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.

Chloe signed the consent forms without reading a single word. She stood up, checking her reflection in the window, preening.

As the nurse led her away, I sat alone in the silence. The rage didn’t burn; it froze. It crystallized into a plan so perfect, so symmetrical, that it felt like destiny.

Chapter 2: The Anesthesia of Ignorance

The prep room was quiet. I washed my hands, the ritualistic scrubbing grounding me. Finger to elbow. Scrub. Rinse. Repeat.

My phone buzzed on the metal tray. A text from Richard.