The Substitute Bride's Revenge

"These can't be right."

Aria hunched over the quarterly reports, the numbers swimming before her eyes. Each column told the same story—a downward spiral that had begun years ago, almost to the day her father had married Victoria Pierce.

She tucked a strand of dark curls behind her ear. Her fingers left a smudge of ink on her cheek, unnoticed as she recalculated the figures for the third time.

The office around her had emptied hours ago. At twenty-four, Aria was often the first to arrive and the last to leave, desperately trying to keep her father's legacy from crumbling beneath the weight of mounting debt.

The business degree she'd worked so hard for at State University—scholarship-funded, unlike Vivian's designer education was being put to use in ways her professors had never covered: how to stretch payments, which creditors to prioritize, when to beg for extensions.

Her phone vibrated on the desk. A notification from I*******m. Without thinking, she tapped it open.

Vivian Pierce's perfect face filled the screen. She was raising a champagne flute against the backdrop of the Metropolitan Museum gala.

The caption read: "Daddy's princess at the social event of the season! #blessed #MetGala #oldmoney"

In the background, partially obscured but unmistakable, stood Robert Taylor, Aria's father in a tuxedo she'd never seen before, laughing with a group of socialites. An event he'd never mentioned to his daughter.

Aria's throat tightened. She hadn't even known he was in New York.

The office phone rang, startling her from the momentary pain.

"Taylor Architectural, this is Aria speaking."

"Still working, dear? It's nearly nine." Victoria's voice dripped with artificial concern, the kind reserved for public performances. "Your father and I were wondering if you'd join us for Sunday dinner this weekend. Vivian will be bringing Xavier Harrington. It would be... nice... to have you there too."

An afterthought. Always an afterthought.

"I have a lot of work to finish here," Aria replied, glancing at the dismal reports.

"Robert insists," Victoria said, the concern evaporating. "Three o'clock. And Aria? Do try to wear something... flattering. The Harringtons are important clients."

With that, the line went dead before Aria could respond.

Sunday arrived with merciless sunshine that exposed every imperfection in Aria's appearance as she studied herself in the mirror.

The black wrap dress… the most expensive item in her wardrobe clung to her curves in ways fashion magazines would never approve. She'd spent an hour attempting to tame her thick hair into something resembling Vivian's effortless waves, only to surrender to a simple ponytail.

The drive from her modest apartment to the Pierce-Taylor mansion in the hills took thirty minutes but transported her to another world.

Where once her childhood home had stood, a comfortable, lived-in house filled with her mother's paintings and the smell of home-cooked meals now rose a monument to Victoria's taste: all white marble, glass, and cold elegance.

Aria parked her aging Honda beside a row of luxury vehicles, including her father's new Mercedes—a "business necessity," Victoria had explained when Aria questioned the extravagance amid the company's financial troubles.

There were new housekeepers. Not Mrs. Finch, who had helped raise Aria after her mother fell ill, but someone new and unfamiliar opened the door with indifference.

"They're on the terrace," she said, not bothering to take Aria's modest hostess gift of store-bought pastries.

Voices drifted through the open French doors: laughter, the clink of expensive crystal, the unmistakable cadence of people performing wealth for each other.

Aria hesitated at the threshold, suddenly aware of her drugstore perfume and scuffed shoes.

"Aria! There you are." Her father spotted her first, rising from his seat with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Robert Taylor had aged a decade in three years, his once robust frame now thin, his complexion gray beneath his tan. Only his eyes remained the same—the exact shade of brown as Aria's own.

"Sorry I'm late," she said, though she was precisely on time. "Traffic."

"You're here now," he replied, embracing her briefly before returning to his seat beside Victoria.

Victoria Pierce-Taylor, at forty-five, looked thirty-five through sheer force of will and expensive cosmetic procedures. Her blonde hair fell in a perfect bob, her cream suit unwrinkled despite the heat. "Aria, darling. We were just discussing the Harrington contract. Such an opportunity for your father's little company."

