They called me the ugly daughter, the one unworthy of love or legacy. Yet the night I showed up at a party, every eye froze on me — and the secrets they buried began to unravel.
I was born into a family where appearances were everything.
My father owned a luxury hotel empire.
My mother lived for charity galas and glossy magazine spreads. My two older sisters were the kind of women people stopped to stare at. Perfect hair.
Perfect bodies. Perfect smiles.
The daughter my mother introduced last.
The daughter photographers cropped out of family pictures.
The daughter whispered about in corners.
The daughter people thought would never find a husband.
“At least she’s smart.”
“Not every girl can be beautiful.”
“She should be grateful if anyone wants her.”
I wore glasses and loved books more than parties.
I’ve always dreamt of sketching dresses instead of attending banquets.
My father kept me behind a computer, working behind the scenes while my sisters attended events.
My mother called me the ugly daughter.
My sisters laughed behind my back.
He was 45, ten years older than me.
A wealthy man who became a widower too early.
An old friend of my father, one with whom he constantly did business.
My parents didn’t ask if I was attracted to him or if I wanted a husband.
“You can’t just do this to me. It’s MY life,” I told them one evening.
“We absolutely can,” my father said. “You should be thankful Victor even agreed to marry you.”
Three months later, I became his wife.
The wedding was grand. After all, Victor was the Chief Executive Officer of a multinational company.
Important people attended: politicians, businessmen, media, and celebrities.
I ditched my glasses for contact lenses that day.
My brunette hair curled neatly, falling to my shoulders. My white silk wedding gown accented my features.
“Careful, Cinderella. Your makeup might wear off at midnight,” one of my older sisters teased.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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