Part 2The Seven Faces of His Plain Wife

Hearing his footsteps, Kendall turned around slowly.

"Tristan."

Tristan stopped, exhaling a slow, measured breath. "I’m married, Kendall. What are you doing here?"

Kendall’s doe-like eyes shimmered with unshed tears. She stepped forward, reaching out to wrap her arms around his forearm just as she always used to.

"I came to see you. Is that so crazy?" Her voice trembled with practiced vulnerability. "You decided to get married out of nowhere and blew up our life! I have withdrawal, Tristan. I have separation anxiety. You owe me closure! At least give me one more month."

Tristan looked down at the woman who had accepted a hefty wire transfer upon their breakup, only to show up at his wedding reception demanding an extension.

"Kendall, let’s be honest," he said, his tone flat. "You weren't any different from the six girls before you. Every time I looked at you, my brain just assigned you a number in line. Let’s not waste each other's time."

Kendall froze. Her eyes went impossibly wide, as if his words hadn't just stung, but obliterated her entire framework of reality.

She pointed a manicured finger at her own sculptured cheekbone, her voice cracking on a high, disbelieving note.

"You’re saying... my face is no different from the six girls before me?!"

Tristan frowned, startled by the strange, hysterical focus of her outrage. He hadn't meant to trigger a full mental breakdown; he just wanted her gone.

"I mean it was casual," he said, softening his tone slightly in an attempt to de-escalate. "Maybe you think you're unique, but to me, the routine was always the same. You understand what I'm saying?"

Kendall stared at him, her brows knit in profound, rapid calculation. Tears threatened to spill over her lower lashes.

"Then... can you keep playing the routine with me?" she whispered. "Just short-term?"

Tristan’s eyebrow twitched. "I just took vows, Kendall. Go home. Find a new hobby."

He turned on his heel to walk away.

Behind him, Kendall called out, sharp and desperate: "Tristan, I don't get you! Your wife is hideous. She spent seven years trailing after you like a shadow, and you’d rather date seven beautiful women than look at her once. What is this—some sudden moral awakening? Do you pity her? Or am I just not pretty enough for you anymore?"

Tristan’s steps halted. When he turned around, all trace of casual detachment was gone. His eyes were cold flint.

"I’m tired of the circus. That’s all the explanation you get," he said quietly. "And watch your tone. She’s my wife now. Whether she’s a ten or a two is none of your business, and it sure as hell has nothing to do with you."

Kendall stood motionless under the sconce lighting.

She watched his broad shoulders disappear around the corridor, her gaze dropping to the plush carpet.

Whether she’s pretty or plain doesn't matter.

She gave a tiny, bitter internal smirk.

What if she’s both?

When Tristan unlocked the front door of the penthouse, the foyer lights were blazing.

"Why’d you leave the venue so early?" he called out, loosening his tie. "You know we share a car now, right?"

Inside the master bathroom, I was engaged in an Olympic-level sprint.

Bottles and jars were strewn across the marble counter. Three coats of full-coverage foundation, aggressive swathes of garish eyeshadow, light hazel lenses, and a fine-tipped brown pencil frantically dotting fake freckles and blemishes across my nose and cheeks.

When Tristan walked into the bedroom, he stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the horror show in front of the vanity.

"Paige," he said, sounding genuinely baffled. "It’s midnight. Why the hell are you painting yourself like a drag queen on an off night?"

I swept one final, aggressive brush of translucent powder across my forehead before dropping my hands.

Turning on the stool, I lifted my chin, going on the offensive before he could inspect me too closely.

"What were you talking about with your ex at the venue doors? Rekindling old flames, or a tearful farewell? If you couldn't bear to let her go, you should've stayed behind to comfort her. You dump women so fast, aren't you worried one of them will do something drastic?"

Tristan’s scowl deepened with every word.

"What are you talking about? You think I should have spent more time talking to her? I’m married to you. Why would I comfort an ex?"

I sneered internally.

Men. Their self-righteousness was almost poetic.

Always looking for the next novelty—even my Version 7.0 couldn't hold his attention for more than four months!

I rolled my eyes, gathered a spare duvet from the closet, and made a beeline for the guest room.

Tristan’s hand shot out, catching my wrist with a firm grip.

"Where do you think you’re going? You sleep here."

I looked at him like he had grown a second head, pointing to my face. "Are you sure? I’m not taking off my makeup."

"Even an ogre takes off her makeup before bed," he snapped, exasperated. "You're my wife now. I don't care how bad your skin looks underneath, but sleeping in that toxic sludge is going to ruin it. Go wash your face."

I let out an exhausted breath.

Wash my face?

If I washed my face, the entire seven-year operation went up in smoke!

The moment he saw that his plain, loyal little wife had the exact same face as Kendall Wright—the woman he’d broken up with two weeks ago—what was I supposed to say? That we were long-lost twins?

He wasn't an idiot.

My stomach twisted into knots. I needed at least one more persona, one more solid breakup settlement, to finally secure the nest egg I needed to disappear comfortably for the rest of my life. Every single cent of the previous seven settlements had been funneled straight back into private surgical clinics and revision procedures!

Greed and ambition—truly the twin architects of my ruin.

I had assumed marrying him would buy me peace. He’d start an affair with my upcoming new persona, I’d spend my recovery phases tucked away in this quiet penthouse pretending to be the neglected wife, and once he got bored, I’d take my divorce payout and vanish.

How was I supposed to know his tastes had taken a sudden turn toward the ascetic? Beautiful or hideous, he was suddenly determined to look.

Defeated, I dropped the duvet, gathered my cleanser, and retreated into the master bath, locking the door firmly behind me.

"Fine! I'll wash it!"

The second the lock clicked, I pulled out my burner phone, switched to Kendall’s private account, and sent Tristan a message:

Tristan, I’m waiting downstairs outside your building. Can we just talk this through properly before it’s over? I was out of line earlier, I'm sorry.