The Face He Married

Not the Darians.” My voice drifted. My body vibrated. My reflection watched as I shook with anxiety. Nails cut half-moons into my palms. Marrying Michael Darian is the last thing I would ever do. I gripped my head like it might split open. Mom blocked the doorway. “Ariana, you’re beautiful—” Her words sounded rehearsed. Her eyes were a still ocean. You have to be kidding me. I ached to say it. “You don’t have to try to make me feel better. I’m not twelve anymore, Mom.” The words slipped out faster than I expected. Mrs. Brooks—my mom—paused. Her jaw tightened. A line creased her forehead. Anger? Or was she killing the motherly instinct. The care. Sympathy. “Ariana—” She walked toward me. Stopped a foot behind me. Ran her hands through my blond hair as she spoke. She grabbed my chin gently from behind. “You’re grown now. We all grow to be responsible. And this marriage alliance—” “What about me?” The words spilled out. “It’s always about the company, the family. Do I ever get to matter?” Mrs. Brooks let go of my chin. I felt her hot breath on my ear as she leaned in. “Ariana, this marriage alliance must hold. Pull yourself together. Let’s get Brooks Corporation moving.” Her words sounded like a verdict as she turned to leave. And I sat in it. My shoulders dropped first. The effort of holding them up just… stops. Like someone unhooked them. They fall inward, caving my chest with them. My gaze drifts to the lower drawer. A tiny grin escapes my lips. I open it and pull out the foundation, then concealer. Setting spray. Contact lenses. I’d never be called an ugly label again. If I could survive this cold, ruthless CEO. I dabbed foundation on my skin. Light. Playful. Like a kid with finger paint. I actually laughed. Green corrector first. I watched the red slowly disappear. Port-wine stain. That’s what the dermatologist called it at twelve. “Vascular birthmark,” he’d said. Like naming it would hurt less. It covered my left temple, swept down my cheekbone, stopped above my jaw. Not quite to my lips. Small mercies. Then foundation. Full coverage. The kind used for film. Then concealer. Setting powder. Another layer of foundation because the first wasn’t enough. Never enough. I built a person. A stranger named Ariana Darian. Pretty. Flawless. Lovable. A typical Michael Darian standard. Days turned into weeks, then months. The wedding day arrived. I’d cried myself to sleep the night before. This morning my body felt drowned. My fingers stiffened. The port-wine stain stung beneath my skin. Still in bed, I watched Brenda walk in. My little sister. Seven years younger. “Ariana.” “Ariana.” She jumped on me, bursting into tears. “Please don’t go-oo. You won’t leave me, will you?” “Brenda, it’s the right thing to do.” Her eyes scanned my face. She saw the shadows under them. “But you don’t love him, do you?” I looked away. Brenda never let things go. “I don’t yet. But that doesn’t make him or our parents bad people.” “Then why are you not happy… it’s your big day, isn’t it?” I had no answer. I didn’t sign up for this. I hugged her and ran my hands through her hair. What a cutie she is. “Mom said the stylist is waiting in the dressing room.” Her voice lit up again. She pulled free. I caught her hand and tickled her. “Look who’s on time to deliver a message.” Brenda giggled and ran away. Now I’m alone. No time to reflect. Time to doll up to Michael Darian standard. The hall glittered. Chandelier light spilled across the marble floor, making it glow cold as his office. White roses choked every crystal vase. Gold leaf curled around each archway. Guests murmured in silk and diamonds. The string quartet played something classical and expensive. It looked like a fairytale. Felt like my funeral. I stood at the entrance to the aisle. My father should have walked me down. He’d bailed. “Nerves,” my mother said. “Blood pressure.” We both knew the truth. He couldn’t look at me. Hadn’t since I was sixteen. So I walked alone. Each step was a descent into hell. Three hundred people. Three hundred pairs of eyes. All on me. On the mask. I knew Michael Darian. Better than any of these smiling faces. Michael Darian was ice. Ruthless. The whole city knew it: zero tolerance for ugly women. His website only featured models. His assistants were Miss America runner-ups. He’d once fired a VP for gaining fifteen pounds after maternity leave. “Image is everything,” he’d told Forbes. My first meeting with him two years ago killed whatever scraps of self-esteem I had. I’d been twenty-one. Sent by my father to pitch a joint venture. I’d waited hours outside his office until his secretary ushered me in at 6:47 PM. He hated wasted time. Michael’s first glance made me feel like a beggar. Filthy. Unwanted. His gaze did a full-body scan and stopped at my birthmark. The one I’d tried to cover with drugstore concealer. It wasn’t enough. Never enough. Then his voice cut through the room, sharp as glass: “What’s this—get this thing out of here!” The scar on my skin burned. But his words burned worse. “Tell Brooks Corporation,” he sneered, “I want pretty faces on my floor. Not warning labels.” Warning label. He’d said it like I was defective. Like I might contaminate his building just by breathing. He felt no remorse. He’d gone back to his emails before security reached me. But here he was now. Standing at the altar. Grinning. Beaming. Eyes locked on the lie I’d spent four hours creating. He lifted the veil. “You're beautiful,” Michael whispered. His voice was velvet now. Warm. He bent to kiss me. Mom sucked in a breath. Her hand flew to her chest. Her expression made me wonder what Michael’s reaction would be when he finally saw me without makeup. A second passed. Then her shoulders dropped. She let out a short, stunned chuckle. “That’s my girl,” she said, louder than she meant to. “That’s my girl.” Mom’s eyes shone. She glanced to the empty chair in the front row, then back at me. “Your father—” She shook her head, lips pressed tight to trap a bigger smile. “He’s missing one hell of a sight.” My birthmark stung beneath the beautiful mask. Maybe it hadn’t gotten used to being called pretty. Maybe it never would. It pulsed under the foundation like a second heartbeat. Like it knew I was erasing it. The priest declared us husband and wife. Friends erupted. Cheers. Applause. Rice stung my shoulders. Cameras flashed. I was the only one drowning in anxiety. I knew this was wrong. Tricking Michael Darian was wrong. Fraud, legally. Annulment grounds, definitely. Career suicide for my family, absolutely. But letting him call me a warning label again? In front of three hundred people? While my father’s company collapsed? I wouldn’t do it. Not again. Not if I could hide long enough to figure out how to survive him.