Olivia
“How old are you?” Plastic surgeon William James Hartley fixed his gaze on Olivia’s striking face.
She blinked, smiled, and glanced away before looking back at him directly. William had seen this dance countless times—the fluttering lashes, the hesitant glances, the little feminine tricks women played in his office. The moment he asked their age, they remembered he was a man, young and attractive. Olivia was no exception.
“What would you guess?” she teased.
His expression remained serious.
“Twenty-nine,” she lied without hesitation.
For some reason, that thirty-year threshold always terrified women.
“Thirty-nine, to be exact,” William corrected flatly, taking pity and shaving off two years.
“You can’t be fooled, Doctor,” Olivia acknowledged, appreciating his tact.
“Why try to fool me? I’m your surgeon, not a potential suitor. Your age matters for very different reasons. If you were really twenty-nine, you wouldn’t be here. You look incredible for your age—better than most. Plenty of women would envy you.”
“You’re terrifying. You see right through us, like an X-ray,” Olivia said, batting her lashes again.
“It’s my job. Experience.”
“Your wife’s lucky. You understand women so well.”
William nearly said he wasn’t married but caught himself.
“So why *are* you here? You look fantastic—no surgery needed. Not yet, anyway.”
The compliment brightened her eyes.
“Ever wonder what it costs me to keep this up? Yes, I have a wealthy husband. I can afford the latest treatments, the most expensive creams. But I’m exhausted—hours at the gym, then lying on a clinic bed while they smear miracle potions on my face. I’m not living; I’m fighting time. I’m tired,” she repeated.
“Then let time pass. There’s beauty in every age. You don’t have to pretend to be younger.” He gave her one of his reassuring smiles.
“Easy for you to say. You’re a man. You don’t wake up counting wrinkles or calories. You don’t starve yourself just to keep your figure. And who pushes us to these extremes?”
“Who?” he humored her.
He liked Olivia. She was honest, vibrant. Easy to talk to.
“Men like you. You feel better with a young, beautiful woman on your arm. Proof you’ve still got it. The older you get, the younger we have to be.” A bitter smile twisted her lips. “I grew up in a tiny town up north. Mum worked at a poultry plant, Dad too. Then it shut down—Mum cleaned hospital floors, Dad stoked boilers. Jobs were scarce. Dad drank. I hated it. Dreamed of London, of being an actress.” Her gaze misted over.
William understood. He’d escaped a nowhere town himself.
“Didn’t get into drama school. Ended up working a market stall. Barely scraped by. Then a woman noticed me—ironically, after I shortchanged her. She got me into a boutique. Not runway modeling, you understand. That’s where I met my husband. I was young, reckless…” Her voice trailed off.
“He proposed. I said yes. Didn’t care he was older. Hit the jackpot—London flat, country house, money. Gave me everything I’d dreamed of.”
She paused. “Three days ago, I surprised him at work. Bought his favorite doughnuts, coffee. His secretary wasn’t at her desk. No—she was in his office. Door wide open. They didn’t see me. I left the treats on her desk and walked out.”
Olivia hid her face in her hands. No tears, just pride crumbling for a second.
“I knew he strayed. But seeing it… I panicked. Time’s running out. I can’t compete with twenty-year-olds. If he leaves me, there’s no second jackpot. I won’t go back to that life. I’d rather die.”
Her raw despair stunned him.
“Could *you* walk away from London? The money, the status? Be a small-town GP?”
Silence. She didn’t expect an answer.
“Here’s the pre-op list. Tests, consultations. Some can be done here.”
Her face lit up. She stood with sudden energy.
“One last thing—does your husband know?”
“No. I’ll think of something.”
“Post-op, you’ll look… rough.”
“How long?” Fear flickered.
“Four weeks, maybe more. Depends.”
“I’ll say I was mugged,” she said weakly.
“Even so, the gym won’t fix everything. Surgery’s temporary. You’ll need more. Look at ageing starlets—addicted to the knife. Each procedure leaves scars, inside and out. Remember Michael Jackson?”
Her confidence wavered only a second. “I’ve made up my mind.”
He sighed. “Then we proceed.”
—
Days later, Olivia returned with test results. William skimmed them. *Healthy. Radiant. Pleading eyes like a puppy*. He’d minimize the cuts, preserve what nature gave her.
“Sign these. No supplements, no undisclosed allergies.”
She scribbled without reading. *Desperate. Her choice.*
Morning of the op, she trembled. “I’m ready.”
He marked incision lines. “No talking. You look perfect.”
On the table, sans makeup, she seemed younger—fragile.
His scalpel hovered—
“Crash! Code blue!” The anesthesiolist yelled.
William froze. *Healthy. No cuts yet—*
Monitors shrieked. Drugs pumped. Nothing.
“Time of death—”
*No.* He’d fought this. *What did I miss?*
“Allergic reaction. She hid it. Not your fault.” The anesthesiolist handed him brandy.
Numb, he drank. Investigations. Suspension. Rumors. But Olivia—gone.
Her husband stormed in next day—puffy, flanked by goons. “You killed her!”
“She hid her allergy. Signed the forms.” William played their first meeting’s recording—*secretary in your office—*
The man flinched. “I’ll ruin you!”
“You drove her to this. She died fearing *you’d* replace her.”
“Rot in hell.”
The threat lingered.
*”Could you leave it all?”* Olivia’s ghost asked.
Months later, cleared by the inquiry (hidden allergies, perfect paperwork), William quit London. Became a country surgeon. Married a nurse. Had a son.
When she mentioned a tummy tuck after birth, he snapped. *Never.*
Olivia haunted his dreams—beautiful, accusing, face splitting along green incision marks.
But London? Never again.
