Substitute Fiancée: Unmasking My Ugly Wife

The heavy oak door of the guest room clicked shut. The head maid didn't say a single word to Averi. She just turned on her heel and marched down the hallway, her posture screaming silent judgment. Averi stood in the center of the massive room. Her eyes scanned the floor-to-ceiling velvet drapes, the antique mahogany dresser, and the king-sized bed covered in Egyptian cotton. She let out a long, bored yawn. She swung the worn canvas backpack off her shoulder and dropped it onto the pristine white leather sofa. Thud. Averi walked straight to the full-length mirror standing in the corner. She reached up and pulled the heavy black frames off her face. She pinched the bridge of her nose, rubbing the red indentations the cheap plastic had left behind. She unzipped her bag. She didn't unpack everything. She simply pulled out three thick, scratchy sweaters. They were a muddy brown color, poorly knitted, and smelled faintly of mothballs. She hung them deliberately in the center of the massive, empty walk-in closet. The next morning, the sun pierced through the velvet curtains. Averi sat at the vanity. She reapplied the dark, yellow foundation. She drew the thick, ugly eyebrows. She shoved the glasses back onto her face. Before leaving the room, she glanced out the massive window. The estate's sprawling, pristine swimming pool shimmered in the morning light. Averi's expression hardened for a fraction of a second, a faint, phantom chill crawling up her spine, before her face returned to its usual meekness. She walked downstairs and followed the smell of fresh coffee to the sunlit dining room. The long mahogany table was covered in a spread of silver platters and fine bone china. Holt sat near the middle, violently slicing into an Eggs Benedict. When he saw Averi walk in, his knife froze. His jaw clenched so hard the muscle ticked visibly beneath his skin. Averi ignored his glare. She walked straight toward him and pulled out the chair directly to his right. She sat down. She reached for the heavy, solid silver fork resting beside her plate. Her fingers deliberately slipped. Clang! The silver fork slammed against the edge of the bone china plate. The sharp, piercing noise shattered the quiet elegance of the room. Holt flinched. He squeezed his eyes shut and let out a loud, aggressive hiss of breath. "Jesus Christ." "I'm so sorry!" Averi gasped. She exaggerated her Rust Belt accent, making it sound nasal and grating. "My hands are just so clumsy today." Ricardo sat at the head of the table. He lowered his newspaper. His eyes drifted over the hideous, oversized brown sweater swallowing Averi's frame. He frowned. "Averi," Ricardo said smoothly. "I will have the butler contact a stylist from Fifth Avenue. We need to arrange a complete wardrobe overhaul for you." Holt slammed his fork down. "You could dress her in Chanel, Grandpa, and she'd still reek of cheap detergent and desperation. You can't wash the poor out of someone." Averi immediately crossed her arms over her chest, clutching the collar of her ugly sweater as if protecting a sacred treasure. "No, thank you, Mr. Chavez," Averi said, her voice trembling with manufactured sincerity. "My grandmother knitted these sweaters for me before she passed. Every single stitch. They keep me warmer than any fancy clothes ever could." Holt's face turned a dangerous shade of red. The moral high ground she just claimed made his insult look petty and cruel. He hated it. He shoved his chair back so hard it screeched against the hardwood floor. He pointed a shaking finger toward the dining room doors. "Get out," Holt snarled, his chest heaving. "Get the hell out of this house right now. I am not eating at the same table as a manipulating rat." Averi's eyes widened behind her thick lenses. She forced blood to rush to her face. Within seconds, her eyes pooled with tears. She bit her lower lip hard, making it tremble, refusing to let the tears fall. "I... I just want to honor the contract," she whispered. Her voice was so fragile it sounded like it might break. Ricardo slammed his cane against the floor. "Holt!" Ricardo roared. "Sit down! Your lack of manners is a disgrace to this family's name!" Holt froze. His face went pale, then flushed dark red with humiliation. He didn't dare defy his grandfather. He shot Averi a look of pure, unadulterated hatred. Instead of sitting, Holt kicked the leg of his chair. He spun around and stormed out of the dining room, his heavy footsteps echoing down the hall. Averi kept her head bowed. She raised a trembling finger and wiped a single, perfect tear from the corner of her eye. Hidden in the shadow of her hand, the corner of her mouth twitched upward into a cold, victorious smirk. Ricardo sighed heavily. The anger drained from his face. "Do not let his words upset you, Averi. He is hot-headed." "I understand," Averi said softly. She pushed her chair back and stood up. "I'm full. I think I'll go back to my room and study." She bowed awkwardly, her posture rigid, and turned toward the stairs. She walked up the steps, her head down. The moment she reached the second-floor hallway, she checked her surroundings. Empty. She slipped into her guest room and pushed the heavy door shut. She turned the deadbolt. The pathetic, trembling posture vanished instantly. Her spine straightened. The fake tears dried up, leaving her eyes as cold and sharp as shattered ice.