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.

Daniel stopped cold. Roses slipped from his hands as he stared at the two identical faces.

“Why… why does she look like you?” he whispered.

“She wanted to replace me,” I said calmly. “I helped.”

“Fix it!” he shouted.

“I can’t,” I replied. “It’s permanent.”

Maddison collapsed, sobbing.

I tossed the signed forms onto the bed. “Everything was authorized. Paid for by you.”

Then I picked up my bag.

“I filed for divorce this morning,” I said. “You can keep her. I hope it’s comforting to wake up next to my face every day.”

I walked into the sunlight and breathed freely for the first time in years.

Months later, I sat at a café in Paris, rain tapping the window. I’d changed everything—my hair, my style, my life.

A man smiled at me from the next table. “You look unforgettable,” he said.

I smiled back. “Thank you. I’m the original.”

In the reflection of my spoon, I saw the woman I used to be—and let her go.