**Diary Entry**
*Monday, 15th May*
“Who needs someone like you?”
“Emily, don’t take my photo from the side. I said no,” Olivia shot an irritated glance at the press photographer hovering near the round table of honoured guests. “Why are you even shooting from that angle?”
“Ms. Harrison, I’m just trying to get everyone in the frame,” Emily flustered, adjusting her camera. “I want the whole event covered properly.”
“Only straight on. From *that* angle. Understood? Thank you.” Olivia’s tone left no room for argument before she turned back to the negotiation. The guests exchanged puzzled looks, but no one dared comment. She was the boss, after all—even dictating photo angles during a multi-million-pound deal.
Emily took extra care from then on, ensuring Olivia faced the lens directly. She’d been warned by colleagues before—never photograph Olivia Harrison in profile. Not that Emily saw the issue; the shots looked fine. But for Olivia, *fine* was never enough. *Perfect* was the only standard.
Her mother had drilled that into her early.
“Olivia, you must be perfect. Perfect for your husband, your children, your colleagues—for the world. People should look at you and say, ‘She’s flawless.’”
“I’m trying, Mum.”
“Not hard enough. You went to school with wrinkles in your blouse. Unacceptable. If it’s pressed properly, no one notices. If it’s creased, everyone does. Remember that.”
Olivia sniffled.
“And stop rubbing your nose. It’s already too big, and when you cry? Half your face disappears. What a curse, that ridge… When’s your school photo?”
“Tuesday.”
“Then practise in the mirror. Find an angle where it doesn’t look so enormous. Straight on, chin slightly down. Go on, try now.”
Tears welling, Olivia turned her head this way and that, but no matter the angle, the ridge stood out. Maybe if her mother hadn’t pointed it out so often, she wouldn’t have noticed at all.
“If you’re not perfect, no man will marry you. You’ll die alone.”
That fear drove her. Her body, prone to weight, was starved into submission—no pies, no ice cream, no pizza. Just wretched quinoa, dry chicken, spinach, and tea. She aced university, mastered marketing, spoke two languages, and could discuss art, literature, even fine dining. The perfect wife, the perfect professional.
She met Paul after graduation. Handsome, but unremarkable—a solicitor drowning in paperwork, no ambition beyond a steady wage. But he was tall, blond, blue-eyed, with pianist’s fingers. Beside her perfection, he *looked* the part. Terrified of ending up alone, she swept him up. He didn’t resist: a wife who cooked, cleaned, and polished his shoes? Ideal.
Two years later, their son was born. Olivia bought *Raising the Perfect Child* and followed it religiously—organic meals, designer baby clothes, luxury prams. God forbid anyone thought they skimped.
Social media became her stage. No candid shots, no bare-faced mornings. Each post required a hundred takes and heavy editing. Family photoshoots were torture—Paul loathed them.
“No profiles,” she’d snap at the photographer. “Not from that angle. I’m paying you—do as I say.”
Afterwards, Paul would sigh. “Why d’you talk to them like that?”
“Because I won’t waste money on unusable photos.”
“Like what? We’re all dressed up, you’ve had your hair done—what’s the problem?”
“My nose. That *awful* ridge in profile.”
“Your nose is fine. People have worse.”
“‘Fine’ isn’t *perfect*.”
Eventually, she saved for rhinoplasty. Surgeons refused—medically risky. She’d live with her “flaw.”
Her mother never let up.
“Olivia, that new photo—you’ve gained weight.”
“No, Mum, I monitor everything.”
“Your hair’s dull. And Paul still looks dashing. Men replace wives who let themselves go.”
“We’re happy.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
That night, she came home early. Paul’s voice floated from their bedroom—not a work call. A woman.
“You’re exhausted, darling. Living with her must be suffocating.”
“Like a showroom. Everything for display.”
“Divorce her.”
“I can’t. The lifestyle… You like nice things, don’t you?”
Laughter. Kissing.
Olivia flung the door open. The woman—plump, frizzy-haired, chipped nails—smirked. “Hello, Olivia. I’m Vicky. Paul and I? We’re in love. You? Just decoration.”
The confrontation was eerily calm. Perfect families don’t scream.
“You chose *her*? Over me?”
“She’s real. You’re a mannequin. Our son hates his school—do you even care?”
“We’re done,” Olivia said.
Paul panicked. “What about your ‘perfect wife’ image?”
“Enough pretending.”
She vanished for two weeks—no work, no calls. She ate pizza with her son, cried, packed Paul’s things.
When she returned to the office, makeup-free in trainers, her secretary gaped.
“You look… different.”
“Learning to live differently. It’s terrifying. And freeing.”
Ten minutes later, she posted an unfiltered selfie—nose prominent, ridge visible. The caption: *Living my truth. And liking it.*
No edits. No lies.
**Lesson:** Perfection is a prison. The world doesn’t love you for your mask—it loves you when you take it off.
