Chapter 2

My father stared at me like he was looking at a ghost. He hadn't seen my real face in five years, not since I started painting on that hideous mask to avoid the very men he wanted to sell me to.

"You..." He pointed a trembling finger at me.

"If you actually look like that," he finally choked out, his eyes flashing with a mix of shock and calculation, "why on earth did you spend all this time making yourself look like a bridge troll? Do you know how much easier my life would be if you just showed your face?"

"I'm done playing the ugly duckling, Father. Julian made his choice. The charade is over."

Sebastian Hawthorne wasn't Julian. He was ruthless, powerful, and reportedly the most extreme perfectionist in the country. Rumor had it you couldn't even scrub the floors of his estate if you weren't a solid eight out of ten.

I had hid my face to avoid him. Now, I was going to use it as a weapon.

My father's eyes just kept darting over my porcelain skin, my sharp cheekbones, the natural red of my lips.

"You look exactly like your mother," he muttered.

Yeah, I looked exactly like my mother. She had been a beautiful, aristocratic pawn forced into an arranged marriage with the Goodwin family. And for what? Once the vows were exchanged, my father drained her fortune, flaunted his mistresses, and left her trapped in a hollow marriage. She spent over a decade sleeping in an empty bed, rotting away alone in our Cotswolds estate.

On her deathbed, holding my hand with a skeletal grip, she had given me one piece of advice: Never put your life in someone else's hands.

Therefore, when my father first tried to force me into an arranged marriage with the notorious Duke of Hawthorne, I ruined my own matchmaking photos. I made myself repulsive. I didn't want to be a pawn. I just wanted someone who would look past the surface and love me for me.

Julian had played that part perfectly. He sold me the illusion of true love. And yesterday, he proved it was all garbage.

If love was just a cheap lie, I might as well trade it for power.

I turned around to face my father. "Tell the Hawthornes, I accept the arrangement marriage."

My father’s eyes lit up with sheer greed. "Done."

By that evening, I found myself sitting in the opulent drawing room of the Hawthorne ancestral estate in Gloucestershire.

The Dowager Duchess Elaine Hawthorne sat across from me. Known as the iron-fisted matriarch of the family, her sharp eyes scanned my clean, makeup-free face. She didn't hide her absolute awe.

"Good heavens," Elaine breathed out, leaning forward on her cane. "Sebastian really hit the jackpot. Your face, your posture... you put those royal portraits in the gallery to shame, my dear."

She reached into her velvet blazer, pulled out a breathtaking, antique sapphire brooch, and leaned over to pin it directly onto my lapel.

"This belongs to the mistress of the Hawthorne family," she said, her eyes crinkling with warmth. "From now on, you are our Duchess."

I touched the cold, heavy stone. "Thank you, Your Grace."

As I stood up to leave, Elaine suddenly grabbed my wrist. Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Georgina, sweetheart. Put that ugly disguise back on."

"What?"

"You're too striking," the old woman chuckled dryly. "My grandson is a ruthless man, but he is insanely territorial and a massive jealous wreck underneath it all. If you walk out looking like this before the wedding, he'll lose his mind trying to hide you away. Just keep the ugly makeup on until you're officially married. Let's avoid the drama."

I thought of the Duke's terrifying reputation. Whatever makes this go smoothly, I thought.

The next morning, the muddy foundation and hideous freckles were back on my face.

I was in my penthouse, taping up the last cardboard box of my belongings, preparing to move out of the home I had spent two years decorating for my life with Julian.

The front door clicked open.

Julian walked in, holding a pink bakery box, flashing that gentle, apologetic smile.

"Hey, Georgie. Still mad?" he asked softly, setting the box on the kitchen island. "Look, I brought your favorites to make it up to you. Mango scones from that place you love."

I stared at the pink box.

On our very first date, I had told him that I was deathly allergic to mangoes.

Without a word, I picked up the box, walked over to the fireplace, and tossed it straight into the roaring flames.

Julian’s jaw dropped. "Georgina! What the hell? I stood in line for an hour for those!"

I turned back to him, my face completely blank. Then, I pointed to the stack of boxes by the door.

"There's your stuff," I said. I picked up the velvet ring box from the counter and tossed it at his chest. He fumbled to catch it. "And your ring. We're done."

"Georgina, stop it. I know I messed up yesterday, okay? I'm sorry. We can reschedule the wedding. Don't throw a tantrum over this."

"It's not a tantrum, Julian," I cut him off, stepping closer. "Pack your trash and get out of my apartment. The engagement is over."

"Why?!" Julian yelled, his eyes turning red. "Is this because of what my groomsmen said? You’re throwing away two years because of a joke?"

I let out a harsh laugh. "You really think that highly of yourself? I'm dumping you because I'm marrying someone else. And my fiancé wouldn't appreciate me entertaining my cheating ex in my living room."

Julian froze. Then, a nasty sneer twisted his face. "Marrying someone else? Are you kidding me? Who else would actually..."

Cough, cough.

A weak, pathetic sound came from the doorway.

Lindsay Lane stood there, leaning heavily on a crutch. Her ankle was wrapped, and she had a tiny, perfectly placed band-aid on her cheek. She looked around my luxurious penthouse with wide, greedy eyes, her gaze finally landing on the custom, hand-stitched lace wedding dress hanging on the display mannequin in the corner.

"Julian..." she whimpered, hobbling inside. "This place is gorgeous. And that dress... oh my god. I wish I could wear something that beautiful. But I guess I'll never get the chance..."

She buried her face in Julian's shoulder.

Julian immediately wrapped his arms around her. But then he looked at the dress, and back at me.

"Georgina," he started, his voice dropping into that fake-gentle tone. "Since you're clearly not using the dress anymore, and you're moving out... maybe we could—"

I immediately grabbed the fabric shears off the coffee table, walked straight up to the $100,000 custom gown, and drove the blades right through the center of the bodice.

Riiiiiiip.

I dragged the scissors down, shredding the delicate French lace into jagged, ruined strips.

Lindsay shrieked and jumped back.

I threw the scissors onto the floor and looked dead at Julian. "If it's mine, I'd rather destroy it than let cheap trash touch it."

Julian's face turned purple with rage. "You're psychotic! Fine! Ruin it! But what exactly are you gonna wear to this imaginary wedding of yours now?"

I smiled, the corners of my lips curling up in a cold smirk. "That's really none of your concern. The Hawthorne family will naturally provide my new gown."

Julian froze. The anger on his face morphed into utter disbelief. "The Hawthorne family? Are you talking about the Duke of Hawthorne?" He let out a harsh, mocking laugh. "Georgina, please. Everyone knows he's obsessed with beauty. He wouldn't even let someone who looks like you clean his boots!"

He was practically begging for a reality check.

I reached into my pocket, pulled out a makeup wipe, and stepped toward him. Let's see how much you talk when this makeup comes off.

But before the wipe touched my skin, my phone rang loudly.

"Miss Goodwin," the crisp, aristocratic voice echoed through the room. "This is the head butler of the Hawthorne estate. The Dowager Duchess has given her orders. Your wedding to His Grace, the Duke of Hawthorne, is set for three days from now."

I looked up. All the blood had completely drained from Julian’s face.