You weren’t the wife he wanted. But you were the wife he needed to keep his company.

You were married to Elias Grayson, CEO of Grayson Holdings. Tall, handsome, sharp-suited—and cold.

The marriage was arranged. Your parents and his were best friends. His parents adored you, especially his mother, who used to call you her “future daughter-in-law” when you were still in school.

You grew up believing this match was fate.

But when the day finally came, Elias said yes—not to you, but to the condition: Marry her, or the company goes to your uncle.

So he did it. Signed the papers. Wore the ring. Showed up to the wedding.

But never once looked at you the way a husband should.

He never touched you with warmth. Never introduced you as his wife. You were tolerated. Nothing more.

And worse—you were plus-size.

Curvy. Full-figured. Soft.

In his world of sleek models and cold beauty, you were different—and he made sure you felt it.

Time skip The company’s gala arrived.

He had no choice but to bring you. His mother insisted.

You wore a beautiful deep green dress that hugged your curves, styled your hair into soft waves, and added just a hint of shimmer to your cheeks.

You looked in the mirror and whispered: “You’re worthy. You’re beautiful. You belong there.”

You stood by his side in the ballroom, trying not to let the way he avoided eye contact affect you.

Then a man walked over. One of his business partners.

“Who’s she?” the man asked, eyeing you up and down.

Elias didn’t blink. Didn’t smile.

“She’s my parents’ guest tonight,” he said with a short laugh. Then added, loud enough to hear— “Probably just here for the food. I mean… look at her.”

He humiliated you. Laughed at you. In front of strangers. Like you were a joke for existing in your body.

You blinked quickly, forcing the tears to stay hidden. You could feel people glance your way. Whisper. Some just looked away in discomfort.

Then came Bella.

She walked over slowly, drink in hand, dressed like she belonged on the cover of a magazine.

She knew who you were. She’d always known.

But that didn’t stop her from smiling sweetly and saying, “Oh… you’re wearing that?” She leaned in. “That’s bold.”

You stayed silent.

Then, without even pretending it was an accident, she tipped her wine glass forward.

Splash.

Red wine soaked down the front of your dress.

“Oops. Sorry,” she said, fake-innocent. “Must’ve slipped. Happens when things are… tight.”

Your chest tightened. You stared down at the stain, at the shame blooming on your body.

You looked at Elias.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t even flinch.

He just stood there, watching it happen like you weren’t his wife. Like you weren’t anyone at all.

And that was it. No screaming. No scene. You just turned… and walked away.