My Substitute Bride Wasn't Supposed to Bite

The bar was deafening, but Clarice Sullivan was floating too high on adrenaline to care. She'd just pulled off a killer prank on her obnoxious half-sister, Lydia, and the thrill was still singing in her veins. This called for a celebration. She let herself go, drink after drink, melting into the euphoric buzz. So when her best friend, Chloe, leaned in with a wild dare, Clarice didn't hesitate.

"Alright, Clarice," Chloe yelled over the music, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Here's the bet: if the next person through that door is a guy, you go up and kiss him-right on the lips. No excuses. If you do it, I'll cover your drinks for a month. If you chicken out. you have to post that cringey baby photo of you in the bathtub on your Instagram story. Deal?"

"Deal! A bet is a bet-spit it out!" Clarice laughed. The buzz in her head kept her from realizing just how audacious this wager really was. Kissing a man! She seemed to have completely forgotten she was a substitute bride.

Perhaps her boldness came from her completely new look: pink hair, a black sequined crop top, and ripped denim shorts. But the real statement was her makeup - daring neon eyeshadow and blood-red lips. She looked nothing like her usual self.

Just then, the door swung open. A tall, broad-shouldered man stepped inside, silhouetted against the dim light. A man. Clarice's heart gave a rebellious leap.

"Go get him, tiger!" Chloe urged, giving her a push.

This was it. The ultimate act of defiance. She strode toward him, the crowd seeming to part for her. He was tall, so she had to tilt her head up, her eyes landing first on his perfectly sculpted lips. They looked. frustratingly kissable.

"C'mere, handsome," she breathed, rising onto her toes and closing the distance.

Her lips met his.

And for a single, shocking second, something felt. familiar.

Then, a vise-like grip clamped onto her wrist, yanking her away. "Get off me," a voice snapped, cold enough to freeze the air in her lungs.

Clarice stumbled back, her wrist throbbing. But the bet was won. She flashed a triumphant grin back at Chloe before turning, finally, to really look at him.

The world slowed to a crawl.

He was devastatingly handsome, with a jawline sharp enough to cut and eyes so intense they seemed to pin her in place. But his gaze was glacial, filled with pure, undiluted annoyance.

And. she knew that face.

Not from magazines or society pages. No.

The recognition hit her - she had seen that face in her bed.

"Theo-" The name choked in her throat, a strangled whisper. Her blood turned to ice.

Oh, god. No.

Theodore Grant. Her husband, and the head of the Grant family, one of Velmont's five major powers.

To nineteen-year-old Clarice, thirty-one-year-old Theodore seemed old enough to be her uncle. The rumors about him never ceased-some claimed he was grotesquely ugly, others that he preferred men, that he was impotent, or that his temper was so cruel and violent that no woman dared to stay.

The sight of him brought back the sickening truth of her forced substitution. Her father and stepmother had used her beloved older sister as leverage, threatening her until she agreed to become the sacrificial substitute in Lydia's marriage to the Grant family.

Good thing he didn't recognize her, honestly.

Of course he hadn't. How could he?

From the moment she had been delivered to the Grant mansion two weeks ago, their union existed only in the dark. He came to her room at night for wordless, intense meetings. He knew her body better than her face, having never seen her in daylight-and certainly not like this, rendered unrecognizable by layers of cosmetics.

The rumors of his coldness? She could confirm them.

But the rest. especially the one about his impotence? A hollow, soundless laugh escaped her. If leaving her breathless and unraveling her to the point of climax-again and again-was his idea of impotence, she dared not imagine what actual competence would feel like.

Clarice's heart beat like a frantic bird against her ribs. She had to go. Now. She couldn't risk another moment, couldn't give Theodore a chance to recognize her.

Turning on her heel, she fled the bar without a single word to Chloe.

On the cab ride home, Clarice grabbed her headphones to call Chloe and explain the mess.

But right as she was about to hit dial, her phone lit up with an incoming call.

"Ma'am!" It was Mr. Chambers from the Grant house.

"Hey, Mr. Chambers! Just finished up some study group stuff-on my way home now," she replied, cool as ever, lying without missing a beat.

"Mr. Grant will be back in about thirty minutes. He asked that you be ready."

"Half an hour?" Clarice froze. Wasn't Theodore just at the bar? That trip should take an hour minimum-how could he be back so soon?

