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.

But then I remembered the photo. A hag.

And I remembered the credit card.

“You wanted to take my place,” I whispered into the silence of the room. “So you shall.”

“Scalpel,” I said to the nurse.

She slapped the instrument into my palm. The light glinted off the blade, a star of cold steel.