Never Choose the Beauty
“You owe him this,” she spat. “His shattered leg, his dead parents—it’s your fault.”
Within days, my sister jumped to her death, my father was imprisoned, and Isabelle took over my empire. I died on the ninth day, hearing her laugh as she handed my fortune to Julian.
Reborn at the ceremony, I bypassed Isabelle and chose Seraphina Vance—the disfigured “madwoman” everyone feared. Later, it was Isabelle who knelt madly before that same cage, beating her head against the bars.
1
Before a lavish, long table, a dozen men in bespoke suits sat in stern silence. The elders of our Circle.
My father, at the head of the table, gave me a warm, encouraging smile. "Asher, it's time to choose. These uncles and family friends are all eager to see you settled."
On the table lay an array of ivory tokens, each engraved with the name of a daughter from a prominent family.
Only one token, tucked away in a corner, looked as if it had never been touched, its ivory yellowed with neglect.
My gaze fell upon it. Seraphina Vance.
The name was a curse whispered in the gilded halls of the city's elite. The madwoman. The pariah.
Rumor had it she'd set the fire that killed her mother, a blaze that had left her scarred and her left leg permanently damaged. The Vance family hadn't even sent a proper elder, just a distant cousin to represent her name in the selection.
But I remembered. I remembered being trapped in that cage, the sycophantic smiles of these same men turning to cold amusement as they snapped photos of my humiliation.
Only Seraphina, in the final moments before I died, had slipped through the guards. She had brought a clean handkerchief and gently wiped the blood and grime from my face.
My hand shot out, my fingers closing around the faded token without a hint of hesitation.
The room fell into a dead, suffocating silence.
My father’s face paled. "Asher! You—"
"I choose her," I said, my voice cutting through the quiet like steel.
My father stared at me, his eyes wide with disbelief, before collapsing back into his chair with a heavy sigh. "Fine! But if she ever dares to harm a single hair on your head..."
He didn't need to finish. Everyone in that room understood the weight of his unspoken threat.
As I left the hall, I ran straight into Isabelle and Julian.
Julian’s eyes were red-rimmed, his shoulders trembling as if he were bearing the weight of the world.
"Asher," he choked out, his voice thick with unshed tears. "I know you despise me, but my art studio… it was my life's work. Why did you have to destroy it?"
Isabelle’s gaze turned to ice. "Asher, did you have to be so cruel just to win my hand?"
I gave them a dismissive glance. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
I tried to walk past, but she grabbed my wrist, her grip surprisingly strong.
"Apologize! And you will pay for every penny of damage! Otherwise, you can forget about me ever stepping foot in the Grey family mansion!"
Julian quickly tugged at her arm. "Isabelle, don't! Asher, it's all my fault, all of it!" He looked at me, tears glistening in his eyes. "I'll get on my knees. Just please, give me back my studio."
His performance only fueled Isabelle's fury. "Apologize to Julian. His health is fragile—give him your private clinic. And twenty of the best nurses, a dedicated medical team, on call 24/7."
I ripped my arm from her grasp and let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Isabelle, are you delusional? You vastly overestimate your own importance."
"The token I chose… it wasn't yours."
A flicker of something unreadable crossed Julian’s face.
"What did you say?" Isabelle’s pupils contracted, then her lips twisted into a mocking smile. "Stop posturing. Are you really this jealous of the attention I give Julian?"
I couldn’t be bothered to argue. I turned and walked away, a wave of relief washing over me. This time, I was free. Free from the madness of Isabelle Thorne.
The next day, I went to my private art gallery, intending to select a painting as a welcoming gift for Seraphina.
But when I pushed open the heavy oak doors, I froze.
2
The walls were a shrine to Julian Reed. Portraits of him in every conceivable pose: dashing and confident, brooding and melancholic, a lazy, seductive smile playing on his lips. Each canvas was meticulously framed, gleaming under the gallery lights.
