Novels

My husband's female best friend lost a drinking game and was dared to reveal the most intimate thing she'd ever done with someone of the opposite sex.

On the day I moved into the dorms, my roommate Harper White gave me a crystal bracelet as a gift. But I immediately put that bracelet on her mother Grace White's wrist instead. In my previous life, Harper wanted to become the campus social queen and was determined to date 100 boyfriends during college. But no matter how chaotic her private life was, she never got pregnant. Meanwhile, I, who remained single the whole time, kept getting pregnant over and over again, only to miscarry repeatedly. I was mocked by the entire school - students and faculty alike - who said I was promiscuous, shameless, and that my private life was a mess because I couldn't say no to any man. It wasn't until my 66th miscarriage that I died on the operating table from massive bleeding. Only after death did I learn that the crystal bracelet Harper had given me had bound us to a "uterus exchange system." When I opened my eyes again, I found myself back on move-in day. Harper smiled as she pressed an exquisite crystal bracelet into my hand, saying enthusiastically, "We're going to be roommates from now on. I'm giving you this crystal bracelet as a gift - wearing it will bring you good luck." Looking at the familiar crystal bracelet before me, I realized I had been reborn. I said to Harper, "Thank you for the thought, but this crystal bracelet looks expensive. We just met, and it's not appropriate for you to give such an expensive gift. I can't accept it." With that, I pushed the crystal bracelet back toward her.

My entire class was sucked into a horror game. My classmates were all NPCs. I was the only player. When we entered the "Room 301" instance, my teammates thought I’d be torn to shreds by the Discipline Monitor for being late. Instead, the moment he saw me, he snapped his Death Note shut. The Academic Rep, with a second pair of phantom eyes floating above his own, skipped over me when collecting homework. The Class Beauty, her skin charred black, handed me a breakfast sandwich. “Sweetie, eat up before it gets cold!” The school bell, a harbinger of death, rang out. The instance's final boss, his face a mask of cold indifference, walked in. I looked at our Class President, Aiden, stuffed into a formal suit, and I couldn't hold it in. “Aiden, you look like you sell insurance!” The boss lost his composure. My teammates lost their minds.

"I'm getting a divorce!" "Me too!" We left our divorce papers behind and went on an international trip together, accompanied by several incredibly fit male models. However, just as I was about to spend the night with one of these models, I was caught red-handed. My husband gritted his teeth and said, "You have me, yet you're still interested in others?"

My twin sister attempted suicide and was hospitalized. Her tormentors followed her to the hospital, mocking her for bringing it upon herself.

Seven times, I married the same man. And seven times, for the sake of his one true love, my husband divorced me. The first time we married, he told me, “For the rest of my life, I will love only you.” But whenever she came back to town, his tune would change. “Can’t you be more understanding? Do you really want Avery to be branded a homewrecker?” The first time we divorced, I slit my wrists in a desperate attempt to keep him. They rushed me to the hospital, but he never came. Not once. The third time, I debased myself, applying for a job as his assistant, just for the chance to see him more often. By the sixth time, I had learned to pack my things quietly and move out of our home without a fight. My hysteria, my retreats, my quiet compliance—all of it earned me his punctual remarriages and his predictable betrayals. Until this time. This time, after getting word that his precious Avery was returning, I was the one who handed him the divorce papers. He set a date for our remarriage, just like all the other times, but he didn’t know. This time, I was leaving for good.

Seven years into my marriage, I stumbled on a TikTok post showing my husband in a wedding photo—with someone else.

My period was two months late, and my mom, in a full-blown panic, dragged me to the gynecologist. When the clinic door swung open, I nearly slid off my chair. The doctor sitting before me was the ex I’d dumped so spectacularly two months ago. He stared coldly at his keyboard. “Lie down on the exam table. Pants down to your knees.” When I remained frozen, he pulled on a pair of gloves, walked over, and hooked his cool fingers into my waistband, yanking them down. The second the privacy curtain closed, he suddenly ripped off his glasses and leaned over me, his warm lips brushing against my earlobe. “We never finished last time, did we? So whose is it? Hmm?”

My boyfriend is ranked #1 on the Horror Game Player Leaderboards. And I work as a monster inside the game Dungeons secretly. The Dungeons he clears are all SSS-tier nightmares. The Dungeon I work in? The starter zone. We kept to our own lanes. Until the SSS-tier Dungeon was almost completely cleared