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.

It was me.

It was a photo taken three weeks ago, in my own backyard, while I was deadheading roses after a fourteen-hour shift.

“This is her,” Chloe sneered, popping a piece of gum. “My boyfriend says she’s a bore. A hag. He says he only stays for the kids, but he’s tired of looking at her. I want to look like a younger, hotter version of… whatever this bone structure is. I want to walk into a room and make him forget she ever existed.”

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird in a cage. Richard. My husband. The man who had kissed me goodbye this morning and told me I was beautiful.

I looked at the photo of myself—vulnerable, unguarded. Then I looked at the predator sitting across from me.

I took a deep breath, the mask filtering the air. I forced my eyes to crinkle in a professional smile she couldn’t see.