“So, how old are you?” Plastic surgeon Dr. Edward Whittaker fixed his gaze on Eve’s striking face.
She blinked, smiled, then glanced away coyly before looking back at him. How many times had he seen these little performances—the fluttering lashes, the hesitant pauses—the moment women remembered they were sitting across from an attractive younger man? Eve was no exception.
“How old would you guess?” she teased.
His expression remained firm.
“Twenty-nine,” she lied smoothly.
“Thirty-nine, to be precise,” he corrected, though out of pity, he shaved off two years.
“You see right through me, Doctor.” She acknowledged his tact with a nod.
“Why even try to deceive me? I’m your surgeon, not a prospective suitor. Your age matters for very different reasons. If you were truly twenty-nine, you wouldn’t be sitting here. You look remarkable for your age—better than most women I see. Many would envy you.”
“You’re terrifying,” Eve said with exaggerated dismay. “Like an X-ray for the soul.”
“It’s just experience. Part of the job.”
“Your wife must be lucky. You understand women so well.”
He almost mentioned he wasn’t married, then thought better of it.
“So why *are* you here? You don’t need surgery. At least, not yet.”
The compliment lit up her eyes.
“Wouldn’t you like to know what it costs to look like this?” She leaned in. “I’ve got a wealthy husband. The best cosmetic treatments money can buy—and they *do* cost. But I’m exhausted. Hours in the gym, even longer on a beauty therapist’s table, slathered in serums. I’m not living—I’m trying to outrun time. I’m *tired*,” she repeated.
“Then let time pass. Every age has its grace. There’s no need to pretend you’re something you’re not.” He gave her one of his rare, warm smiles.
“Easy for you to say. You’re a man. No one expects *you* to count wrinkles at dawn or starve for a waistline. Who do you think drives us to these extremes?”
“And who might that be?” He indulged her, liking her honesty, her wit.
“*You* do. Men. You want young, beautiful women on your arm—proof you’ve still got it. The older *you* get, the younger *we* have to be.” A bitter smirk twisted her lips, but she still looked radiant.
“I grew up in a dead-end town. Mum worked at a poultry plant, same as Dad. When it shut down, she scrubbed floors at the hospital; he ended up in the boiler room. Jobs there? Few and far between. Dad drank, obviously. I *hated* it—dreamed of London, of acting.” Her gaze clouded over.
Edward understood. He’d clawed his way out of a nowhere town too.
“Didn’t get into drama school. Ended up working a market stall instead.” She exhaled sharply. “Skipping the ugly details, let’s just say I got lucky. A woman noticed me—after I short-changed her, ironically. She got me a job at a boutique. Not runway modelling, but… you know. That’s where I met my husband. Young, reckless…” Her voice trailed off. He let the silence sit.
“He proposed. I said yes—didn’t care that he was older. Hit the jackpot. Flat in Chelsea, country house, money, connections. Gave me everything I’d ever wanted.”
“He’s got a son from his first marriage—my age, lives abroad. Doesn’t want more kids. Fine by me. Restaurants, holidays, designer labels—I *loved* it. You’re right: women *did* envy me. I escaped that grey little town. I’d *die* before going back.” Her breath hitched.
“Then, three days ago… I brought him coffee and doughnuts at work. Just to be sweet. Walked in—no secretary at her desk. Or rather, she *was* at her desk… just not *hers*.” A hollow laugh. “They hadn’t even locked the door. Left the doughnuts on her desk and walked out. Pathetic.” She buried her face in her hands.
He waited. He’d heard variations of this story too many times before.
When she looked up, her eyes were dry. Vulnerable women didn’t stay vulnerable long in her world.
“I knew he cheated. But that day… it hit me. Time’s running out. I’m not twenty anymore, and there’s always some starry-eyed girl with long legs waiting to take my place.”
Her fingers tightened around her bag. “They’ve got what I don’t: youth. You’re right—I’m forty. Can’t compete. Men like him want pretty, vacant twentysomethings. If he dumps me? No second jackpot. Not at my age. I *won’t* go back to where I started. I’d rather die.”
Her raw desperation struck him.
“Could *you* walk away from London? The house, the car, the money—move to some backwater, work as a nobody?”
He didn’t answer. She hadn’t expected one.
“Alright. Here’s your pre-op list—tests, consultations. Some can be done here. Then we’ll proceed.”
Her face brightened. She stood with a dancer’s ease.
“One last thing. Are you *sure*? Every surgery carries risk—especially facial work. Does your husband know?”
“No. But I’ll think of something,” she said airily.
“Recovery won’t be pretty.”
“How long?” A flicker of fear, quickly masked.
“At least a month. Maybe longer. Depends.”
“I’ll say I was mugged,” she offered, though her voice wavered.
“Fine. But remember—your face might be tighter, but your body won’t follow. Surgery isn’t a cure. You’ll be back under the knife eventually. Think of all those celebrities—their faces like masks. The more you tweak, the more your body fights back. Ever seen Michael Jackson’s autopsy photos?”
Her composure didn’t crack.
“Stop trying to scare me off. I’m *doing* this.” She pulled an envelope from her bag but didn’t hand it over—just set it on the desk’s edge.
“Payment’s through reception,” he said coolly. Professional again. As she left, he rubbed his temples.
Most patients blurred together. But Eve? There was something about her—maybe their shared clawing-up-from-nothing past. He’d tried to dissuade her. But she’d cling to her gilded life with both hands.
The surgery was routine. Minimal adjustments. Yet as he marked her face with surgical ink, the anaesthetist suddenly barked: “Crash! Get back!”
Edward froze. Nothing had gone wrong. The monitors screamed. He watched, numb, as they pumped her full of adrenaline, shook her—
“Time of death…”
The autopsy found an undisclosed allergy to anaesthetic. Paperwork was flawless. No negligence. Still, the whispers came. He was suspended.
Her husband stormed in—a bloated, red-faced man flanked by bodyguards.
“You *killed* her,” he seethed.
Edward pushed the coroner’s report forward. “She lied about her allergies. *You* drove her here. She died afraid you’d replace her.”
The man threatened lawsuits, violence. Edward barely flinched.
*”Could you give it all up?”* Eve’s ghostly voice echoed.
After the inquest cleared him, he left London. Took a job in a small-town hospital. The pay was dismal, but the work mattered. No more sculpting vanity.
He dreamed of her often—pale on the table, her face dissolving along his marker lines.
Years later, married to a local nurse with two kids, he was… content. When his wife mentioned a tummy tuck after their second child, he lost it.
“Not a *chance*,” he snapped.
He never went back to London.
