The Billionaire's Scandalous Fat Wife のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 1 - チャプター 6

Natasha's POV The cake was the first wrong thing. I saw it before I heard anything else — sitting on the dresser through the half-open bedroom door, twenty-two pink candles unlit, my name looped in careful icing. I'd told Ethan not to make a fuss. He'd promised something small. This was small. A cake, waiting in the dark, nobody around to light it. Then I heard the sound under the sound. Not the TV. Not music. Something with a rhythm to it, low and unhurried, coming from behind a door I'd walked through a hundred times without knocking. I told myself it was nothing three separate times before my hand reached the doorknob anyway. I wish it had been nothing. Ethan's back was to me, his hands fisted in dark hair that wasn't mine. The woman under him arched her spine the exact way I did — because we'd been arching our spines the exact same way since before either of us knew what a body was for. Same collarbone. Same laugh, currently being spent on someone else's ceiling.

Natasha's POV By nine that morning, the Hartwell Estate looked like something out of a magazine I'd never be able to afford a subscription to — white peonies cascading down a thousand feet of aisle, crystal catching the light like it had been personally instructed to. My work. Nobody would remember that by noon. I moved through it the way I always did on wedding days — present enough to fix a leaning centerpiece, invisible enough that nobody thanked me for it. Headset in, clipboard in hand, adjusting a runner three inches to the left because the photographer needed the angle. This was the version of myself I trusted. The one nobody looked at twice. I turned the corner toward the west corridor to check on the champagne delivery, and walked straight into a wall of cologne and heat. "Sorry, I didn't—" The words died. He looked at me first with the mild irritation of a man interrupted, and then his eyes actually landed, and something in his face went very, very still. I kne

Natasha's POV The ring wasn't mine. The smile wasn't either, not really — I'd practiced it in the car mirror on the way over, the exact curve that read as radiant instead of hostage. "Mr. Stone, Mrs. Stone — over here!" Cameras everywhere, a wall of them, flashing in a rhythm that made my eyes water if I looked at any one for too long. I'd rehearsed three lines. We're grateful for the support. We'd appreciate privacy as we begin our life together. Yes, it happened fast — when you know, you know. Safe. Rehearsed. Nothing true in any of it. Then a reporter near the back didn't ask a safe question. "Mrs. Stone, is it true your fiancé left you for your twin sister the same week you married Mr. Stone? How does that feel?" The room didn't go quiet so much as it sharpened, every lens angling toward my face like they could smell the crack before it opened. My mouth opened. Nothing came out. My rehearsed lines evaporated, and underneath them there was nothing — just the sound of Et