"Do you like them?" Isabelle's voice was a soft caress as she stroked the painted cheek of one of the portraits. "From now on, for every birthday, I'll give you the most special gift."
A faint blush colored the tips of Julian's ears. "Isabelle, you're too good to me. How can I ever repay you?" he murmured, leaning in to press a soft kiss to her lips.
The kiss deepened, turning desperate and hungry.
I rapped my knuckles sharply on the doorframe. They sprang apart, flustered.
Isabelle frowned. "What are you doing here?"
"My own gallery. Do I need to report to you to enter it?" A familiar tightness gripped my chest. It was here, in this very room, that I had once signed over the keys to my family's empire to this venomous woman.
A smirk played on her lips. "Why so hostile?" She let out a derisive scoff. "Asher, haven't you been trailing after me like a lost puppy since we were children? What is this, some new game? Playing hard to get?"
"Stop pretending," she said, her voice dripping with contempt. "You love me so much. You could never truly let me go."
"Security!" My voice was ice. "Get this trash—the paintings and the people—out of my sight!"
"Don't! Isabelle gave these to me!" Julian lunged for my arm, but the moment his fingers brushed my sleeve, he theatrically threw himself backward, stumbling into a glass coffee table. Shards of glass sliced into his calf, and blood began to well up.
"Asher!" Isabelle shrieked, shoving me with all her might.
I staggered back, crashing into a metal easel. A warm liquid trickled down my cheek, but I felt no pain.
Isabelle grabbed a can of paint thinner from a nearby cart and hurled its contents at me. "Asher! Are you insane?"
She helped a whimpering Julian to his feet and stormed out.
I knelt amidst the wreckage, a sudden, horrifying thought striking me. "My mother's painting… Spring Serenity… where is it?"
A trembling gallery assistant pointed to a corner. The painting, my mother's last gift to me, was completely defiled by streaks of crimson paint.
"Mom..." I whispered, clutching the ruined canvas. Tears mixed with the blood on my face, dripping onto the canvas.
Whir... whir...
The soft, rhythmic sound of a wheelchair approached.
I looked up. A figure sat at the edge of the light, half in shadow. A silver mask gleamed coldly, but it couldn't hide the slight tremble of her long lashes.
It was Seraphina.
"Don't be sad," she said, her gaze flickering from the gash on my forehead before quickly looking away.
"Ointment." She held out a small, pearlescent tube. Her fingers were long and elegant, but they curled inward as my eyes met hers. "It will scar otherwise."
I stared at the tube in my hand. Of course. The Vance family was a medical dynasty, their name synonymous with healing, their corporation holding a near-monopoly on the city's pharmaceutical industry.
As I took it, her fingertips brushed mine. She flinched as if burned and snatched her hand back.
"I know you were forced to choose me," she said, her voice a low, raspy whisper. Each word was spoken slowly, deliberately. "I will have the engagement annulled. You don't have to put yourself through this."
The wheels of her chair squeaked as she turned to leave.
"Wait!" I scrambled to my feet, blocking her path.
Her entire body went rigid. She averted her face, her posture screaming panic.
"I'm serious," I said, looking directly at her, willing her to see the truth in my eyes. "It was always you I chose."
Her fingers gripped the armrests of her wheelchair so tightly her knuckles turned white. Her ears flushed a deep, beautiful crimson.
After a long moment, she gave a tiny, almost inaudible nod. "Okay."
3
Seraphina sent over a trove of medicinal herbs and restorative tonics.
The cut on my forehead had already scabbed over. Each time I applied the soothing balm, the image of her crimson ears would flash in my mind, warming me from the inside out.
One afternoon, I was heading into a high-end boutique on Fifth Avenue when Julian’s cloying voice drifted out.
"Izzy, darling, I adore all of these suits!"
As he spoke, he idly fiddled with a cufflink, though his eyes kept darting toward the most expensive items in the showroom.
Isabelle’s tone was pure indulgence. "If you like them, take them all. Put it on Asher's tab."
I stepped through the door with a cold smile.
