I never imagined I would marry a man I didn’t love—let alone one I could barely bring myself to look at. But desperation has a way of cracking even the strongest convictions.

Three months earlier, my world had collapsed.

My father was diagnosed with late-stage pancreatic cancer. The words alone felt like a death sentence. Bills arrived faster than we could open them—surgery, chemotherapy, medications, hospital stays. Debt collectors called daily. My younger brother quietly abandoned his university plans. My mother aged ten years in ten weeks.

We were drowning.

That was when Charles Harwood entered my life.

He was a millionaire—old money, discreet wealth, no social presence. Sixty-three years old. Nearly twice my age. Reclusive. Frail-looking. And always, without exception, wearing an ivory half-mask that concealed the upper portion of his face. People whispered about him in low voices: burn scars, deformities, a rare disease. No one knew the truth. No one dared to ask.

He never spoke to me directly.

The offer came through his lawyer.

One year of marriage.
Full medical coverage for my father.
Complete financial security for my family.
No children. No public appearances. Absolute discretion.

I signed the prenuptial agreement and the marriage certificate on the same day.

There was no romance—only survival.

I was twenty-nine years old. My name is Leah Monroe. And I had just traded my freedom for my family’s future.

The wedding was small. Six guests. All of them his staff. The ceremony took place in a private estate outside Charleston, South Carolina—a vast Georgian house surrounded by iron gates and centuries-old trees.

Charles barely spoke. He whispered something to the officiant, kept his gaze lowered, and never once removed the mask.

That night, I stood frozen at the doorway of the master bedroom.

My fingers clenched around the doorknob. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might give me away. I reminded myself this wasn’t a marriage—it was a contract. A transaction. I had prepared for distance, for coldness, even for revulsion.

But nothing prepared me for what followed.

The room was dim, lit only by a single bedside lamp. Charles sat at the edge of the bed wearing a dark silk robe. When he noticed me, he stood—slowly, deliberately—and reached up.

He removed the mask.

I couldn’t breathe.

His skin was smooth. Too smooth. Not burned. Not scarred. No signs of disease. No wrinkles. No pores. His face looked… assembled. Perfectly intact, yet profoundly wrong. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, as if they didn’t quite belong behind that face.

But it wasn’t just how he looked.

It was how his face moved.

Like it had been fitted onto him.

He tilted his head slightly, studying my reaction.

“I promised there would be no surprises until after the wedding,” he said quietly. “But it’s only fair you know now.”

My mouth opened. No sound came out.

He took a step toward me. Then another. His eyes never blinked.

“You were expecting a monster,” he continued, lifting a hand to his cheek.
“Instead…”
his lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile,
“you married something far worse.”