**Evelyn**
“How old are you?” Plastic surgeon Dr. Oliver Thorne fixed his gaze on Evelyn’s striking face.
She blinked, smiled coyly, then glanced away before meeting his eyes again. He’d seen it all before—the flustered looks, the practised feminine tricks. The moment he asked their age, women remembered they were sitting across from a handsome, successful man. Evelyn was no exception.
“What would you guess?” she teased.
He gave her a level stare.
“Twenty-nine,” she lied without hesitation. Something about turning thirty always spooked women.
“Thirty-nine, to be precise,” Oliver corrected flatly, though he’d shaved off two years out of politeness.
“You see right through me, Doctor,” Evelyn said, appreciating his tact.
“Why try to fool me? I’m your surgeon, not a prospective husband. Your age matters for very different reasons. If you were really twenty-nine, you wouldn’t be here. You look fantastic for your age—better than most. Plenty of women would envy you.”
“You’re terrifying. Like a human X-ray,” she simpered.
“It’s my job. And experience.”
“Your wife is lucky. You understand women so well.”
Oliver nearly mentioned he wasn’t married but thought better of it.
“So why *are* you here? You don’t need surgery. Not yet, anyway.”
The compliment made Evelyn’s eyes gleam with satisfaction.
“Don’t you want to know what it costs to look like this? Yes, I have a wealthy husband. I can afford the finest treatments—and let’s just say, they don’t come cheap. But I’m tired. Tired of spending hours at the gym, then lying on a beautician’s table with masks and miracle potions. I’m not living; I’m fighting time. I’m exhausted.”
“Then stop fighting. Every age has its charm. You don’t need to look younger than you are.” Oliver flashed her one of his dazzling smiles.
“Easy for you to say. You’re a man. You don’t have to count wrinkles at dawn, tally calories, or starve on fad diets—all for the sake of keeping your figure and complexion. And who’s to blame for that?”
“Who indeed?” he humoured her. Evelyn amused him. She was sharp, lively, disarmingly genuine.
“*You* are. Men. Oh yes. You feel more important with a young, pretty woman on your arm. It proves you’re still worth something. And the older you get, the younger we’re expected to be.” A bitter smirk twisted her lips, though her eyes stayed sad. She was still beautiful.
“I grew up in a tiny town up north. Mum worked at a poultry plant, same as Dad. Then it shut down—she became a cleaner at the hospital, he ended up in the boiler room. Jobs were scarce. Dad drank, of course. I hated that life. Dreamed of escaping to London, becoming an actress.” Her gaze drifted into memory.
Oliver understood. He’d left a nowhere town too.
“Didn’t get into drama school. Ended up working a market stall instead.” The admission clearly cost her. “I won’t bore you with how I scraped by. Then luck struck—a woman caught me short-changing her. She dragged me to a modelling agency. Not the catwalk kind, though that happened sometimes. You know the sort. That’s where I met my husband. Young, reckless…” Her voice trailed off. Oliver didn’t interrupt.
“He fell hard. Proposed within months. I said yes—didn’t care he was older. Hit the jackpot, really. A London flat, a country house, connections, money. He gave me everything I’d ever wanted.”
“First marriage left him with a son—my age, lives abroad. He didn’t want more kids. I adjusted. Restaurants, designer clothes, holidays. It was a good life. You’re right—women envied me. I’d escaped that dump of a town and never looked back.” She sighed.
“Then three days ago, I dropped by his office to surprise him. He loves those pink-iced doughnuts, you know? Bought two and a coffee. His secretary wasn’t at her desk. Or rather, she was exactly where she shouldn’t have been—in his office. They hadn’t even bothered to lock the door. Didn’t see me. I left the doughnuts on her desk and walked out.” Evelyn buried her face in her hands.
Oliver waited. He’d heard versions of this story too many times. Women confessed to him like he was a priest.
When she looked up, her eyes were dry. The mask of composure slipped back into place—women like her never showed vulnerability. Life had taught them to never let the mask crack.
