Divorced and Disfigured, Now Married to a Zillionaire

Lilly, 25

“I can't. I just can't.” 

I let out a jagged, muffled protest as my eyes hit the stage. Why had my mother brought me here, forcing me into these ridiculous maid clothes? She had promised me a surprise, and my foolish heart had actually dared to hope that I finally mattered to her.

“You can’t?” She groaned. She released the handles of the wheelchair I was sitting in and marched around to face me. I instantly recognized the familiar glint of pure hatred and displeasure in her eyes. “Did you just say you can’t?” She repeated, then turned toward my husband, Victor, who stood near the entrance with his hands in his pockets and an unreadable expression on his face. “I told you, Victor. She is useless. All she knows how to do in that wheelchair is sit all day and play a pathetic wife to a man meant for her sister.”

For two years, ever since I was forced to marry Victor in place of my twin sister, who lay in a coma, I had been trapped. To save face for the family, I was coerced into taking over her life to keep her legacy alive.

My sister, Alina, was an actress and a public figure loved by everyone. She was outspoken; I was the opposite. She loved math and fame; I would have preferred music and a quiet life in the countryside.

Where she was beautiful and confident, I was not. The accident two years ago snatched everything I loved away from me. My life. My career as a ballerina. 

My leg.

Since I was six, I had worn an ugly mask to hide the deadly scar on my right cheek. I was never loved, and people would never look at me twice.

I bowed my head, fighting the tears that threatened to spill. “Mother, you know I don't love the spotlight.”

“Don't be selfish, Liliana!” Victor’s husky voice commanded, and I flinched. Victor McCallum had been my husband for two years. Before I had the chance to heal from the accident that took my leg, I was pushed into the marriage, with nearly everyone watching me with disgust.

“Your sister lies on that bed in the hospital, and the least you could do after everything is help her career. You are not shy. Tell me, how can you be a ballerina and be too shy to play a maid in a drama?”

I raised my head. Victor’s blue eyes and the perfect picture of his composure usually calmed me. “I… I am not good.”

"Nonsense!" Mother barked. "You accepted those five roles easily enough. How can you say no to this?"

Accepted? I barely appeared in them. Mother was hell-bent on keeping Alina’s legacy alive while she remained in that vegetative state, but she seemed content to bury me in the process. My "acting career" was a catalog of indignities.

 Once, I played an invisible singer. The second time, I played a boutique mannequin because there weren't enough ones. Then I was a historical object that wasn't even glanced at in a museum, and lastly, I played a freaking crippled zombie that the camera only caught for a second.

Despite all of this, I remained a ghost. Completely unnoticed.

And now, I was sitting in the wings of one of the biggest theaters in Los Angeles, with thousands of eyes waiting to dissect my performance.

I opened my mouth to protest, but stopped. They wouldn't listen.

The producer stepped forward, barely sparing me a glance. “I hope she’s as talented as you promised. I had to let the original cast go to make room for her.”

My eyes widened. Mother had claimed they needed a disabled actress and had sought me out, but this sounded like a forced replacement. Had she set this up? Was she trying to sabotage me on the biggest stage possible?

Before I could confront her, the producer turned his gaze toward me. “I trust you’ve memorized your lines. Get moving. You didn't think I’d push that wheelchair for you, did you?”

Memorized? 

Memorized what?

***

It was a disaster.

Not only was I hated and pushed out by the crew for costing them money, but I was also blamed for not catching up on my role. It became an internet sensation.

The humiliation was detailed. I was hiding in the kitchen as usual, washing the dishes, my mind in total pain as I remembered the look on Victor's face. 

Mother had even left me to find my own way home, stating she would not be associated with a failure.

I couldn't even cry. Why were they doing this to me? It was enough that I couldn't work or show my face without being laughed at or ridiculed. 

I picked up one of the plates from my lap to place it in the dishwasher when Dorcas, our head house help, screamed and jolted, just as a half-broken plate fell from the stack I held.

“Watch out, Mrs. McCallum!”

I stumbled back as the sound of the plate crashing to the floor echoed through the room. I gasped as the remaining half of the plate stayed in my hand, and terror washed through me as the realization hit. 

Margaret. Those were her favorite dishes.

“What in the world did that despicable, disfigured, crippled creature destroy again?” That was Margaret's disdainful voice. My hostile mother-in-law.

I jerked back. God, just when I thought I was out of trouble for the day.

Dorcas ran to me but stopped abruptly when Margaret and Harper, her younger daughter, walked into the room, scanning the piece in my hand and the broken one on the floor.

“You broke yet another plate? What in the universe is wrong with you? Are you this useless, that you just can't get anything right?” Margaret fired, her eyes burning with disdain. I coiled back, attempting an apology, when Harper moved closer. 

The glint in her eyes told me all I needed to know. She had done this. She had somehow split the plate into two and made me take the blame.

“Isn't that mother's favorite vintage ceramic from Milan? The one she bought at the auction for five hundred thousand dollars?”

She had done this. A calculated move from Harper. 

God.

“She wouldn't dare.” Margaret’s teeth gritted as she walked toward me, taking the other half from me and examining it. She looked back at me, then at Harper, her eyes turning red.

“You miserable barren!”

“Mother, I promise I didn't break this. It was already split into two and the half fell.”

A sharp, resounding slap landed on my cheek, snapping my head to the side. Dorcas flinched, and I fell backward, tumbling from the wheelchair at the impact of the hit.

“How dare you? How dare your little broken and useless self dare to lie to my face? Who do you think you are?”

Tears welled up as I scrambled to get onto my feet, my eyes stinging from the impact. I bowed my head, pathetically hating my life.

“I am sorry. I am—”

“Shut up now. I am going to design this piece on your other face.” Margaret shouted. “What good is it, anyways? Till you die, you will always remain unwanted and ugly. Even your own mother despises you. Your hatred and burning jealousy for your sister kept her in that hospital.”

Margaret grabbed my face, her fingers curling around my neck while I struggled, wheezing and crying. “I will make you regret ever being born.”

Her hands were nearly touching my unmasked face when Victor's cold voice stopped her.

“What is going on here, Mother?”

I looked up, gratitude filling me at his timely presence. He had saved me. Even if he never showed it, I always knew he loved me. He was only keeping it cool for my sister's sake.

“Your stinking wife broke my vintage ceramic!” Margaret shouted. “God, can she be gone already? I hate her here. Tell her to pick up that piece and stitch them together, or I shall decorate her other ugly face with the other piece!”

Margaret stormed out, but not before Harper’s smile broadened. She stuck her tongue out at me.

When she left too, I raised my head to see him watching me with an emotionless gaze.

“Do as Mother says quickly and come meet me in the car. It's time to go give your sister blood.” He replied nonchalantly, then added before leaving. “Don't use the whole day there and enough of breaking things in this house. The next you destroy might be your last.”