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. The surgery was a masterpiece. She believed she was waking up with a face that would make me weep with envy. But when the final bandage was peeled away, her face went pale. She screamed in horror, dropping the mirror to the floor. I hadn’t made her younger. I had used my scalpel to carve her into an exact, permanent replica of…

Lila lay on the table, anesthesia pulling her under.
Peaceful.
Almost innocent.

But innocence isn’t how you look.
It’s what you choose.

I stepped into the operating room.
The lights erased every shadow.

I picked up the marking pen.

Normally, I followed ratios.
Symmetry.
Mathematics masquerading as beauty.

Today, I followed memory.

I traced her nose.
Marked a slight bump — like mine.

Her jaw was soft.
I sharpened it into my own severity.

She stopped being a patient.

She became material.

My hand trembled once.

This was malpractice.
Career-ending.

Then I remembered the word she used.

Hag.

“Scalpel,” I said.

The blade caught the light.

“We’re doing a full reconstruction.”

The first cut bloomed red.

There was no return.

Chapter 3: The Hands That Remember

Nine hours disappeared.

I broke her nose.
Reset it with the same asymmetry Thomas used to kiss.

I filed her chin.
Harvested cartilage.
Rebuilt the tip with my signature droop.

I reshaped her eyes — not to brighten them, but to age them.
Weight instead of youth.

One nurse whispered, “You’re aging her.”

“I’m giving her presence,” I replied.
“Presence has a cost.”

Hundreds of microscopic sutures closed the skin.

It wasn’t surgery.

It was replication.