Substitute Fiancée: Unmasking My Ugly Wife

Averi unlocked the heavy steel door of the safe house.

She pulled off the helmet, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders, damp with sweat. She stripped off the leather racing suit, her muscles aching slightly from the extreme G-forces of the race.

She moved quickly. She washed her face, applied the thick yellow foundation, drew the harsh eyebrows, and pulled the oversized brown sweater over her head. She shoved the glasses onto her face.

By the time the sun rose over Manhattan, Averi Marsh was back in the Chavez estate dining room, staring blankly at a bowl of oatmeal.

Holt was pacing the length of the dining table. He was practically vibrating with excitement.

"You don't understand, Zane," Holt said, waving his fork wildly. "Spectre is a god. She took that hairpin turn at a hundred and twenty. Sparks were flying everywhere. It was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

Averi kept her head down. She scooped a spoonful of bland oatmeal into her mouth, her face a mask of dull incomprehension.

The dining room doors opened. Clarke walked in.

He wore a pristine navy suit, but his eyes were bloodshot. The dark circles under his eyes were prominent. He hadn't slept a wink.

Holt immediately turned to him. "Clarke! Tell him! Tell Zane how she smoked you on the straightaway. I heard you tried to buy a rematch and she nearly ran you over!"

Clarke stopped dead. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. He shot Holt a look so venomous the younger brother instantly snapped his mouth shut.

"Shut your mouth, Holt," Clarke said, his voice dangerously low. "Before I shut it for you."

Averi felt a laugh bubble up in her throat. She quickly turned it into a violent coughing fit, grabbing her napkin and pressing it to her mouth to hide her smirk.

Ricardo walked into the room, leaning heavily on his cane. He looked at Clarke's exhausted face and frowned.

"Clarke," Ricardo said. "I need Brennan at the office early today. You will drive Averi to school."

Clarke stiffened. He looked at Averi, taking in her muddy complexion and hideous sweater. His jaw clenched, but he nodded sharply. "Yes, Grandfather."

Ten minutes later, Averi walked out to the driveway.

Sitting there was the silver Aston Martin Valkyrie. The exact same car she had beaten by half a wheel last night.

Averi opened the passenger door and slid into the low bucket seat.

Clarke got in behind the wheel. He slammed his door shut. The air pressure in the cabin spiked.

He didn't look at her. He started the engine and threw the car into drive.

The ride to the academy was agonizingly silent. The tension radiating from Clarke was palpable. He drove aggressively, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, his mind clearly a million miles away-likely replaying the race in Brooklyn over and over again.

Averi leaned her head against the window, watching the city pass by, perfectly content in her silence.

At three o'clock, the Aston Martin was waiting at the school gates. Averi climbed in, ignoring the stares of the students.

When they walked through the front doors of the Chavez estate, the butler immediately stepped forward to take Clarke's coat.

"Mr. Chavez," the butler said. "You have a guest in the living room."

Clarke walked into the living room, Averi trailing a few steps behind.

Sitting on the white leather sofa was a stunning woman. She wore a tailored Chanel tweed suit. Her blonde hair was styled in perfect, effortless waves.

Izabella Mueller.

The moment Izabella saw Clarke, her eyes lit up. She stood up and practically glided across the room. She threw her arms around Clarke's neck, pressing her body against his in a highly intimate embrace.

"Clarke," Izabella purred. "I missed you so much in Paris."

Clarke didn't push her away, but his arms remained loosely at his sides. "Welcome back, Izabella."

Izabella pulled back, her perfectly manicured hands resting on his chest. Then, her eyes shifted.

She looked at Averi.

For a fraction of a second, Averi saw the raw, unfiltered disgust flash in Izabella's eyes. It was the look one gives a dead rat on the sidewalk.

But Izabella was a master of the social game. The disgust vanished, replaced by a wide, sickeningly sweet smile.

She walked over to Averi and grabbed her hands.

Averi felt the muscles in Izabella's fingers lock tight. She was touching Averi, but her body was physically repulsed by the contact.

"You must be Averi!" Izabella said, her voice dripping with fake warmth. "I've heard so much about you. You are just... so unique. I can completely see why Ricardo brought you here."

Averi gently pulled her hands free. She hunched her shoulders and looked at the floor. "Thank you, ma'am."

Holt bounded down the stairs. When he saw Izabella, he let out a loud cheer.

"Finally!" Holt yelled. "A woman with actual taste in this house. My eyes have been bleeding for two days."

Izabella covered her mouth and let out a delicate, tinkling laugh. She shot a sideways glance at Averi, her eyes full of triumphant superiority.

Averi retreated to the corner of the room. She stood near a large potted fern, blending into the shadows. She twisted the hem of her ugly brown sweater around her fingers.

She watched Izabella fawn over Clarke. She watched Holt laugh.

She played the perfect, invisible wallflower. But behind the thick lenses of her glasses, her eyes were cold and calculating, dissecting Izabella's every weakness.