Aria bit her tongue at the diminutive description of what had once been the city's premier architectural firm.

"Where's Vivian?" she asked, accepting a glass of champagne from a server she didn't recognize.

"Running fashionably late, as always," Victoria smiled indulgently. "She's bringing Xavier. They've been spending quite a lot of time together. The engagement announcement is practically a formality at this point."

Aria nodded, taking a seat at the far end of the table. She'd never met Xavier Harrington, but his reputation preceded him. Thirty, ruthless, and responsible for the hostile takeover of at least three family businesses in the past year alone.

"Aria has been working on the quarterly reports," her father said in a desperate attempt at including her in the conversation.

Victoria's smile tightened. "How... dedicated. Though I've always said, Aria, that with your... build... you should be careful about hunching over desks all day. Posture is everything." She reached for a magazine on the side table, flipping it open casually. "There's a fascinating article here about embracing your natural body type through strategic dressing and, of course, proper nutrition."

Aria glanced down at the open page: "Transform Your Body: From Bulky to Beautiful in 30 Days."

"Victoria," her father murmured in a token protest.

"I'm only thinking of Aria's health, Robert," Victoria replied, patting his hand. "Not everyone can be blessed with Vivian's metabolism."

As if summoned by her name, the terrace doors flew open, and Vivian made her entrance.

At twenty-three, she was everything Aria was not—willowy, blonde, and effortlessly glamorous in a white sundress that probably cost more than Aria's monthly rent.

"Sorry I'm late!" she trilled, air-kissing her mother and Robert. "Xavier had an emergency call with Tokyo. He sends his regrets."

She turned to Aria with a smile that never reached her eyes. "Aria! I didn't know you were joining us. How... nice."

"I invited her," Robert said, his voice carrying a rare note of firmness.

"Of course you did, Daddy," Vivian replied, taking the seat opposite Aria.

Her gaze swept over Aria's dress, lingering just long enough to make her point before turning away. "Mother, you'll never guess who I saw at Elevation last night. The entire Worthington family. They asked about you."

And just like that, Aria became invisible. The conversation flowed around her like water around a stone. Old family names, exclusive events, mutual connections… a language she would never speak fluently.

She watched her father throughout the meal, noticing how he picked at his food, how his hand occasionally drifted to his chest when he thought no one was looking.

When had the lines around his eyes deepened so dramatically? When had his shoulders begun to stoop?

"Aria," Victoria's voice cut through her thoughts. "Vivian was just sharing the wonderful news. The Harrington-Pierce wedding will be the social event of the year. The contract is being finalized this week."

"Contract?" Aria echoed.

Victoria's laugh tinkled like breaking glass. "The marriage contract, darling. In families like the Harringtons and ours, these things are handled properly. Old money meeting new money—it's practically a fairy tale."

"Congratulations," Aria said to Vivian, who barely acknowledged the word with a flick of her manicured hand.

"Xavier's grandmother is insisting on a June ceremony at their estate," Vivian continued. "Only three hundred guests. Intimate, by Harrington standards."

As the conversation drifted to flower arrangements and guest lists, Aria caught her father wincing with his hand pressing against his sternum.

"Dad?" she asked quietly. "Are you okay?"

"Fine, fine," he muttered. "Just indigestion."

But his eyes told a different story. One of pain, fear, and something else. Something that looked unsettlingly like resignation.

When Aria left three hours later, she found a fashion magazine in the passenger seat of her car. She hadn't put it there. The cover featured a smiling Vivian from her latest modeling campaign, and a yellow sticky note marked an article inside: "When Curves Become Concern: Health Risks of Excess Weight."

Victoria's elegant handwriting adorned the margin: "Thought of you, dear. Just concerned about your health. —V"

Aria crumpled the note in her fist, tears burning behind her eyes as she started the engine.

In the rearview mirror, she could see Victoria watching from an upstairs window, her silhouette perfect and predatory against the dying light.