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.

Six months later.

The autumn sun was setting over Rodeo Drive, painting the white marble pillars of the Vance Institute in long, golden shadows.

I sat behind my glass desk in my corner office. My dark hair was swept up into its usual severe bun, my navy silk scrubs freshly pressed, my surgical mask resting neatly around my neck.

On my desk sat a glass of chilled sparkling water, a single fresh orchid, and the late-edition copy of the Los Angeles Times.

I turned to page four of the business section.

VANCE INSTITUTE EXPANDS TO TOKYO AND LONDON FOLLOWING RECORD YEAR Dr. Eleanor Vance leads single-handed restructuring of international cosmetic surgery market.

Below that article was a smaller, three-paragraph snippet in the local court registry:

FORMER EXECUTIVE RICHARD VANCE FILES FOR PERSONAL BANKRUPTCY Following a high-profile corporate severance and bitter asset dissolution, former investment manager Richard Vance has declared insolvency after failing to settle three-hundred thousand dollars in outstanding legal fees and personal debts.

I stared at the small headline for a moment, my expression completely neutral, before folding the newspaper neatly and placing it in the recycling bin beside my desk.

Richard was living in a rented studio apartment in Glendale now. He worked as an entry-level car salesman at a used lot near the freeway. I had heard through mutual acquaintances that he suffered from severe, recurring panic attacks—that he couldn't look at women with high cheekbones or dark hair without breaking into cold sweats.

Chloe Bennett had left California three months ago.

She had tried to sue me for medical malpractice, but three separate independent medical boards had reviewed her signed consultation records, her 3D mapping consent forms, and her initial written request demanding "a complete anatomical replication of the target archetype." The case had been thrown out of court before the first hearing.

She now lived in a small town in Oregon, working as a night-shift librarian, wearing wide-brimmed hats and heavy sunglasses whenever she stepped into the light. She had become a recluse—a twenty-two-year-old girl trapped inside the face of a cold, thirty-eight-year-old surgeon.

Sarah tapped softly on the door before stepping into my office.

"Doctor," Sarah said, holding a thin leather folder. "Your five o'clock consultation is here."

"Name?" I asked, standing up from my desk and looping my surgical mask over my ears.

"Vanessa Cole," Sarah replied, dropping her voice to a low, respectful whisper. "Twenty-four years old. She listed her referral source as... Richard Vance."

I paused, my hand resting on the smooth glass of my desk.

"Is that so?" I asked, my eyes glinting in the dimming sunlight.

"Yes, Doctor," Sarah said, a tiny, dark, knowing smile appearing on her lips. "She told the intake nurse that she’s dating a car salesman in Glendale. She said he’s obsessed with his ex-wife, and she wants to know if you can fix her face so he’ll finally forget about the woman who ruined his life."

I pulled my surgical mask up over my nose and mouth, securing the fit against my nose bridge.