The Seven Faces of His Plain Wife

1 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. 2 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.