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.