“Who even wants someone like you?”
“Lena, don’t take my picture from the side. Don’t,” Olivia shot an irritated glare at the PR photographer. “Why are you shooting from that angle?”
“Olivia, I’m photographing everyone,” Lena stammered, darting around the round table of distinguished guests, snapping photos. “I want everyone in the shots.”
“Only take me straight on, from that spot. Understand? Please. Just straight on, from there. Thanks,” Olivia clipped sharply. “Colleagues, let’s return to discussing the contract.”
The guests exchanged surprised glances, but no one said a word. She was the boss, after all—she could do as she pleased, even dictate photography angles during a multi-million-pound deal.
Lena now framed her shots carefully, making sure Olivia faced the camera directly, never from the side. Her colleagues had warned her, but she’d forgotten—and now she’d been scolded. She honestly didn’t see the problem—what was so bad about a side profile? It looked fine.
But for Olivia, “fine” wasn’t enough. Everything had to be perfect. Her mother had always told her:
“Liv, you must be perfect. The perfect wife, mother, colleague—everything. People should look at you and say, ‘She’s flawless.’”
“Mum, I try so hard.”
“I know, darling. But not hard enough. You went to school in a badly ironed blouse. Was that really necessary? Why didn’t you iron it properly?”
“I did, but the creases wouldn’t come out. I thought no one would notice,” Liv mumbled, lowering her head.
“If it’s done right, no one notices. If it’s wrong, everyone sees. Remember that.”
“Okay, Mum.” Liv sniffled, hurt and terrified of disappointing her.
“And stop rubbing your nose, Liv. It’s already too big. When you cry, it swells up half your face. How did you even end up with that nose? And that bump—disgraceful. When’s your school photo?”
“Tuesday.”
“Well, for goodness’ sake, practice in the mirror. Figure out how to sit and angle yourself so it doesn’t look enormous.”
“Fine, I will.”
“Look straight ahead and tilt your head slightly. That’ll help. Go on, try it now. Yes, just like that.”
Tears welling in her eyes, Liv turned her head in front of the mirror, but no matter the angle, the bump on her nose seemed massive. Maybe if her mother hadn’t pointed it out so often, she wouldn’t have noticed it at all.
During these lectures, her mother would always say, “If you’re not perfect, no man will marry you. You’ll be alone forever.”
That terrified Liv more than anything. So she worked relentlessly—starving her naturally curvy body with strict diets, forcing herself to run every morning. No pastries, no ice cream, no pizza. Just bland chicken breast, boiled vegetables, and green salads. She studied obsessively, believing no respectable man would want a dumb, overweight woman. She had to be beautiful, intelligent, educated, and financially independent. Who’d want a kept woman?
Liv graduated with a degree in economics, took marketing courses, and polished her CV endlessly. She spoke two languages, knew everything about health, art, literature—anything that made her the perfect partner.
She met Paul after university. He was ordinary—no grand ambitions, just a solicitor who shuffled paperwork. But he was handsome: tall, blond, blue-eyed, with delicate pianist fingers. A perfect woman needed a perfect-looking man, right? He noticed her, and Liv—petrified of being alone—quickly secured him. Paul didn’t resist. His wife worked, kept the house spotless, cooked brilliantly, and pampered him. He was always well-fed, his shirts crisply ironed, shoes gleaming. Together, they looked like a happily-ever-after stock photo.
Two years later, they had a son. Liv bought parenting books, planned his meals, bought designer clothes, and splurged on luxury baby gear—God forbid anyone thought they couldn’t afford the best.
Liv craved validation—from colleagues, friends, even strangers. She needed proof she was perfect, just as her mother demanded. She bought an expensive phone, curated her social media. No candid shots, no makeup-free selfies. Every post was staged, retouched. She hired photographers for family shoots—happy snaps of her, her loving husband, their brilliant son.
Paul hated these sessions. His wife became unbearable—nagging the photographer, micromanaging every shot.
