He had come to see her as beautiful based upon what he’d thought he’d found in her heart. But what he had thought he’d found did not exist, only a figment of his imagination, a con she was running on him. She was cruel and selfish, but she pretended otherwise. Though she still owed him a debt she would never pay, when he thought about her now, saw her face in his mind, he did not see a beautiful woman, a beautiful face, but a face distorted by a bad heart, a face that had always borne some manner of disfiguration, some ugliness from her crude nature, her ugly soul, a blurry mask. And over time her inner self had manifested itself upon her, etched the cruelty and dishonesty in deep lines, lines she wanted to eradicate without changing herself inside, superficial youth to attract those just as ugly. 

If there had ever been anything beautiful about her, she had sold it to some ugly man, and she had no intention of trying to retrieve it. For that would require she be a good person, that she have compassion, understanding, forgiveness, and acceptance of love, and honesty with herself for what she had done, not just put on an act for others to make them believe she was all these things. She was none of it. She felt she had to pretend out of some sort of false piety, some religious obligation, which made it all even more fraudulent, even less sincere, and made her piety a joke. 

She sought the ugly still, the vain, the phony, the well-off by greed, the grotesquely false, and she succeeded in bringing them. 

There was a reason the ugly ones came for her.