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 picked up the marking pen. Usually, I follow the Golden Ratio—phi, the divine proportion. I measure distances to the millimeter to create objective beauty.

Today, I followed the lines of my own memory.

I leaned over her sleeping form. I traced the bridge of her nose. It was straight, cute. I drew a line to indicate a deviation—a slight bump, just like mine. I traced her jawline. It was soft. I marked it for reduction, for sharpening, to match the severity of my own profile.

I stopped viewing her as a patient. She was clay. She was raw material.

For a second, my hand trembled. This was malpractice. This was mutilation. This was the end of my career if anyone found out.