Maddison was twenty-three, blonde, and dripping with entitlement. She dropped her phone on the desk.
On the screen was a photo of a tired woman in a backyard, hair tied up, no makeup.
Me.
Taken weeks earlier, after a brutal shift.
“This is her,” Maddison sneered. “He says she’s boring. Says he stays for appearances. I want a younger, hotter version of this face. I want him to forget she ever existed.”
My chest tightened. Daniel. My husband. The man who’d kissed me that morning and told me I looked beautiful.
I studied Maddison calmly. “I understand,” I said evenly. “We can achieve a strong resemblance.”
She smiled. “Money’s not an issue. He gave me his card.”
She slid it across the desk. Daniel Hartman.
My husband was paying to erase me.
She signed the consent forms without reading them. As she was led away, the rage inside me didn’t burn—it crystallized.
In the prep room, my phone buzzed.
Daniel: Late meetings tonight. Don’t wait up. Love you.
I stared through the glass at Maddison, already drifting under anesthesia. She looked innocent. But innocence is defined by choices, and hers had been cruel.