I never told my husband’s mistress that I was the renowned plastic surgeon she booked a consultation with. She didn’t recognize me in my mask and scrubs. She pointed to a photo of me on her phone and said, “I want to look better than this hag my boyfriend is married to. Make me younger so he finally dumps her.” I simply smiled behind my mask and nodded.

In the operating room, I picked up the marking pen. Normally, I chased perfection. Today, I followed memory.

I altered her nose to match mine. Sharpened her jaw. Softened her eyes. Every mark was deliberate.

For a moment, my hand shook. This was unethical. Criminal.

Then I remembered her words.

“You wanted my life,” I whispered. “So here it is.”

“Scalpel.”

The surgery lasted nine hours. I reshaped bone, grafted cartilage, recreated every flaw Daniel once claimed he loved. I etched age, gravity, and truth into her face.

“She looks older,” a nurse murmured.

“She looks real,” I replied.

When I finished, the resemblance was terrifying.

Two weeks later, Maddison sat upright, buzzing with anticipation.

“Is it perfect?” she asked. “Does it look like her?”

“It’s exactly what you asked for,” I said, reaching for the scissors.

Layer by layer, the bandages fell.

I handed her the mirror.

She smiled—then froze.

Her fingers traced her face. Her mouth opened in a broken sound.

“I look old,” she screamed. “I look exhausted!”

She turned on me. “What did you do?!”

I slowly removed my mask.

Her scream died in her throat.

The door opened.

“Hey, babe—”