She said it lightly, like an insult thrown for fun.
The words sliced through the sterile calm of my clinic.
She had no idea the face she was mocking was the same one hidden behind my mask.
And she certainly didn’t know that by the time I was finished, she wouldn’t just resemble that woman.
She would become her.
The Sloan Aesthetic Center in Beverly Hills was designed to feel holy.
White stone, soft lighting, the faint scent of eucalyptus and money — all meant to make people forget what beauty really costs.
I sat behind my glass desk, fully scrubbed in.
Blue cap tight over my hair.
Mask sealed across my face.
Magnifying lenses enlarging my eyes.
To the world, I was Dr. Mira Sloan, celebrity surgeon, miracle maker.
To the girl sitting across from me, I was just a tool.
Her name was Lila.
Twenty-two. Blonde. Sharp-featured.
She carried entitlement like perfume, though her scuffed heels betrayed the illusion.
She dropped her phone onto my desk.
The screen lit up.
A candid photo of a woman standing in a garden.
No makeup. Hair pulled back.
Exhaustion carved into her face.
I recognized it instantly.
It was me.
Three weeks ago.
After a fourteen-hour shift.
Pruning roses behind my house.