Divorced and plus-size, I married my ex's husband's uncle

POV : Amelia "You can’t honestly think that dress works on you, Amelia," Diane said, her tone dripping with disdain. I stood motionless in front of the full-length mirror, my gaze fixed on my shoes. I smoothed my hands down the front of the oversized dress, feeling the rough weave of the fabric against my palms. “I thought it was nice,” I said softly, my voice barely louder than a whisper. “It’s comfortable.” Diane stepped into view in the mirror, her sleek hair pinned back tight. She pinched a stray strand of my hair between her manicured nails, tugged it once, and let it fall over my shoulder. “Comfortable is for sitting on the couch at home, not for an Ashworth family dinner,” my mother-in-law said, looking me up and down with cold disapproval. “Look at your waist. The fabric is bunching up. You look like a sack of laundry. Have you gained weight since last month? You know Victor’s business associates will be at this table. Have you taken a single word of my advice about your hair?” I swallowed hard, keeping my eyes locked on the cold marble floor. My mother had raised me to clean houses in wealthy neighborhoods without making a sound, and my time in the Ashworth family had taught me to absorb Diane’s quiet cruelties the exact same way—silent, small, and agreeable. “I’ll fix my hair before we go downstairs,” I said. “I’m sorry, Diane.” “Sorry doesn’t change the way you present yourself, Amelia,” she said, pulling a lint roller from her handbag and dragging it aggressively across my right shoulder. “Victor is the sole heir to Ashworth Global. People look at you and they judge him. Is that really what you want for your husband?” "No," I murmured, looking down at the marble floor. "I just wanted him to look good.” "Then act like it," she said, snapping her purse shut. "Fix your hair. Put on some lipstick so you don't look so pale. And if anyone asks, try to talk about something other than your little job—nobody cares to hear about paper samples.” She turned and walked down the hallway, her heels echoing against the marble floor until the door clicked shut behind her. I stood alone in the quiet room for a long minute, watching my breathing speed up in the mirror reflection. I pressed my fingers against the tiny scar along my hairline, hiding it beneath my bangs. Then I unbuttoned the top button of my collar, took a deep breath, and walked out into the hallway. "I needed Victor. I couldn't face hours of his mother tearing down everything about me across the dinner table. I just needed him to stand beside me for once and tell her I was enough.” I walked down the quiet hallway toward our master bedroom at the far end. The door was pulled close, but not entirely latched. A thin line of light stretched across the polished marble floor. “Victor?” I called out quietly, stopping a few feet away. “Are you nearly ready? Your mother is already downstairs.” Nobody answered. Instead, I heard a sharp laugh from inside. It wasn't Victor's laugh. It was higher, lighter, and completely familiar. It was Isabelle Rourke. I froze, my hand hovering right over the door handle as my chest tightened. “Stop it, Victor,” Isabelle’s voice drifted through the gap, followed by the rustle of sheets. “She’s going to come looking for you.” “She’s downstairs listening to my mother complain,” Victor replied, his voice calm and careless. “She won't come up here.” My fingers wrapped around the cold handle. I didn't think; I just pushed. The door swung open quietly. The bedside lamp was on, throwing a bright glow across the wood furniture. Victor sat on the edge of the large bed—the bed I had slept in every single night—with his dress shirt completely unbuttoned. Isabelle sat beside him, her silk dress pulled down over one shoulder and her hair tangled around her face. Her shoes were tossed carelessly onto the marble floor beside my nightstand. Both of them snapped their heads toward the doorway. Isabelle gasped, pulling the white sheet up over her chest instantly. Victor didn't jump. He just sat there, his eyes narrowing as he looked at me. “Amelia,” Victor said, his voice flat and unbothered. He didn't even rush to button his shirt. “You should have knocked.” I couldn't catch my breath. The room blurred as I stood frozen in the doorway. My mouth opened, but no sound came out. “Isabelle, get your things,” Victor said quietly, turning his shoulder to her. “Victor...” Isabelle whispered, her eyes wide as she scrambled to pick up her shoes from the marble floor. I swallowed hard and pointed a shaking hand at the bed. “You...” My voice cracked, barely a whisper. “You had to do this... here?” “Don't start a scene, Amelia,” Victor said, standing up calmly and tucking his shirt into his trousers. “We have guests downstairs soon. Go back to your room and fix your face. We will discuss this later.” My knees buckled underneath me. I slid down onto the cold marble floor, sitting there with my hands resting in my lap as my vision faded out.