth floor, you look like a decent girl. Why are you bringing so many men back home every day?] [Can you moan a little softer? I don’t care if you’re a sex worker, but if you keep making loud noises until midnight, don’t blame me for calling the police!] [Don’t call the police yet. I haven’t had my turn. How much are you charging, Charlene?] My heart sank. Before I left for my competition, I had asked my boyfriend, Jacob Smith, to take care of my luxury river-view apartment. That way, he could keep an eye on my expensive paintings. What was happening? I rushed home in confusion, but when I opened the door, I was further dumbfounded. My 3,000-square-foot apartment had been partitioned into 30 rooms. Meanwhile, Jacob’s childhood friend, Prissy Black, was holding a string of keys as she collected rent money. When they saw me, everyone started laughing. “What? Are you here to rent from Prissy after learning that she’s providing cheap rooms in such a pristine location? “Too bad everyone knows that you’re eyeing her boyfriend. You won’t be able to benefit from doing such a thing!” I was extremely furious as I approached Jacob to talk about it. However, he told me that it was Prissy’s dream to be a landlady. He asked me not to pay it any mind and to treat it as doing a good deed. “You’re rich anyway. Don’t be so calculative. Everyone’s happy now, so what’s wrong with that?” The keys tinkled in Prissy’s hand as if they were taunting me. “This house doesn’t welcome stray animals like you. You have yourself to blame for not having such a nice boyfriend.” The two of them acted all lovey-dovey in front of me, and I immediately called the police. “Someone’s trespassing on my property, and my painting that’s worth 15 million dollars has gone missing. What type of punishment would this entail?”

On the night before we're supposed to register our marriage, our friends suggested playing a mystery box game. Each of the men puts a gift into a box, and the boxes are randomly handed out to the women. They all say this is the fairest way to play this game. When I open mine, there's only a single card inside that reads, "Thank you for participating." The room falls silent for a moment. Then, someone can't help snickering. My fiance, Hunter Sinclair, ruffles my hair. "Your luck is still as bad as ever." My childhood friend, Gabriel Unwin, lowers his voice and says, "Smile. Don't make people think you can't take a joke." At the same round, Tiffany West opens her box and finds the grand prize inside. The box contains a pink diamond necklace personally chosen by Hunter and a voucher for the island getaway I've talked about for three years. There is also a handwritten card from Gabriel. It says, "We'll always be here to protect you." I smile along with everyone else and slip my card back into the empty box. A raffle is all about luck, after all. Later, as I head to the restroom, I overhear the host checking the prize list in the lounge. He says, "Mr. Sinclair, everything was handed out correctly, right? The grand prize went to Ms. West, and the consolation prize went to Ms. Lawson." Hunter hums in confirmation. Gabriel laughs and adds, "That's right. She'll find a way to make herself feel better." Standing outside the door, I suddenly remember my 18th birthday. I waited in the rain for the midnight fireworks celebrating my coming of age. But Hunter and Gabriel held the only umbrella over Tiffany instead. Looking back at me, they said, "Natalie, your house is closer. Just run a couple of steps, and you're safe from the rain." That night, I went home soaked to the bone. I even made excuses for them, telling myself that it was just my bad luck. But tonight, I finally understand. The umbrella was never meant for me in the first place. So this time, I tear up that card and decide not to go through with our marriage registration. I'm done playing the game of luck they've rigged from the very beginning.

On Christmas Eve, my father got the man I had secretly loved for ten years drunk and sent him to my bed. When I woke up the next morning, Roy pulled away from my attempt at a good-morning kiss. His voice was cold and distant as he agreed to marry me. After the wedding, Roy wasted no time submitting a transfer request. He took an overseas post and left. He did not return for five years. I gave birth to our daughter, Eve, alone and waited for him to come back home. When I heard that Roy had finally applied to return to a domestic position, I was overjoyed. I spent days preparing, imagining our first reunion as husband and wife. But even when the clock struck midnight, he still hadn't come home. Our daughter, ever so thoughtful, placed her most treasured possession—a photograph of Roy—into my hands. "Don't cry, Mommy," she said softly. "Look, Daddy's right here." I tried to convince myself that his absence was due to a delayed flight. But later that night, while watching the news, I saw him. He was on a crowded city street, holding a young girl in his arms. Beside him stood a woman, her smile soft and warm. Facing the camera, Roy said, "Being with them is my greatest wish." At that moment, something inside me broke. I wrote up the divorce papers, packed our things, and planned to take Eve to change her identity. I didn't want him anymore. The day before we left, a man I had never met came to see me. He was Roy's father. "You could call me Dad," he said, a faint smile playing on his lips. "But I'd rather you call me Ryan." I told him everything about the past five years—how I had waited, how I had hoped. When I finished, he laughed softly, an unusual warmth in his voice. "If it was just business," he said, "perhaps your father should have tied a bow around me and sent me to your bed instead. But I hold my liquor well—if I ever end up wrapped in a bow, you can be sure it's by choice."