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…

The prep room was quiet.

I scrubbed my hands slowly, methodically.
Finger to elbow.
Again.
Again.

My phone buzzed.

Thomas: Working late. Meetings all night. Love you.

I stared at the screen.

Then I looked through the glass.

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