Unpretty Me

Prologue: The WattPad Dream

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Isla Abalos sprawled across her bed, her phone glowing in front of her like a portal to a much better world—specifically, the world of Wattpad romance. With one hand stuffed into a family-size bag of cheese curls and the other scrolling through chapter after chapter, she sighed deeply, her heart fully immersed in the epic love triangle unfolding on her screen.

In this particular story, a mysterious mafia boss named Alessio was in a heated standoff with his rival—who, naturally, was also a secret agent undercover. Both men were madly in love with the same ordinary, relatable, and—get this—"clumsy but beautiful in an unassuming way" heroine.

"I'll protect her," Alessio growled, stepping closer, his muscles straining against his leather jacket. "She belongs with me."

The secret agent—let's call him Caleb because every agent was always named Caleb—adjusted his tie like the effortlessly cool heartthrob he was. "Not a chance, mafia boy. She's better off with someone who won't drag her into a life of crime."

Cue the dramatic stare-down as the heroine—who never asked for this (but low-key loved it)—watched, her lips slightly parted in awe, torn between two impossibly gorgeous men willing to set the world on fire for her love.

Isla sighed dreamily and muttered under her breath, "Must be nice."

She tossed a cheese curl into her mouth and rolled onto her side, briefly pretending to be the heroine in the story. Would she choose the dangerous allure of the brooding mafia boss or the safety of the charming secret agent?

Answer: It didn't matter. As long as one of them looked deep into her eyes and whispered, "You're not like other girls," she'd happily run off with either one. Or both. She wasn't picky.

But Isla knew better. Real life didn't work like that. No brooding mafioso was lurking around the corner of That's So Brewed, the coffee shop where she worked, waiting to whisk her away to a life of passionate intrigue. And no charming undercover agent was hiding among the regulars, ready to confess his undying love between sips of overpriced matcha. Instead, all she got was the occasional Karen demanding soy milk that didn't taste like soy and customers who asked for "extra foam" as if foam were a personality trait.

She tossed her phone onto her pillow and groaned. "Honestly, who orders oat milk and then says, 'Can you make it taste more like real milk?'" she muttered, imitating a regular customer's voice. "Like, Ma'am, please—this is oat juice pretending to be milk. There's only so much we can do."

She threw herself off the bed, landing in front of her mirror. There it was. The reason no mafia boss or spy would ever come storming into her life.

Her curly black hair exploded from her head in every direction, a tangled mess that no amount of conditioner could tame. "Mop mode: activated," she announced to herself, trying to smooth down a few defiant curls, only for them to bounce right back with the enthusiasm of a kid on a sugar high. She tilted her head, giving herself a side profile in the mirror. Her nose, slightly rounded at the tip, was neither flat nor pointy. "Still under construction," she muttered with a wry grin. "Any day now, nose bridge. I believe in you."

Her eyes were actually pretty—deep brown and soft, framed by lashes that could hold their own. Her lips were fine, nothing to write home about, but not bad either. Honestly, when you put all the features together, she wasn't ugly at all. But her confidence? That was a whole other story. It was as elusive as Wi-Fi in a basement.

Society, with its airbrushed magazine covers and fitness influencers named Bianca, had decided long ago that women like Isla didn't fit the mold. She had curves—soft, squishy ones—and she carried them unapologetically (well, mostly unapologetically). Not that she had much of a choice; it wasn't like she could peel them off and hang them in the closet until she felt more confident.

She gave her reflection a final once-over. "Yeah... definitely no mafia boss is falling for this," she muttered, pulling a face.

But there was one place where Isla felt like a star—a place where her looks didn't matter and people adored her for something far more powerful: her voice.

She flopped back onto her bed and reached for her phone again, opening her real pride and joy: her social media account under the name SirenAngel. Here, she was anonymous—a faceless siren whose soothing, angelic voice captivated her followers. Every time she uploaded a cover, her DMs flooded with messages telling her how her singing made their day, how her voice felt like a warm hug, how they wished she'd release original songs.

Isla never filmed herself while singing. Instead, she placed the camera in front of her beloved plush mermaid, Marina, and let her voice do the magic. Marina had become a sort of mascot for her fans. It was part of the mystery that kept them hooked—no one knew what SirenAngel looked like, and that only made them more obsessed.

One of those fans was particularly persistent: a user named LukeTheFluke.

At first, Isla hadn't thought much of him—just another fan among many. But LukeTheFluke had a way with words. His messages were goofy, sweet, and surprisingly insightful, and before she knew it, she found herself looking forward to his DMs. It didn't hurt that he was charming in a self-deprecating way, always calling himself a fluke while making her laugh.

Isla smiled to herself as she scrolled through their latest conversation.

LukeTheFluke: "If I owned a coffee shop, I'd hire someone just to write terrible puns on the chalkboard menu."

SirenAngel: "Bold of you to assume they'd let you own a coffee shop with that kind of vision."

LukeTheFluke: "You wound me. My shop would be legendary. Free Wi-Fi, terrible puns, and oat milk that tastes like oat milk. Living the dream."

She chuckled, not knowing that LukeTheFluke was, in fact, already living that dream—because he owned the very coffee shop where she worked. Yup, That's So Brewed belonged to him, and he was blissfully unaware that the woman he was chatting with every night was the same woman whose name he could never seem to remember during the day.

Isla's phone pinged with a new message. It was him again.

LukeTheFluke: "Ever get the feeling that your employees are plotting your demise? Asking for a friend."

SirenAngel: "Tell your 'friend' to give them a weekend off before they unionize."

LukeTheFluke: "Genius idea. You're hired as my life coach."

Isla laughed to herself, but then something strange happened—her heart gave a little flutter. She told herself it was nothing, just the lingering buzz from too many cheese curls. There was no way she was catching feelings for someone she'd never met. Definitely not. Right?

She tossed her phone back onto her pillow and stared at the ceiling. The line between her real life and her online persona was starting to blur, and it was making her nervous. How long could she keep up the charade? What if LukeTheFluke found out who she really was?

What if... she wasn't enough?

"Get a grip, Isla," she muttered to herself, hugging Marina to her chest. "You're a barista, not a Wattpad heroine. No mafia bosses. No secret agents. Just soy milk complaints and oat milk delusions."

But even as she told herself that, she couldn't help but wonder—what if, just maybe, real life could surprise her for once? What if, somehow, she could have her own ridiculous, heart-fluttering love story?

With that hopelessly romantic thought, Isla closed her eyes, dreaming of a world where mop-haired baristas could become sirens and flukes could turn into princes.

And little did she know, her story was just getting started.

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