1 When normal parents get divorced, they fight tooth and nail for custody of their children. When mine tore their marriage apart, they fought just as fiercely—to pawn me off on each other. To be precise, they only fought over me. My younger sister, Serena, had both of them hiring high-powered Manhattan attorneys to claim her. I, on the other hand, sat in the corner of that sterile family court mediation room for three agonizing hours without a single soul uttering my name. Eventually, even the mediator couldn’t stomach the silence. He adjusted his glasses and looked up from the case file. “And what about the older daughter?” My father cleared his throat, adjusting the cufflinks on his tailored suit. “She’s a girl. It’s only appropriate that she stays with her mother.” My mother’s face twisted instantly. “She inherited that wretched face from your side of the family, Richard. Why on earth should I be saddled with her?” In the end, they reached a swift, ruthless compromise: they pooled their money and dumped me at Oakridge, a private youth home tucked away on the outskirts of the state. For the next eleven years, my father paraded Serena through national television specials, cultivating an image of the devoted, doting father that won over millions of viewers. My mother walked red carpets with Serena clinging to her arm, their mother-daughter glamour trending across every social media platform. Then the entertainment industry hit a brutal winter. My parents’ investments collapsed, the debts piled up into the tens of millions, and suddenly they needed me. They needed someone to marry Damian Pierce—the Pierce dynasty’s notoriously ruthless, “mad” heir—to settle their catastrophic balance sheet. Today was the wedding. I stood in the bridal suite, a heavy, opaque white veil draped over my head, obscuring every inch of my features. Serena swept into the room, flashing me a triumphant, pitying smile. “You know, Gwen, the Pierce family might be terrifying, but with that face of yours… you’re really coming out ahead on this trade.” Outside, the guests were already whispering. The rumors had been circulating for weeks: Damian Pierce had lost his mind three years ago, turning the entire city upside down in search of a mysterious “angel” he claimed to have encountered. When he couldn’t find her, his obsession morphed into dark volatility. No respectable heiress would willingly walk into his den. Which was how the sacrificial altar fell to me. Beneath the veil, I didn’t say a word. No one in this room knew that the disfiguring, deep-crimson birthmark covering the right side of my face had spontaneously faded away when I turned fifteen. The face staring back at me in private mirrors had long since become a stranger to them. And more importantly, not a single person in this city knew that the “angel” Damian Pierce had spent three years desperately tearing the world apart to find… was the girl he had briefly stumbled upon in the woods behind Oakridge. The door to the bridal lounge was shoved open with sudden violence. Harrison Reed stood in the doorway, sharp in a midnight-blue tuxedo, his brows drawn into a tight, suffocating knot. I sat before the vanity mirror, watching him through the thick mesh of my veil. I didn’t move. I simply folded my hands in my lap. Serena stepped out from behind him, wearing a champagne haute couture gown that was louder and far more elaborate than my own modest wedding dress. She looped her arm naturally through Harrison’s, leaning her head against his shoulder. “Gwen is only doing this to save Mom and Dad, Harrison,” Serena murmured, her voice dripping with calculated sweetness and performative sympathy. “Don’t be too hard on her.” Harrison’s eyes locked onto the shrouded shape of my head. The disgust in his gaze was raw and undisguised. “Saving your parents? She’s throwing herself into the gutter out of spite,” Harrison snapped, taking a step forward. “Gwen, we broke up because you built our entire relationship on a lie. I fell in love with your intellect, your writing, your soul—so why the hell did you use someone else’s pictures when we were talking online?” He exhaled heavily, wrapping himself in the righteous indignation of a martyr. “If you had just been honest about what was on your face from day one, maybe I could have looked past it. But you’re a fraud. And now you’re selling yourself to an unhinged psycho just for a billionaire’s trust fund. I don’t even recognize you anymore.” My fingers remained motionless on the tulle of my dress. Behind the lace, I didn’t even bother offering an explanation. The “stolen