The Substitute Bride's Revenge

ARIA

“These can’t be right.”

I’m hunched over the quarterly reports, eyes burning. The numbers blur, but every column tells the same story—a downward spiral that started three years ago, right around the time Dad married Victoria Pierce.

I tuck a curl behind my ear, not noticing the ink I smear on my cheek. I run the numbers again, hoping they’ll magically change this time.

It’s late. The office emptied out hours ago. I’m twenty-four and somehow always the first one in and the last one out, trying to keep Dad’s legacy from collapsing under all this debt.

All those years grinding away at State for my business degree—on scholarship, unlike Vivian’s fancy private school—didn’t cover any of this. Nobody teaches you how to juggle bills, which creditors to charm, or when to just flat-out beg for more time.

My phone buzzes on the desk. I*******m. I open it without thinking.

Vivian’s face fills my screen, flawless as ever, holding up a champagne glass at the Met Gala. The caption: “Daddy’s princess at the social event of the season! #blessed #MetGala #oldmoney”

And there’s Dad in the background, laughing with a bunch of socialites, wearing a tux I’ve never seen. An event he never mentioned to me.

My throat tightens. I didn’t even know he was in New York.

The office phone rings, making me jump.

“Taylor Architectural, this is Aria.”

“Still working, dear? It’s nearly nine.” Victoria. Her voice is all fake concern, the kind she saves for an audience. “Your father and I are 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 glance at the mess of reports. “I have a lot of work to finish.”

“Robert insists,” she cuts in, suddenly all business. “Three o’clock. And Aria? Try to wear something… flattering. The Harringtons are important clients.”

She hangs up before I can respond.

Sunday shows up with that kind of brutal sunshine that makes every flaw stand out. I stare at myself in the mirror: black wrap dress, the most expensive thing I own, clinging in all the wrong places. I spend an hour fighting with my hair, trying to get it to look like Vivian’s, but eventually give up and just pull it into a ponytail.

The drive from my tiny apartment to the Pierce-Taylor mansion takes half an hour, but it feels like landing on another planet.

Where my childhood home used to be—full of my mom’s art and the smell of real food—there’s now this cold, white marble palace. Victoria’s style, not ours.

I park my beat-up Honda next to a row of luxury cars. Dad’s new Mercedes—his “business necessity,” Victoria called it—looks ridiculous next to mine.

A new housekeeper answers the door. Not Mrs. Finch, who practically raised me after Mom got sick. This woman barely glances at me, just tells me, “They’re on the terrace,” and ignores the pastries I brought.

Laughter and the clink of glasses float through the French doors. I hover in the doorway, suddenly super aware of my drugstore perfume and scuffed shoes.

“Aria! There you are.” Dad spots me and stands, smiling, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

He’s aged so much since the wedding—thinner, grayer. Only his eyes look the same as mine.

“Sorry I’m late,” I mumble, even though I’m right on time. “Traffic.”

“You’re here now.” He gives me a quick hug before moving back to Victoria’s side.

Victoria looks perfect, as always. Blonde bob, cream suit, not a wrinkle in sight. “Aria, darling. We were just talking about the Harrington contract. Such an opportunity for your father’s little company.”

Little company.

I bite my tongue at the way she describes what used to be the city’s top architectural firm.

“Where’s Vivian?” I ask, taking a glass of champagne from a server I don’t recognize.

“Running fashionably late, as always.” Victoria flashes that indulgent smile. “She’s bringing Xavier. They’ve been spending so much time together lately. The engagement announcement is basically a formality at this point.”

I nod and slide into a seat at the far end of the table. I’ve never met Xavier Harrington, but his reputation is enough—thirty, ruthless, and already behind three hostile takeovers of family businesses just this year.

Dad tries to loop me in. “Aria’s been working on the quarterly reports.”

Victoria’s smile goes tight. “How… dedicated. Though I’ve always said, Aria, with your… build… you should be careful about hunching over desks all day. Posture is everything.” She grabs a magazine from the side table, flipping it open like it’s nothing. “There’s this article about embracing your natural body type with the right clothes and, of course, proper nutrition.”

I glance down. The headline blares: “Transform Your Body: From Bulky to Beautiful in 30 Days.”

Dad manages a weak protest. “Victoria—”

“I’m only thinking of Aria’s health, Robert.” She pats his hand, all innocence. “Not everyone can be blessed with Vivian’s metabolism.”

Almost on cue, the terrace doors swing open and Vivian sweeps in. At twenty-three, she’s everything I’m not—willowy, blonde, and glowing in a white sundress that probably costs more than my rent.

“Sorry I’m late!” She air-kisses her mom and Dad. “Xavier had an emergency call with Tokyo. He sends his regrets.”

She turns to me with a smile that’s pure surface. “Aria! I didn’t know you were coming. How… nice.”

“I invited her.” For once, Dad’s voice has an edge.

“Of course you did, Daddy.” Vivian settles into the seat across from me, giving my dress a once-over that says plenty before she moves on. “Mother, you’ll never guess who I ran into at Elevation last night. The Worthingtons. They asked about you.”

And just like that, I disappear. The conversation flows around me—old family names, exclusive events, mutual connections. It’s a language I’ll never be fluent in.

I watch Dad through the meal. He barely touches his food, and every so often, his hand drifts to his chest when he thinks no one’s looking. The lines around his eyes are deeper than I remember. His shoulders seem to fold in on themselves.

Victoria’s voice snaps me back. “Aria, 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?” The word slips out before I can stop it.

Victoria laughs—sharp and brittle. “The marriage contract, darling. In families like the Harringtons and ours, these things are handled properly. Old money meets new money—it’s practically a fairy tale.”

“Congratulations.” I look at Vivian, but she barely flicks a manicured hand in acknowledgment.

“Xavier’s grandmother wants a June ceremony at their estate,” Vivian goes on. “Only three hundred guests. Intimate, for the Harringtons.”

Talk shifts to flowers and guest lists. I notice Dad wincing, his hand pressed to his sternum.

I lean in, keeping my voice low. “Dad? Are you okay?”

“Fine, fine.” He waves me off. “Just indigestion.”

But his eyes tell a different story. Pain, fear, and something else—something that looks a lot like giving up.

Three hours later, I find a fashion magazine on the passenger seat of my car. I know I didn’t put it there. Vivian’s on the cover, beaming from her latest modeling campaign. A yellow sticky note marks an article inside: “When Curves Become Concern: Health Risks of Excess Weight.”

Victoria’s perfect handwriting curls in the margin: Thought of you, dear. Just concerned about your health. —V

I crumple the note in my fist, tears stinging at the corners of my eyes as I start the engine.

In the rearview mirror, Victoria’s silhouette stands at an upstairs window, perfectly still and perfectly poised, watching me as the sun sets behind her.