Seeing me, Isabelle showed no guilt, only lifting her chin in defiance. "You hurt Julian the other day. Consider this your apology."
Suddenly, Julian’s eyes landed on the trench coat I was wearing. They lit up. "Isabelle, that coat Asher has on… I want one too."
The store manager looked uncomfortable. "My apologies, sir, but that piece is a limited edition. Mr. Grey placed his reservation for it six months ago."
Julian’s face fell instantly. "Oh, never mind then…" he sighed. "Someone like me, from a simple background… I could never deserve something so fine." As he spoke, he subconsciously rubbed his left calf, the very spot he'd "accidentally" injured at the gallery.
Isabelle’s heart melted. She turned to me, her voice now a sharp command. "Asher, your closet is overflowing. Give him the coat."
I laughed. "And why should I?"
"As compensation," she hissed under her breath. "That push you gave him at the gallery? He was in pain for two weeks."
Before I could retort, Julian let out a pained gasp.
Isabelle was at his side in an instant. "What is it? Is it hurting again?"
"It's nothing…" he said weakly, shaking his head, though beads of sweat were already forming on his brow.
Isabelle’s eyes hardened into daggers. "Asher. Give him the coat."
I turned to my bodyguards at the door. "Please escort these two out."
But the two men, men my father had hired, merely hesitated. "Mr. Grey, sir, you'll be marrying Miss Thorne soon. Perhaps it's best to just listen to her…"
Before I could process their betrayal, Isabelle gave a subtle nod. In a flash, the bodyguards seized my arms, twisting them behind my back and forcing me to my knees on the cold marble floor.
"Strip it off him!" Isabelle’s voice rang out from above me.
The store staff froze, horrified. Isabelle scoffed. "He's been chasing me for years. Once we're married, what's his is mine. Now do it."
A trembling salesman stepped forward and undid the buttons of my coat.
As the fabric was torn from my shoulders, my hands clenched into fists, my knuckles turning white.
Isabelle draped the coat over Julian’s shoulders. "It looks much better on you, my dear," she cooed.
Julian bit his lip. "But... won't Asher be angry?"
Isabelle pulled out her phone and, aiming it at my disheveled form, snapped several photos. "Asher, if you dare cause Julian any more trouble, I'll make sure the whole world sees you like this."
"Isabelle," I ground out, my voice dangerously low. "You are truly disgusting."
The memories of my past life surged, her sneering face overlapping with the one before me now.
One of the staff, unable to watch any longer, quietly handed me a spare jacket.
I threw it on and stormed out of the store.
When my father saw my state, he shattered his teacup against the wall in a blind rage. "That Thorne girl dares to treat you this way?! I'm going to their family right now and demand an explanation!"
"Dad, calm down," I said, wiping the sweat from my brow. "I have a way to handle them. But first, let's deal with those traitors."
A week before the wedding, I went to the cemetery alone.
"Mom, I won't make the same mistake again."
My phone buzzed. An urgent notification from my bank. My private $50 million trust fund had been completely emptied.
4
I immediately called my assistant.
"Sir, someone forged your signature and transferred the entire amount!"
Twenty minutes later, I stormed into Julian Reed’s newly opened studio.
"Isabelle!" My voice cut through the air, silencing the entire space. "Who gave you permission to touch my trust fund?"
She turned around slowly, a picture of nonchalance. "Asher, you've bullied Julian time and again. Consider this money an apology." She deliberately raised her voice for all to hear. "Besides, it'll all be community property after we're married. Don't be so petty."
My chest heaved. The room began to spin.
Just then, a familiar glint of green on Julian’s hand caught my eye.
It was my mother's emerald signet ring, her most cherished possession, which I kept locked away in a bank vault.
I grabbed Julian’s wrist. "Take that ring off."
Julian's eyes immediately welled with tears as he scrambled to hide behind Isabelle.
Isabelle sighed in annoyance. "It's just an old ring…"
"I said, take it off!" I lunged for it.
