Substitute Fiancée: Unmasking My Ugly Wife

The bathroom in the guest room was lined with white marble.

Averi stood in front of the sink. She twisted the brass handle. Hot water poured from the faucet, filling the basin with steam.

She poured a generous amount of specialized cleansing oil into her palms. She rubbed her hands together and pressed them to her face. She massaged the oil into her skin, feeling the thick, suffocating layers of yellow foundation and heavy brow pencil melt away.

She splashed warm water over her face.

When she looked up into the mirror, the ugly duckling was gone.

Her skin was luminous, pale and flawless. Her natural eyebrows were sharply arched, framing eyes that were a striking, piercing shade of hazel. Her lips, freed from the pale concealer, were naturally full and flushed. She was breathtaking.

Averi grabbed a plush white towel and patted her face dry.

Her throat felt scratchy. She looked around the room. There were no water bottles.

She glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. It was past midnight. The house was dead silent. The brothers were likely out at their clubs, and the staff was asleep.

She didn't bother putting the makeup back on. She wore a loose, oversized silk pajama shirt. She opened her door and stepped out into the dimly lit hallway.

She walked barefoot, her steps making absolutely no sound on the thick Persian runner. She headed toward the end of the hall, where she remembered seeing a small sitting room with a wet bar.

She reached the heavy mahogany door. It was cracked open an inch.

Averi pushed it open and stepped inside.

It wasn't the sitting room.

The air was heavy with the scent of old paper and expensive scotch. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn tight, blocking out the moonlight. The only source of light was a single, green-glass banker's lamp sitting on a massive oak desk.

Behind the desk sat Clarke Chavez.

He was leaning back in his leather executive chair. His tie was loosened, his top collar button undone. He was pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed in exhaustion.

The slight shift of air from the open door made Clarke freeze.

His eyes snapped open.

They were predatory. Sharp, cold, and assessing.

Averi's heart slammed against her ribs. Her breath caught in her throat. She instinctively took a step backward, her bare foot brushing against the carpet.

The faint, golden light from the hallway spilled over her shoulder. It hit the side of her face, illuminating the sharp, perfect slope of her nose, the fullness of her lips, and the cascade of dark hair falling over her shoulders.

Clarke's pupils dilated. The air in his lungs vanished.

His hand dropped from his face. He stared at the stunning, ethereal woman standing in the doorway of his study, his brain short-circuiting.

Averi reacted with lethal speed.

She threw her head down. Her long, dark hair fell forward like a curtain, completely obscuring her face.

"Sorry. Wrong room," she mumbled, her voice thick and completely devoid of her fake accent.

She stepped back and pulled the door shut.

Bang.

Clarke shot out of his chair. The heavy leather seat slammed into the bookshelf behind him. He crossed the room in three massive strides and ripped the door open.

He stared down the long, empty hallway.

Nothing. Not a sound. Not a shadow.

The next morning, Averi sat at the vanity. She applied the yellow foundation twice as thick. She drew the eyebrows harsher. She shoved the glasses so far up her nose they pinched.

She walked into the dining room.

Holt and Clarke were already seated.

The moment Averi walked in, Clarke's head snapped up. His cold, eagle-like stare locked onto her face. He scrutinized her muddy skin, her hunched posture, her thick glasses.

Averi felt the weight of his gaze like a physical pressure on her skin. She forced her hand to tremble as she pushed her glasses up. She pulled out her chair and sat down, keeping her eyes glued to her empty plate.

Clarke stared at her for another five seconds. Then, he slowly exhaled and rubbed his temples. He had been reviewing the European merger documents until 4 A.M. He was hallucinating. That was the only logical explanation.

Holt threw the morning edition of the Wall Street Journal onto the center of the table.

"Look at this," Holt sneered, glaring at Averi. "Another article about gold diggers trying to marry into old money. You parasites are all the same. You latch on and suck the resources dry."

Averi slowly set her glass of milk down.

She lifted her head. The pathetic, trembling act vanished from her eyes.

"Is that right?" Averi said. Her English was crisp, sharp, and completely devoid of the Rust Belt twang.

Holt blinked, caught off guard by her tone.

"Because if we are talking about draining resources," Averi continued, her voice cold and steady. Thank God for the public financial reports she had skimmed on her phone late last night. "I believe the Chavez Group's stock dipped 2.4 percent yesterday. Primarily due to the catastrophic failure of the Hudson Yards real estate acquisition."

Holt's face drained of color.

"A project," Averi tilted her head, her eyes locking onto Holt's, "that you have been personally managing for the last six months. So tell me, Holt. Who is the real parasite draining this family's money?"

Holt's mouth opened, but no sound came out. His face flushed a violent, angry red. He slammed his hands on the table and shot up, his chair tipping over backward with a loud crash.

Clarke's hand froze halfway to his coffee cup.

He slowly turned his head, looking at Averi. The annoyance in his eyes was gone. In its place was a sharp, dangerous spark of genuine intrigue.

Averi didn't even flinch at the crashing chair. She calmly picked up her linen napkin, dabbed the corner of her mouth, and stood up.

She grabbed her frayed backpack and walked out of the dining room without looking back.