**Diary Entry – Dr. Edward Whitmore**
“How old are you?” I fixed my gaze on Eva’s striking face across the desk. My tone was clinical—no flirtation, no judgment. Just the usual dance before we got down to business.
She blinked, flashed a practiced smile, and glanced away before meeting my eyes again. I’d seen this routine a thousand times. Women always hesitated when asked their age, as if suddenly remembering I wasn’t just a surgeon but a man—young, unmarried, and, apparently, worth the flutter of lashes. Eva was no exception.
“How old would you *guess*?” she countered, tilting her head.
I didn’t indulge her.
“Twenty-nine,” she lied smoothly. Something about crossing thirty always sent women into a panic.
“Thirty-nine, to be precise,” I corrected, shaving off two years out of pity.
She laughed, sharp and brittle. “You see right through us, don’t you? Like an X-ray.”
“Experience.” I shrugged. “Now, why are you here? You don’t need work. Yet.”
Her eyes brightened at the backhanded compliment. “And what price d’you think I pay to look like this?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “My husband’s wealthy. I’ve had every treatment—Botox, fillers, lasers. But it’s exhausting. Hours at the gym, then facedown on some clinic table, slathered in serums. I’m not *living*, Doctor. I’m chasing time.”
“Then let it go. There’s beauty in every age.” I offered my most reassuring smile.
“Easy for you to say. You’re a man. No one counts your wrinkles or weighs your dessert. But us? We’re disposable. Men like my husband trade us in for younger models the second we dare to age.” Her mouth twisted, bitter. “I grew up in a mill town up north. Mum worked in a factory, Dad drank himself to death. I swore I’d escape. And I did—married a man twice my age, got a flat in Chelsea, holidays in Ibiza. A fairytale.”
She paused, knuckles white around her handbag. “Three days ago, I brought him coffee and doughnuts at work. Found him with his secretary. Didn’t even lock the door. So here I am. Because I won’t go back to *nothing*.”
I’d heard this story before—too often. The terror of losing the life they’d clawed for. I tried again: “Surgery’s a risk. Your husband—does he know?”
“I’ll say I was mugged.” She waved a hand, but her voice wavered.
I pushed the consent forms across the desk. She signed without reading.
—
The OR was cold, sterile. Eva lay still, anesthesia pulling her under. Without makeup, she looked younger—softer. The scalpel hovered in my hand.
Then the monitor screamed.
Flatline.
The anesthesiologist shouted, plunged a needle into her IV. Too late.
*Time of death…*
I’d warned her. Begged her to reconsider. Now her husband stormed into my office, flanked by bodyguards, spit flying as he promised lawsuits, ruin. I handed him the autopsy report: allergic reaction. Undisclosed.
“She died because *you* made her fear losing you,” I said.
He left, threats hissing like a cobra.
The inquest cleared me. But I resigned, moved to a village in Yorkshire. Married a nurse, had a son. No more sculpting faces for rich women terrified of mirrors.
Eva still haunts me—those accusing eyes in my dreams, her face fragmenting along the lines I’d marked with surgical ink.
When my wife mentioned a tummy tuck after our second child, I nearly lost it. *Never*, I told her. Some scars aren’t worth the risk.
**Lesson learned:** Fear is a sharper knife than any scalpel. And no amount of money stops time.