photograph” he had found on my private blog was simply a picture I had taken of my real face at Oakridge. And the grotesque, scarlet birthmark he had seen in person… was nothing more than an elaborate layer of theatrical wax and pigment I deliberately painted on before stepping out into the world. Footsteps echoed from the hall. Richard and Eleanor Hayes entered the room, trailing an aura of expensive perfume and nervous tension. The moment my father spotted Harrison, his stern expression melted into an obsequious grin. “Harrison, my boy! It’s wonderful of you to see Gwen off. Just wait until the engagement party between you and Serena—we’re going to throw the grandest celebration the city has ever seen.” Eleanor walked up behind my chair, her eyes carefully avoiding my reflection in the glass, as though looking at me for more than a second might infect her. “It’s almost time for the processional. You remember the rules, don’t you?” Eleanor’s voice was sharp, clipped. “Damian has a vile temper. Keep your mouth shut, keep your head down, and once you’re at the Pierce estate, stay in the guest wing. Don’t wander out and humiliate us.” 2 I gave a faint nod. It was barely a tilt of my chin, but it made Eleanor exhale a long breath of relief. Serena slipped her hand from Harrison’s arm and stepped closer to my vanity. She bent down until her lips were inches from the fabric over my ear, lowering her voice to a venomous whisper meant only for me. “You really should be thanking me on your knees, Gwen,” she purred. “If I hadn’t flat-out refused to marry Damian Pierce, an ugly freak like you would never have gotten within ten miles of a dynasty like this.” I slowly turned my head, meeting her spiteful gaze through the sheer linen. I didn’t flinch. “Time’s up. Let’s go,” Richard barked, checking his platinum Patek Philippe with frantic urgency. “Move, move! Don’t keep the Pierce family waiting. Gwen, you listen to me—if you mess this up today, the Hayes family is finished!” Harrison stood rooted by the doorway, watching me rise to my feet. His mouth opened slightly, as if he wanted to drop one last patronizing remark, but all that came out was a derisive scoff. “Let’s see if you can keep that quiet dignity once Damian Pierce gets his hands on you.” I gathered the heavy train of the ivory gown, refusing to look back at any of them. Only as I crossed the threshold into the corridor did I offer a quiet parting gift. “Make sure none of you regret this.” The private corridor felt endless. The crimson carpet beneath my heels was plush, swallowing the sound of every step. With every foot of distance, memories of those eleven years at Oakridge clawed their way back into my chest. I was seven years old when that fluorescent bulb in the court annex buzzed overhead, harsh and blinding. I had sat on a cold vinyl bench in the hallway, listening through the frosted glass as my parents tore into each other. “Richard, don’t you dare push this on me! I raised Serena from day one—why should you get her?” “Be realistic, Eleanor! Serena has the face of a future star. In ten years, she’ll be printing money in Hollywood!” “Then take the older one with you! Just looking at that birthmark makes me sick to my stomach.” “She came out of your body! If her own mother can’t stand the sight of her, why the hell should I?” When the door finally opened, it marked the only time in their lives they ever agreed on anything. They split the bill, handed a check to the state, and shipped me off to an institutional dormitory two hours outside the city. From that day on, parents ceased to exist in my world. They were just polished, radiant strangers laughing through the television screen in the dormitory rec room, playing the perfect family for the cameras. Then, when I was fifteen, the deep vascular stain across my cheek simply began to lighten, fading until it vanished entirely. The headmistress of the shelter, Mrs. Gable, had stared at me in the bathroom mirror, speechless for several long seconds. “Gwen… this face is going to be trouble.” A place like Oakridge was a revolving door of broken kids and opportunistic predators. In an environment with no money and no protection, beauty wasn’t a blessing—it was a target. So from that day forward, I taught myself how to mix medical-grade adhesives, spirit gum, and dark red pigments. Every morning before breakfast, I painted an even uglier, more jagged patch of scarlet across my skin. The hallway ended. Richard walked beside me, but he kept an intentional two-foot gap between us. He didn’t offer his arm; touching me seemed like a