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.

“I understand completely,” I said, my voice smooth as steel. “We can certainly achieve a… striking resemblance. I will make you a masterpiece.”

Chloe beamed, a shark smelling blood. “Good. Money isn’t an issue. He gave me his card.”

She slid a sleek, black card across the glass. Richard Vance. Vance Corp.

My husband was paying for his mistress to replace me. He was funding his own haunting.

“Excellent,” I whispered, picking up the card. It felt heavy, like a weapon. “The nurse will take you to prep. I’ll see you in the OR.”