She had to get home first. The moment the thought crystallized, panic seized her. She yanked the privacy divider shut in the taxi, her hands moving frantically. The pink wig came off first, then the heavy makeup was scrubbed away with cleansing wipes. She peeled off the sequined top and ripped denim shorts, changing into a plain white T-shirt and soft sweatpants from her bag. The disguise was gone, but the stubborn smell of alcohol still clung to her skin and hair-a dead giveaway.

If Theodore made it back before her and caught a whiff of this, the carefully constructed image of the docile, obedient girl would shatter. And if he saw through the act. would he send her back to the Sullivans like damaged goods? The very reason she had agreed to this marriage-her sister-would be jeopardized. All her sacrifices would be for nothing.

"Driver, step on it. I'll make it worth your while," she urged, thrusting a handful of cash through the opening.

She had to win this race against her husband.

The cab barely stopped at the Grant estate before Clarice flung the door open and sprinted toward the mansion. The fresh clothes and clean face were a start, but the scent of beer was a persistent ghost around her.

Why did he have to come home early? And why, after being at a bar full of available women, did he have to choose tonight to come home to her?

"Mr. Chambers," she asked, bursting through the front door and trying to steady her breath at the sight of the butler. "Is Mr. Grant back yet?"

"Not yet, Madam."

"Oh, thank God." The breath she didn't realize she was holding rushed out. Not waiting for a follow-up question, she flew up the stairs.

A fluffy white Samoyed bounded toward her from the second-floor landing, tail wagging.

"Not now, Snowy, go play." She sidestepped the dog, not breaking her stride.

Snowy let out a series of indignant barks at the rejection but trotted after her into the bedroom regardless.

The clothes came off again, this time tossed heedlessly to the floor. She dove straight into the shower, scrubbing her skin and washing her hair twice with scented shampoo until not a trace of the bar remained. She had to be spotless, smelling pure and fresh, perfectly prepped to play the part of the sweet, waiting wife for Mr. Grant.

----

Theodore had barely stepped off the plane before his friend dragged him to a bar. The moment he entered, however, a woman with garish makeup accosted him, shattering his mood entirely.

He had never liked women with heavy makeup who made advances; he preferred those who were well-spoken, gentle, and obedient.

Clarice, the one the Sullivans had sent over, fit that description perfectly. Though they had clearly switched brides on him-he was originally meant to marry the second daughter, Lydia-he had not sent her back.

"Sir, Madam is waiting for you upstairs," Mr. Chambers said, holding the door open.

Theodore handed him his coat and ascended the stairs. The second-floor hallway was strewn with women's clothing-a shirt, jeans, underwear-trailing from the bedroom door all the way to the staircase. Snowy, being the dramatic dog he was, had even dragged out a pair of her lace panties.

Spotting Theodore, the dog dropped the delicate fabric, offered a tentative bark, and then scurried away under his master's icy glare.

Theodore bent and picked up the panties by the bedroom door. They were lace, unmistakably sensual, shimmering under the warm light.

Inside the room, Clarice was utterly bewildered. She had left her clothes neatly folded on the bed before her shower, but now they were gone. Wrapped only in a towel, she froze as she saw Theodore standing in the doorway, holding her underwear.

That particular set. she had worn it with him in mind.

If some random man held them, it would feel vulgar. But held by a man as strikingly handsome as Theodore? The effect was entirely different. A reckless impulse surged through her-the urge to simply push him onto the bed.

He stepped fully into the room, his gaze taking her in-Clarice, standing there in nothing but a towel, her skin still glistening with moisture. Beads of water traced a path down her collarbone, disappearing into the pristine white fabric wrapped tightly around her.

She stood quietly before him, head slightly bowed, the picture of soft submission.

This was his wife now.

He was originally supposed to marry Lydia, the second daughter. But after sleeping with her, he found out-surprise-the Sullivans had done a bait and switch.

They hadn't even signed the marriage license yet-just threw a quiet dinner at the Grant estate. But he'd already taken her to bed, and in his mind, that sealed the deal.

He was furious at the Sullivans, sure. But not enough to undo what had already been done.

And this woman, whoever she really was, at least she knew how to behave.

That's exactly what he needed in a wife.

"Here."

Theodore handed the panties to Clarice.

Clarice lifted her head and saw his long fingers holding the delicate lace.