hazard that might soil his bespoke suit. “When you get up there, if Damian starts acting erratic, just stay back,” Richard muttered under his breath, his eyes fixed firmly on the double doors ahead. “Don’t provoke him. And whatever you do, don’t drag our name into his madness.” I listened to his callous instructions, my mind drifting back to two years ago—back when Harrison Reed believed he was desperately in love with me. We had met on an online forum for remote arts education. He fell in love with my essays, the sketches I posted, the cadence of my thoughts. He sent paragraph after paragraph late into the night, swearing that it was my luminous soul he cherished. “Gwen, I don’t care what you look like. In my eyes, you are the most captivating woman alive.” Those were his exact words, typed out in glowing blue text on my cracked phone screen. But when he finally pulled strings to track down my location and cornered me outside the Oakridge gates, what met him was the girl with the painted, grotesque red mark. I would never forget the look on his face. 3 First came shock. Then sheer, unvarnished repulsion. And finally, an involuntary, backward stumble. “You… you lied to me?” “Those photos on your profile… that wasn’t you!” I had tried to tell him that those pictures were real, taken in my room when the makeup was off. But he didn’t listen. He spun on his heel and bolted down the gravel drive without looking back once. A month later, his face popped up on my feed, tagged in an announcement. In the photo, Serena was nestled against his chest, smiling like a polished porcelain doll. The caption read: After all the wandering, I finally found the right soul in the right skin. I pulled my thoughts back to the present. The grand doors of the grand ballroom stood right in front of me. Golden light and the low hum of a hundred elite voices leaked through the seams. Eleanor rushed up behind me, her manicured fingers aggressively tugging at the edge of my veil to ensure no sliver of skin showed. “Keep it pulled down!” she hissed. “Remember what you are today. You’re collateral settling a debt, not a blushing society bride.” I lowered my chin, staring down at the pristine tips of my ivory satin heels. “Understood. Lead the way.” Two attendants in black livery pulled the heavy mahogany doors outward. The cacophony of the ballroom died down instantly. Dozens of high-society eyes swung toward the entrance like searchlights. The air hung thick with expensive champagne and heavy floral arrangements, but beneath the opulence lay a sea of vicious, unchecked whispers. “Is that the older Hayes daughter? The one they kept hidden away in the country?” “I heard she’s so hideous she can’t even show her face. No wonder she’s wearing that heavy shroud.” “If the Hayes family hadn’t run their production company into the ground and racked up forty million in debt to the Pierces, do you think they’d ever throw their own blood to that madman?” “Keep your voice down! You know what Damian Pierce did to the last person who crossed him. Don’t borrow trouble.” Richard’s spine went rigid. Forcing a tight, plastic smile onto his face, he strode ahead into the hall—moving so quickly he completely forgot to escort his bride down the aisle. I picked up the hem of my dress and walked the red carpet alone. On either side sat the titans of old money and high finance. Nobody clapped. Nobody smiled. To them, this wasn’t a holy union; it was a public execution disguised as a high-society spectacle. Harrison and Serena were seated at the front family table. Serena had her head tipped against Harrison’s shoulder, a hand over her mouth as she giggled into his ear. Harrison’s eyes trailed my progress down the aisle, hard and judgmental. As I passed his chair, he leaned forward and dropped his voice to a razor-thin murmur. “Gwen. If you regret this right now, just beg me.” I paused mid-stride. “For the sake of what we had, I might write a check to bail your parents out,” Harrison whispered, his tone dripping with condescending charity. “You don’t have to humiliate yourself like this.” I turned my head and looked at him through the white lace. His eyes were filled with the arrogant expectation of a savior waiting for a broken woman to fall to her knees and clutch his shoes in gratitude. I tilted my head, my voice entirely flat. “Mr. Reed, this is my wedding day. Please conduct yourself with some dignity, if only so you don’t embarrass your fiancée.” Harrison’s face turned an ugly, mottled gray. His hand clamped around his crystal tumbler so hard the glass creaked. Serena grabbed his