“Don’t take me from the side. And not from that angle either. Just do as I say. I’m paying you.”
After a shoot, an exhausted Paul would sigh, “Liv, why d’you have to be so harsh? You spoke to him like he was a schoolboy.”
“Because I won’t use bad photos. If he takes rubbish, they’ll just get deleted.”
“What’s rubbish about it? We’re all dressed nicely, our son looks smart, you’ve got your hair and makeup done. What’s wrong?”
“Plenty, Paul. Like if he shoots my nose from the side, that hideous bump shows.”
“Your nose is fine. The bump’s fine. Why d’you obsess over it?”
“Fine isn’t good enough. It has to be perfect!”
Eventually, Liv saved up for rhinoplasty. But the doctors refused. Medically, it was too risky.
“Doctor, I need this fixed. Cost isn’t an issue.”
“It’s not about money. Look at your scan—surgery could leave you unable to breathe properly. I won’t take that risk, and neither will any reputable surgeon.”
After several consultations, Liv accepted she’d always have her imperfect nose. Paul stopped reassuring her, but her aging mother never let up.
“Liv, I saw your new photo. You’ve put on weight.”
“No, Mum, I track everything. I couldn’t have.”
“Well, something’s off. And your hair colour—dull.”
“I just had it done. I thought it looked nice.”
“Paul and your boy look fine. He’s still handsome. You? Not so much. Don’t let yourself go, or he’ll replace you.”
“Mum, that’s cruel.” For a moment, the strong, independent Olivia felt like a schoolgirl again, practicing poses in the mirror. Her mother’s words cut deep. “Paul loves me. We have a family.”
“Men don’t want frumpy, unattractive wives. If you want to keep him, stay perfect.”
“I should go. Things to do.”
“You were staying the night! We never see you.”
“Changed my mind. Forgot something.”
A lie. She just needed to escape.
She’d planned to stay out—their son was at his grandparents’, Paul was working late. But now, she wanted home. Safety. Exhausted.
She didn’t call Paul. Let him work. Quietly, she turned the key in their flat. Strange—Paul was awake, talking. Probably a work call. Then she listened closer. A woman’s voice. From their bedroom.
“You’re tired, darling… Life with her must be exhausting.”
“It is. Like living in a shop window. Everything for show.”
“Would you leave her?”
“I want to. But—”
“Money?”
“You enjoy nice things too, don’t you?”
“I do. But I hate sharing you.”
Paul chuckled. Then—kissing. Liv froze, then flung the door open. The woman shrieked. Paul paled.
“Liv! You’re home early.”
“What the hell is this?!” Liv’s voice shook. “Who is she?!”
In that second, she took in the other woman—far from perfect. Plump, unstyled hair, chipped nails.
“Hello, Olivia. Nice to finally meet you,” the woman said smoothly, pulling on Paul’s robe.
“You’re sleeping with my husband? Have you no shame?!”
“None. I’m Vicky. What Paul and I have is real. You? Just a pretty façade.”
Paul sat silent, head bowed. Liv trembled—not just from betrayal, but from Vicky’s confidence. Caught red-handed, yet unashamed of her flaws, her messy appearance, her audacity. In that moment, Vicky—not polished, perfect Olivia—seemed like the queen.
Vicky dressed calmly and left, dignity intact. Liv and Paul talked—no shouting, no drama. Perfect families didn’t make scenes.
“How could you pick her? Is she better than me?”
“She’s real, Liv. You’re a performance. I’m tired of living in your perfect little world.”
“So you want me fat, sloppy, like her?”
“I want you to be yourself. But we’ve never lived like that—too busy following your rules.”
Liv didn’t understand. She’d spent her life becoming perfect—and now Paul hated it.
“We’re done,” she said finally.
“What? You’re divorcing me?”
“Yes.”
“And your perfect reputation? Your flawless life?”
“En