She lowered her gaze and quietly took the garment from his hand, careful not to meet his eyes. She was still mortified about flirting with him back at the bar.

Apparently, Theodore didn't remember. In fact, he couldn't even recall what his young wife looked like.

He turned away, just as Clarice spoke softly.

"Thank you... Theo."

She wanted to tell him she had already drawn a bath for him.

Theodore glanced back and saw her standing there with her head bowed, looking shy.

Shy? Not really. That was just an act-one Clarice wore well. For now, silence and obedience were her best strategy.

Theodore stared at her-fresh from the shower, wrapped in nothing but a towel, beads of water trickling down her bare shoulders, carrying with them a faint scent of roses.

Heat surged through his body.

"Come here," he said in a low voice, locking eyes with her.

Clarice gave him a quick glance, then stepped forward obediently. She barely took a step when Theodore pulled her straight into his arms. The scent of tobacco and whiskey enveloped her instantly.

What was he doing? Did he seriously want her... now?

Clarice couldn't help but wonder where all those rumors about him being impotent had come from. They'd only just reunited, and Theodore already looked like he was ready to devour her.

He wrapped an arm around her waist and leaned in to kiss her.

The kiss was hot and hungry, burning away every coherent thought in Clarice's head.

In bed, Theodore was surprisingly gentle-attentive, even. He cared about her pleasure, made sure she felt good. Physically, they were perfectly in sync.

But Clarice knew that wasn't enough. No matter how satisfying the sex, deep down, she longed for something more-something whole, something real.

When she agreed to marry Theodore in place of Lydia, she had known exactly what role she needed to play.

Whatever he was like, whatever he wanted-she would yield, gracefully and sweetly, until the day he grew tired of her.

"You taste so good," he murmured, his tongue trailing across her lips, claiming her in a way words never could.

Clarice melted into him, her fingers curling inside his shirt. The way she touched him only made him burn hotter. His gaze darkened with desire.

Without warning, he lifted her into his arms and carried her straight to the bed.

"Looks like there's no need to put those panties back on," he said with a teasing smirk.

He loosened her towel slowly, then dipped his head down-deep-and began to kiss her, lower and lower, until he reached that secret place.

Clarice knew what was coming next-a long, breathless night of unrestrained, intoxicating pleasure.

-----

By the time the sun came up, Theodore was already gone.

What woke her wasn't the light-it was a call from her father, Charles Sullivan.

The Sullivan family had a decent name in Velmont. Charles and Clarice's mother had built the Sullivan Group from the ground up. It had taken them decades to earn their status.

But truth be told, compared to families like the Grants, the Sullivans didn't really count.

In Velmont, if Theodore so much as twitched a finger, the entire city would feel it. So when he showed up with a marriage proposal, Charles didn't even hesitate-he handed his daughter over without a second thought.

The funny thing was, Clarice wasn't the original choice.

That was Lydia-two years older, the daughter of Charles's affair. He and Margaret Sullivan spoiled her to the bone. But when Lydia refused to marry into the Grant family, they immediately turned to the daughter Charles never cared for-the one left behind after her mother died: Clarice.

"Clarice!"

The moment she stepped through the front door of the Sullivan estate, Lydia's furious voice rang out.

Before Clarice could react, Lydia had already raised her hand to slap her. But Clarice saw it coming and dodged with ease.

"Did you just dodge me?!" Lydia shrieked, livid.

What, was she supposed to just stand there and get slapped?

Clarice stared at her blankly, raised an eyebrow-like she was watching a bad comedy.

She gave Lydia a cold glance and turned to go inside, but Lydia suddenly grabbed her arm.

"This is all your fault! You ruined my dress-with paint!"

Last night, Lydia had shown up to a party in a brand-new white dress, expecting to turn heads. Instead, she got laughed at.

Right above her hip was a streak of red paint. Not big-but impossible to miss.

"Yeah," Clarice said calmly, not even bothering to deny it.

But was it really her fault? Lydia loved buying white dresses and pretending to be innocent and pure.

Her calm admission nearly made Lydia explode.

She raised her hand again-but then caught a glimpse of something beneath Clarice's collar.

Red marks. From her neck down to her chest. Obvious. Unmistakable.

Theodore's handiwork.

"Clarice, you're just like your precious sister Sophia. Deep down, you're nothing but a filthy whore."