“I wasn’t naïve. I knew there were others. But this… it scared me. Time’s running out. I’m not getting younger, and there’s always some twenty-something with legs for days, ready to take my place.”
“Everyone wants money. They’ve got what I don’t—youth. You’re right. I’m forty. I can’t compete. Men like my husband want pretty, empty-headed girls. If he leaves me for one, there won’t be a second jackpot. You get used to luxury. I *won’t* go back to that life. I’d rather die.”
Her raw despair stunned him.
“Could *you* walk away from London? The house, the car, the money? Move to some backwater, become a nobody?”
Oliver stayed silent. She hadn’t expected an answer anyway.
“Right. Here’s the list—tests, specialists. Some can be done here. Then come back.”
Evelyn’s eyes lit up. She stood with a youthful spring, yet regal as ever.
“Think it over. Surgery is risky—especially on the face. Does your husband know?”
“No. But I’ll think of something,” she said breezily.
“You won’t look great afterwards. Frankly, you’ll look rough.”
“How long?” A flicker of fear, quickly smothered.
“About a month, maybe more. Depends.”
“I’ll say I was mugged,” Evelyn offered, though her voice lacked conviction.
“Suppose that works. But the gym’s non-negotiable. Surgery won’t fix your body. The effect won’t last forever—you’ll be back under the knife. Like those celebrities, addicted to procedures. It leaves a mark. Things go wrong. Ever see Michael Jackson’s face?”
Another quick flash of fear, swiftly buried. She had impressive control.
“I know what you’re doing. Save your breath. It’s happening.” She waved him off. “I’m sick of fearing age, indifference, spending a fortune on creams. Surgery’s easier.”
“Fine. But think again.” Oliver stood. They were eye-to-eye for a moment. He liked her—really liked her. Evelyn glanced away first, pulling an envelope from her bag. She set it on the desk’s edge.
“Pay at reception,” he said stiffly. Doctor and patient again. He sat, shuffling papers—appointment over.
He’d had countless patients—charming, abrasive, desperate. He never saw them as women. But Evelyn? There was something… Maybe their shared provincial roots, that clawing ambition.
He didn’t *want* to change her face. He liked it—expressive, faint lines artfully concealed. He’d tried to dissuade her. But she’d cling to that gilded life with everything she had.
Checking his Rolex, he headed for coffee. Another actress arrived later—same fears, same delusions.
Women came to hold onto rich husbands, toyboy lovers, fading careers. Men? Money trumped looks every time.
Evelyn returned days later with test results. Oliver skimmed the file, feeling her hopeful stare.
*Health perfect. Looks incredible. Eyes begging like a dog for treats. Fine—minimal work. Preserve what nature gave her.*
“All set,” he said aloud. “Here’s the checklist. No meds without telling me. Any allergies? No? Good. Fill this in honestly. Sign the consent forms—read them first. You’re warned of risks.” He slid the papers over.
Evelyn signed without reading. *Rushing. Her choice*, Oliver thought regretfully.
“Last chance to back out. Fast tomorrow. No food.”
He nearly shook her hand, but restrained himself.
Prep went smoothly. No surprises. Oliver prized his reputation—cut no corners. Minimal work planned. Still, surgery was unpredictable.
“Changed your mind?” he asked the night before.
“No. Just scared. Tomorrow? Finally.”
“You can still walk away.”
“No. I’m ready.” But doubt flickered in her eyes.
Next day, he marked incision lines with surgical pen. Like a sculptor planning cuts, seams, refinements.
“I look like a patchwork doll,” Evelyn murmured.
“Don’t talk. You’re fine. They’ll take you in now…”
On the table, she lay serene—Sleeping Beauty without makeup. Younger, yet every line more visible.
Oliver’Oliver’s scalpel hovered for a fraction too long before the anesthetist shouted, “Crash team—now!” and just like that, Evelyn slipped away, taking his peace with her.