In the struggle, the ring slipped from his finger, clattering against the marble floor. A hairline fracture spiderwebbed across the emerald's surface.
Crack!
The sharp sound of my hand striking his face echoed in the room.
Julian clutched his cheek. Isabelle, incensed, shoved me back. "Have you lost your mind?"
I lifted my head, my gaze cold and hard as I stared her down.
She was so taken aback by the look in my eyes that she took an involuntary step back, her voice losing its edge. "It-it's just a ring. Why are you so angry…?"
I slowly knelt, my fingers trembling as I picked up the fractured pieces.
Back in my car, the veins on the hand clutching the broken ring stood out like cords.
I opened my phone. The internet had exploded.
#HeirStrippedInPublic
The article featured the photos from the boutique: me, clothes in disarray, while Julian stood beside Isabelle, wearing my coat. The caption read:
"Some things, even when stolen, will never truly belong to you."
I shut my phone off.
The same words, I thought, could be said for him. Stolen things never last.
The online abuse was relentless, a flood of hateful comments that cut like knives.
"Asher Grey is such a doormat, letting his fiancée walk all over him!"
"Look at that pathetic loser. He deserves to be treated like dirt."
My voice was terrifyingly calm when I called my assistant.
"Scrub those posts from the internet. And I want that money back, every last cent. No matter the cost, no matter the means. If the bank gives you any trouble, tell them to prepare for a lawsuit. And if anyone gets in our way..."
I let out a cold, sharp laugh. "Remind them what happens when you cross the Grey family."
On the morning of the wedding, Isabelle called.
"Asher…" Her voice was laced with the same old arrogance and certainty. "You terrified Julian the other day over that silly ring. His nerves are completely shot; the doctor says he needs absolute peace and quiet!"
I stood before my closet mirror, adjusting my cufflinks. My reflection smirked back at me. "So you plaster my humiliation all over the internet to soothe your little lover's feelings?"
She scoffed. "Don't forget, your father's mining venture still depends on my family's connections. Who else but me can pull those strings for you?"
I slowly straightened my tie, my fingers drumming a soft rhythm on the mahogany dresser.
"How about this," she said, her tone that of a queen bestowing a great favor. "Transfer fifty percent of your shares to Julian. Think of it as a pre-wedding gift to me." She let out a light laugh. "After all, once we're married, what's mine is yours."
In the background, I heard Julian call out "Isabelle" affectionately. Her voice instantly softened. "I'll be right there!"
"Just agree to my terms, and I promise, I'll be at the altar on time."
I ended the call and blocked her number.
Inside the grand ballroom, a collective gasp went through the crowd as Seraphina's wheelchair was guided down the aisle. She wore a simple, elegant silver mask, but when her eyes met mine, they curved into a breathtaking smile.
BANG! The main doors were thrown open.
Isabelle stormed in, wearing a magnificent white wedding gown, a triumphant smile already on her lips. But when her gaze fell upon Seraphina beside me, her face contorted into a mask of pure fury.
"Asher," she hissed, her voice trembling, "what is the meaning of this?"
"Seraphina Vance!" she shrieked suddenly. "What are you doing here?" It was the question on every guest's mind. The reclusive Seraphina Vance never attended social functions.
I took a step forward, placing myself protectively in front of Seraphina's wheelchair.
Isabelle’s face turned a shade of sickly green. "Asher, today is our wedding day. Why is she here?"
Julian scurried up beside her. "Asher, even if Isabelle has been spending a bit more time with me lately, you didn't have to hire a cripple just to make her jealous, did you?"
I took a deep breath. "Isabelle—"
"Enough!" She lunged forward and grabbed my arm. "I am your wife-to-be! How dare you play these childish games?"
I violently shook her off.
At that exact moment, the officiant's voice boomed through the hall's sound system, clear and resolute.
"Distinguished guests, we welcome you to celebrate the union of Mr. Asher Grey and Miss Seraphina Vance."
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