forearm, biting her lip with theatrical hurt. “Harrison, why are you even talking to her? She thinks she’s climbing the social ladder now. She looks down on all of us.” I didn’t waste another second on them. I kept walking. At the front of the pavilion, there was no bridal party. There was only a wall of broad-shouldered Pierce security guards in dark suits. The groom, Damian Pierce, was nowhere to be found. Richard stood near the base of the platform, a sheen of cold sweat breaking out across his forehead. He turned anxiously toward the Pierce family’s head butler. “The… the hour has arrived. Where is Mr. Pierce?” The butler looked at Richard with dead, unblinking eyes. “The young master said: once Mr. Hayes delivers the package, he can get the hell out.” 4 Richard looked as if he’d been handed an executive pardon. Without leaving me a single word or a backward glance, he turned on his heel and hurried toward the side exit. Eleanor scurried behind him, terrified that lingering for one extra second might give the Pierce family an excuse to detain them. I stood alone on the elevated stage. A piece of merchandise, evaluated, purchased, and abandoned. The murmurs below swelled into outright laughter. “He didn’t even show up. She’s going to have a brutal time surviving that household.” “Did you hear about that socialite who tried to slip into his suite last winter? He had her wrist broken and had her thrown out of the county overnight.” “Looking like she does, I doubt Damian will even care enough to break her wrists.” I stood straight, my breathing steady. My palms were dry; my pulse was quiet. Down in the VIP section, Serena leaned into Harrison’s ear. “It’s so grim up there, Harrison.” Harrison patted her hand, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “Damian Pierce is a monster. No one crosses him and walks away whole. Gwen is about to get exactly what she asked for.” Suddenly, the grand chandeliers overhead clicked off. A single, stark white spotlight cut through the darkness, illuminating the grand spiral staircase at the back of the mezzanine. The entire ballroom fell into a dead, suffocating silence. Guests froze mid-breath, turning toward the stairs. A tall, broad-shouldered figure emerged from the shadows. Damian Pierce wore an immaculate, pitch-black bespoke three-piece suit. The top button of his dress shirt was undone, giving him an air of cold, dangerous detachment. He descended the marble steps one by one. The rhythmic strike of his leather soles against the stone echoed through the cavernous hall, heavy as a funeral toll. He looked at no one. He cut through the crowded room without a glance, walking straight toward the end of the aisle. The officiant’s voice shook as he fumbled for his microphone. “Will… will the bride please step forward.” Holding the pinned layers of my skirt, I met him at the center of the dais. This was the closest I had ever been to him in full light. His features were sharply carved, his jawline hard, carrying a chilling intensity that felt almost predatory. He didn’t look at the officiant. He didn’t look at the hundred aristocrats watching his every move. His dark, obsidian eyes locked onto the sheer white fabric hiding my face. “You’re finally here.” His voice was low, raspy, carrying a tremor so faint it was nearly imperceptible. I didn’t speak. Damian raised his right hand. From the first row, Harrison let out a soft, mocking laugh. “Watch. He’s going to tear her apart.” Damian’s long fingers caught the edge of the veil. With a firm, decisive pull, the white lace drifted to the floor. A few muffled gasps rippled through the front tables. “What on earth is that on her face…” Damian’s eyes rested on the dark red, textured patch covering my right cheek. There was no disgust in his gaze. No horror. Only a terrifying, obsessive fire. “Three years,” he whispered, taking a step closer until his chest nearly brushed mine. “Why did you turn yourself into this?” Before anyone could comprehend what was happening, his thumb pressed against the edge of the prosthetic skin on my cheekbone. He rubbed with precise, calculated pressure, breaking the seal of the medical adhesive. Then, in one fluid motion, he peeled away the false, jagged layer of skin I had worn as armor for over a decade. The bright white spotlight poured over us. Underneath, completely unblemished, luminous, and breathtakingly striking, my true face was laid bare to the entire room. The grand ballroom went so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “560792”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel
Leave a Reply