Part 1The Seven Faces of His Plain Wife

I spent seven years chasing Tristan Drake.

Around our circle, people called me the most diligent backup plan in city history. When he finally put a ring on my finger, the consensus shifted: now I was just the fool willing to clean up after every woman who’d chewed him up and spit him out.

I didn’t care. When someone addressed me as "Mrs. Drake," every ounce of humiliation I had swallowed over the years felt oddly validated.

On our wedding day, Tristan couldn’t help asking me.

"Setting aside the family trust fund, I’m an arrogant prick and a serial cheater. What the hell do you actually see in me, Paige?"

I kept my head down, playing the part of the bashful, starry-eyed bride, and said nothing.

It wasn’t until well after the ceremony—the morning he stood in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at a face that looked like an unzipped archive of his previous flings—that the truth finally hit him like a freight train.

"You... you’re my exes? All seven of them?"

I hastily unwrapped the medical contouring bandages from my jaw.

"Oops. Shifted again." I sighed, looking up at him. "Sorry, Tristan. You’re looking at number eight now."

On the morning of the wedding, my foundation was caked on so thick you could have scraped it off to spackle drywall.

I didn't have much of a choice. Nature hadn't blessed me with symmetry; I had hooded, squinty eyes, a flat nasal bridge, and hypersensitive skin that broke out if the wind blew the wrong way.

Before the processional began, the makeup artist checked her watch for the fourth time, sighing in defeat.

Out in the corridor, Tristan was killing time with his groomsmen. Through the heavy oak door, their banter drifted in, muffled but clear enough.

"Come on, Drake. You’re seriously marrying the girl who only exists under four layers of matte powder? This isn't some twisted frat bet?"

Tristan scoffed. "Shut the fuck up, Preston."

Preston Hughes slung an arm over his shoulder, his tone dripping with lewd speculation. "Or did running through seven girls in four years wreck your stamina? Need a safe harbor to nurse your wounds?"

Tristan let out a dark, amused laugh and crooked a finger. Preston leaned in, expecting some scandalous locker-room confession, only for Tristan to seize him by the ear, twisting hard enough to make him yelp. Tristan shouted right into his eardrum: "Even if I were running on empty, I’d still outlast you on your best day! You want me to tell the room about that weekend in Miami, or are you going to shut your mouth?"

Preston winced, swatting at his hand. "All right, all right! Uncle! I surrender, man!"

The dressing room door clicked open.

I gathered the heavy train of my satin gown, my knuckles white, and stepped out toward the man who treated life like a game he was permanently bored of winning.

"Tristan," I said softly. "I’m ready."

Beside him, Chad and Preston stared at the theatrical thickness of my contour and lowered their heads, fighting back smirks.

Tristan didn’t laugh. He simply stared at my face for three long, silent seconds.

Then, he extended his arm for me to take.

Unfortunately, his gentlemanly facade had an expiration date of about ten seconds.

"You’re plain. It’s not like that’s breaking news," he murmured, his voice pitched low as we walked. "We’ve known each other for seven years, Paige. Are you still this insecure about your face?"

My chest hitched, a sharp pang hitting right behind my ribs. I forced a docile, practiced smile onto my over-painted lips. "A woman wants to look beautiful for the man she loves. In front of you, being insecure is second nature."

To my surprise, Tristan didn’t roll his eyes or offer his trademark smirk. Instead, his fingers tightened around mine, anchoring me as we stepped onto the aisle toward the altar.

Under the officiant’s rhythmic cadence, we exchanged platinum bands.

In that moment, draped in ivory lace and looking thoroughly unremarkable under pounds of powder, I gave the room the illusion of a storybook ending: the plain girl whose unrequited devotion had finally won the prince.

At the after-party, things split down gender lines.

The bridesmaids pulled me into a private lounge for cocktails and whispered confidences. Girls who had spent years giggling behind their hands whenever Tristan paraded a new stunner in front of me were suddenly rewriting history, cooing about how my endurance had finally paid off.

I smiled politely, sipping sparkling cider.

Endurance? The only agony I’d ever endured was under surgical anesthesia.

And the prize? Now that I held it, it tasted surprisingly bland.

Next door, the groom’s suite was significantly less polite.

Chad tossed a thumb drive onto the glass table, clapping Tristan on the back with exaggerated pity. "Man. Never thought I’d see the day. You plowed through a runway show of women just to settle down in the municipal grass."

He tapped the drive. "Here. High-definition distraction material. Close your eyes, swap the faces in your head, and you’ll survive the marriage."

Tristan swatted the drive off the table without looking at it.

Preston was still scratching his head. "No, seriously, Drake. Give us the real story. You loved those last few girls like your life depended on it. Why Paige Nolan? Does she have dirt on you?"

Tristan shoved Preston away and leaned back into the leather sofa, downing half a glass of bourbon.

"Drop the conspiracy theories. I had my fun. I’m thirty, and I needed to settle down. Seven years she’s been following me around—I figured I’d give her the ending she wanted. Besides, her looks aside, my old man actually approves of her. She’s... quiet. She’s safe. Marrying her is simple."

Chad chuckled, shaking his head. "Smart bastard. You married an ornament to keep your family off your back so you can keep doing whatever you want."

Tristan stared into the amber liquid of his glass, swirling the ice. "Believe it or not..." he muttered, his voice dropping into an odd, contemplative register, "...I always felt like I was dating substitutes for her."

Someone coughed violently, spraying beer across the rug.

"Substitutes?!" Chad howled with laughter. "Drake, did she slip something into your drink? Kendall Wright was an absolute smoke-show, and you’re telling me she was a stand-in for Paige? Did your palate get fried from too much caviar, and now you crave tap water?"

Preston nodded eagerly. "Right? If you didn’t appreciate Kendall, you should’ve given me her number. I’d have treated her right."

Tristan knew it was pointless. He hurled a sofa pillow straight at Preston’s face and stood up.

"I’m not wasting my breath explaining anything to a bunch of shallow frat boys. I’m out." He adjusted his cufflinks. "I’ve got a wedding night to attend to with my plain little wife. Tomorrow, boys. None of you have ever seen her without makeup—let me be the brave explorer who solves that mystery."

He pulled open the heavy suite door and stepped into the quiet hallway.

A few yards down, near the grand staircase, a familiar silhouette stood with her back turned toward him.

Tristan swore under his breath. The past was never polite enough to stay buried, not even on your wedding night.