Substitute Fiancée: Unmasking My Ugly Wife

Averi stepped out of the girls' bathroom. The hallway was relatively quiet, most students still in the cafeteria. She had barely taken ten steps when the heavy wooden door of the boys' bathroom across the hall swung open. Holt Chavez walked out. He had his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his uniform trousers, a piece of gum snapping loudly in his mouth. He spotted Averi immediately. His upper lip curled into his signature sneer. He opened his mouth, the insult already forming on his tongue. Before he could speak, the door to the girls' bathroom cracked open. Tinsley Vance stumbled out. Her designer blazer was wrinkled and covered in dirty water from the floor. Her hair was a tangled mess, and mascara ran down her cheeks in thick black rivers. She was hyperventilating. Tinsley looked up. She saw Averi's back. A high-pitched squeak of pure terror escaped Tinsley's throat. She scrambled backward, almost tripping over her own feet, and ran down the opposite end of the hallway as fast as she could. Holt stopped chewing his gum. His gaze darted back and forth between the terrified school beauty and Averi. He wasn't an idiot. He recognized the look in Tinsley's eyes. It wasn't embarrassment. It was primal, physical fear. Holt closed the distance between them in three long strides. He stepped directly into Averi's path, blocking her way. "What the hell did you just do in there?" Holt demanded, his voice dropping an octave. Averi stopped. She looked down at her shoes. She pushed her thick glasses up her nose. "I don't know what you mean," Averi said, her voice trembling with the fake Rust Belt accent. "I think she slipped on some water near the sinks." Holt let out a harsh, barking laugh. He took a step closer, invading her personal space. "Cut the crap," Holt hissed. "I don't buy this little innocent bunny act for a second. What are you hiding?" Averi slowly raised her head. She stopped trembling. She dropped the hunched posture. She looked Holt dead in the eyes. The thick lenses of her glasses couldn't hide the sudden, terrifying shift in her gaze. It was the look of a predator staring at a very loud, very annoying piece of meat. The air around them seemed to drop ten degrees. Holt's breath hitched. A strange chill ran down his spine. His body reacted before his brain did-he instinctively took a half-step backward. What the hell was that? For a second, she didn't look like a scared rabbit... she looked like a wolf. He shook his head, dismissing the absurd thought with an angry scowl. Averi held his gaze for one more second. Then, she blinked. The terrifying aura vanished. She hunched her shoulders, sidestepped his frozen body, and continued down the hall. Later that afternoon, Averi sat alone on a wooden bench at the edge of the campus. She reached into the deep pocket of her oversized sweater. She pulled out a sleek, black smartphone. It wasn't the cheap flip phone the Chavez family had given her. It was heavily encrypted. The screen lit up with a single text message from Finn Emerson. Boss. Abandoned industrial park in Brooklyn tonight. Big stakes. We need a closer. Averi's thumbs flew across the digital keyboard. She slipped the encrypted phone away and pulled out the cheap flip phone. She typed a message to Brennan. Going to the library to work on a project. Don't need a ride. I'll take the bus later. Brennan replied almost instantly. Stay safe. Don't stay out too late. Averi snapped the phone shut, her face expressionless. She stood up and walked toward the back of the school. She bypassed the security cameras with practiced ease, slipping through a known gap in the rusted chain-link fence. She navigated the labyrinth of Manhattan alleys until she reached a nondescript brick building. She walked down a flight of concrete stairs to a heavy steel door. She punched a sixteen-digit code into the keypad. The deadbolt clicked. Averi stepped into the underground safe house and hit the lights. She immediately stripped off the hideous brown sweater and the baggy jeans. She walked into the small bathroom and used a harsh chemical solvent to strip the yellow foundation and thick eyebrows from her face. She walked back into the main room. She pulled open a metal locker. She stepped into a skin-tight, reinforced black leather racing suit. The material hugged every curve of her body, acting as a second skin. She zipped it up to her collarbone. She reached to the top shelf and pulled down a matte black, carbon-fiber motorcycle helmet. The visor was tinted pitch black. Averi walked to the back of the room and yanked a heavy canvas tarp off the floor. Beneath it sat a heavily modified, matte black Ducati Panigale V4. It was a monster of a machine, built for pure, terrifying speed. Averi swung her leg over the seat. She slid the key into the ignition and turned it. The engine roared to life, a deep, guttural growl that vibrated through the concrete floor and up her spine. She pulled the helmet over her head and snapped the chin strap. She reached up and pulled the dark visor down, completely obscuring her face. The underground garage door rolled up. Spectre twisted the throttle, shooting out into the neon-lit New York night like a bullet fired from a gun.