The Ugly Wife Went Viral

I, Serena Sterling, was infamous in our social circle for being ugly.

Heavy bangs that hid my eyes, a face scattered with freckles, and clothes that never quite fit right made me unpleasant to look at.

And yet, somehow, this very appearance caught Adrian Blackwood's attention.

Even under pressure from his family, even as people mocked him for having a "taste for the ugly," he still insisted on marrying me.

In the three years that followed, he spoiled me into becoming the most envied wife in our circle.

I thought it was real love—the kind that saw past appearances and reached the soul.

Until the day I stumbled upon ninety-nine love letters in his study—and a trust document bearing another woman's name.

Only then did I realize that all his devotion had been nothing but a lie—one that turned me into a shield for the woman he truly loved.

He had never loved me.

Now that he had secured his position in the Blackwood family, he was finally free to be with her.

I didn't argue. I handed him the divorce papers, wiped away the disguise that had made me "ugly," and disappeared from his life.

......

I sat in the study, my whole body still trembling.

Until today, I had truly believed I'd found a love that went beyond appearances and reached the soul.

That belief shattered the moment I found the unlocked file sitting in front of me.

Ninety-nine letters. Every word filled with devotion.

Every single one began the same way. "To my dearest Vivian Mercer."

In them, Adrian confessed his guilt for not being able to give her a stable life, his regret over marrying someone else just to protect her, and his longing for the day he would fully control the Blackwood family and finally be with her.

Every word cut into me like a blade.

Only then did it hit me—his heart had always belonged to someone else.

Marrying me had never been about love. I was just a convenient shield against the open and hidden attacks within his family.

All the humiliation, the threats, the kidnapping, the fear I endured—none of it was meant for me. I had been taking the hit for another woman.

The other document was a notarized trust agreement, listing every asset Adrian owned—real estate, shares, cash—line after line.

Every beneficiary name was the same. Vivian.

The date on it was three years ago—the day before our wedding.

That same day, I had signed a document as well.

Mine was a prenuptial agreement stating clearly that I had no claim to any of the Blackwood family's assets.

Back then, Adrian had told me the family was too complicated, that he didn't want me dragged into it.

And I believed him.

I'd even thought it was considerate of him.

The next page was a pregnancy report.

The name on it was still Vivian. The date—last week.

A chill spread through me. I remembered how, early in our marriage, Adrian had repeatedly said he didn't like children.

For three years, I had been careful every single time, making sure I never got pregnant.

It turned out, he didn't hate children. He just didn't want one with me.

I clutched the report as waves of pain twisted through my chest.

Back then, I had resented my father for interfering in my marriage. I wanted love on my own terms, so I ran away from home and deliberately made myself look unattractive.

Because of that, I was judged, rejected—discriminated against even at work.

I refused to give up, so I stayed up night after night, sketching designs, trying to prove myself through my work.

But the designs I worked so hard on were taken by my supervisor to impress his lover—and then he turned around and accused me of plagiarism.

I argued my case, only to be dismissed as a troublemaker—just because I was ugly.

At my most desperate moment, Adrian showed up. He pulled the surveillance footage and restored my draft files.

A man like him—a CEO buried in endless work—had stepped in personally to clear my name and return the credit that was rightfully mine.

It was the first time since I left home that I saw genuine admiration in someone's eyes.

I fell for him, completely and helplessly.

The day he proposed, I said yes without a second thought.

For three years, Adrian built me a perfect little utopia.

He took me to gatherings with his friends. When they looked me over with barely concealed mockery, he would lace his fingers through mine and say, "My wife is priceless."

When I stayed up late working on designs, he would walk into the study, set down a cup of warm milk, and stay with me until dawn.

When a difficult client called me a country bumpkin, he canceled the contract on the spot—even if it meant paying a hefty penalty—just to stand up for me.

"Money can be earned again. But you don't deserve to be treated like that."

And I believed him.

I thought I had finally found real love—a man who saw past appearances and loved the soul beneath.

Until those ninety-nine letters and that trust tore the illusion apart and showed me what that "love" really was.

I picked up my phone and dialed a number I hadn't touched in three years.

"Look into Adrian. And Vivian. I want everything."

Waiting for the truth felt like being slowly carved apart.

Memories from the past three years kept replaying in my mind.

He had stood up for me and offended several members in the Blackwood family. After that, I became their target—followed when I went out, my car tampered with, more than once coming close to losing my life.

I thought that was the price I had to pay for love.

But it had all been part of his calculation.

The email came quickly. The attachments were thorough.

The infighting within the Blackwood family was brutal. Adrian's uncles had all been searching for his weakness.

So he hid Vivian in the shadows—and pushed me, the ugly and easy-to-control wife, into the spotlight.

As "Mrs. Blackwood," I took every open attack, every scheme, every insult meant for her.

Meanwhile, Vivian stayed safe under his protection—carrying his child.

So it wasn't that he was noble enough to overlook my appearance. It was that my ugliness was exactly what he needed.

Those three years of marriage—from beginning to end—had been nothing but a carefully crafted lie.

I turned off my phone and sat in the dark for a long, long time.

Only when my body had gone stiff did I finally stand and walk to the mirror.

I looked at the unfamiliar, ugly face staring back at me—and suddenly, I smiled.

The smile lingered… until tears began to fall.

He had spent the past three years putting on an act. It must have been exhausting.

I would set him free.