Substitute Fiancée: Unmasking My Ugly Wife

The leather seat of the Lincoln Town Car felt cold against the back of Averi Marsh's thighs.

She stared out the tinted window. The towering glass facades of Fifth Avenue blurred into a continuous streak of wealth and arrogance. Her pulse remained completely steady. Not a single flutter of anxiety disrupted the rhythmic beating in her chest.

In the rearview mirror, the driver's eyes flicked toward her. His upper lip curled into a microscopic sneer. He thought she was trash.

Averi reached up and pulled down the sun visor. The small vanity mirror illuminated her face.

She picked up a cheap makeup sponge. It was already caked with dark, yellowish foundation. She pressed it into her cheek, dragging the rough sponge across her flawless, pale skin. The heavy layer of cheap makeup instantly buried her natural complexion, leaving her looking sallow and sickly.

Next, she grabbed a dark brown pencil. She drew over her naturally arched eyebrows, making them thick, uneven, and masculine.

Finally, she pulled a pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses from her pocket. She shoved them onto the bridge of her nose. The heavy frames swallowed her sharp, striking eyes, reducing her to a dull, forgettable nobody.

The Lincoln glided to a smooth halt.

Through the windshield, the massive iron gates of the Chavez estate loomed like the entrance to a fortress.

Averi grabbed the worn canvas backpack sitting next to her. The frayed straps dug into her palms.

The car door swung open. The estate's head butler stood there, his posture rigid. The moment his eyes landed on Averi's muddy yellow face and oversized glasses, his perfectly practiced, professional smile froze. The muscles in his cheeks twitched as he fought to maintain his composure.

Averi immediately hunched her shoulders. She shrank into herself, letting her eyes dart around like a terrified animal caught in headlights.

She stepped out of the car. Her faded, cheap sneakers hit the pristine marble floor of the grand foyer.

Squeak.

The rubber soles dragged against the polished stone. The sound was high-pitched and agonizingly loud in the cavernous space.

"What the hell is that smell?"

The voice echoed from above.

Averi didn't look up, but she heard the footsteps stop. Holt Chavez stood halfway down the grand sweeping staircase. He leaned over the mahogany railing, staring down at her. He pinched the bridge of his nose, his face twisting in absolute disgust.

"Did someone leave the garbage door open?" Holt sneered.

On the white leather sofa in the living room, Zane Chavez didn't even bother to stand. He tossed a thick script onto the glass coffee table with a loud smack. He looked at Averi, his eyes sweeping over her cheap clothes, and let out a harsh, mocking laugh.

Kerr Chavez, standing near the fireplace, simply turned his back. "Get her out of my sight," he muttered. "That aesthetic is a literal assault on my eyes."

Averi ducked her head lower. She gripped the straps of her backpack so hard her knuckles turned white. She let her breathing turn shallow and ragged, playing the part of the broken, humiliated orphan to perfection.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The heavy, rhythmic strike of a wooden cane hitting the marble floor silenced the room.

Ricardo Chavez, the patriarch of the family, emerged from the study. His face was lined with age and ruthless authority. He slammed the tip of his cane against the floor.

"Enough," Ricardo barked. The sheer volume of his voice made the crystal chandelier above them vibrate.

Holt snapped his mouth shut. He rolled his eyes but didn't dare speak another word.

Ricardo walked toward Averi. The harshness in his face melted into a practiced, gentle expression.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Chavez," Averi stammered. She forced a thick, uneducated Rust Belt accent into her throat. Her voice trembled just the right amount.

Ricardo gestured to the plush armchairs. "Sit. All of you."

The brothers reluctantly gathered. Ricardo stood at the head of the arrangement. He cleared his throat, preparing to read the terms of the marriage contract arranged by Averi's guardian, Aurelio Rasmussen.

Before Ricardo could finish the first sentence, Holt shot up from his chair.

"I am not marrying a piece of trailer park trash!" Holt yelled. The veins in his neck bulged. "I'd rather cut off my own hand!"

Averi kept her eyes glued to her dirty sneakers. She waited for the echo of Holt's shouting to die down. Then, she slowly raised her head.

"I... I have a proposal," Averi whispered. Her voice was small, pathetic.

Ricardo narrowed his eyes. "Speak, child."

"A one-year trial period," Averi said, pushing her thick glasses up her nose with a trembling finger. "If, after one year, none of your grandsons want to marry me... the contract is automatically voided. I will leave. No strings attached."

The room went dead silent.

Ricardo stared at her. Aurelio Rasmussen was not a man to be trifled with, and his ironclad demand had been a noose around the family's neck. But this girl was offering a golden escape clause. His sharp eyes calculated the risk and the reward after a moment of cold, deliberate calculation. He nodded slowly.

"Agreed," Ricardo said.

Holt dropped back into his chair. He let out a dark, cruel laugh. "One year? You won't last one month in this house, freak."

Averi lowered her head again. She nodded meekly, her shoulders shaking as if she were holding back sobs.

But beneath the shadow of her thick bangs, her lips curved into a cold, razor-sharp smirk.

Ricardo gestured to the head maid. "Show Miss Marsh to the guest room on the second floor."

Averi stood up. She hoisted the heavy, frayed backpack onto her shoulder. She turned and walked toward the stairs, feeling the burning, hateful glares of the Chavez brothers piercing her back with every squeaking step she took.

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.

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.