“Who would want someone like you?”
“Emma, don’t photograph me in profile. Just don’t,” Olivia shot a furious glance at the press officer snapping pictures. “Why are you shooting from that angle?”
“Mrs. Whitmore, I’m just capturing everyone,” Emma stammered, darting around the round table of honoured guests, camera clicking. “I want everyone in the shots.”
“Only straight on, and from there. Understood? Thank you,” Olivia clipped out sharply before turning back to the group. “Colleagues, let’s return to the contract discussion.”
The guests exchanged puzzled glances, but no one dared speak. Olivia was the boss, and she could command even a photographer mid-million-pound deal if she pleased.
Emma adjusted her aim carefully now, ensuring Olivia always faced the lens head-on, never in profile. Her colleagues had warned her, but she’d forgotten—and now she’d been scolded. She didn’t see the harm in a side shot. It looked fine to her.
But for Olivia Whitmore, “fine” was never enough. Everything had to be perfect. Her mother had drilled it into her:
“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.’”
“Mum, I try so hard.”
“I know, darling. But not hard enough. You went to school in a wrinkled blouse. Unacceptable. Why didn’t you iron it properly?”
“I did, but the creases wouldn’t go. I thought no one would notice.”
“If it’s perfect, no one notices. If it’s flawed, everyone does. Remember that.”
Olivia sniffled, heart heavy with the fear of disappointing her.
“And stop rubbing your nose, Olivia. It’s already too big. When you cry, it takes up half your face. Why did you have to inherit that dreadful bump? When’s your school photo?”
“Next Tuesday.”
“Practice in the mirror. Learn how to tilt your head so it doesn’t look enormous.”
Through tears, Olivia turned her face this way and that, but the bump seemed unavoidable. Perhaps 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,” her mother warned. “You’ll be alone forever.”
That terrified Olivia most of all. So she starved her naturally curvy frame with diets and runs—no pies, no ice cream, no pizza. Just hated oats, grilled chicken, salads, and tea. She aced her studies, mastering every subject. A worthy man wouldn’t want someone dull or plump. She had to be beautiful, clever, educated, and well-paid—who’d want a kept woman?
She graduated in economics, took marketing courses, and climbed the ranks. Fluent in two languages, versed in art, literature, and nutrition. The perfect professional, the perfect wife.
She met Paul after university. He was decent—she was impeccable: tall, slender, manicured, hair immaculate, crisp shirts, tailored trousers, elegant jewellery. And she cooked superbly. The way to a man’s heart, after all.
Paul, from an ordinary family, was unremarkable—a solicitor drafting dull contracts. But handsome: tall, fair-haired, blue-eyed. Beside the perfect woman, he looked the part. He noticed her; she, terrified of solitude, seized him. Paul didn’t mind—she worked, kept the house spotless, cooked, doted on him. He was always fed, pressed, polished. They looked straight out of a glossy magazine.
Two years later, their son was born. Olivia bought a book: *Raising the Perfect Child*. Strict diets, educational toys, designer baby clothes—heaven forbid anyone think they couldn’t afford the best.
Appearances mattered desperately—colleagues, friends, strangers. As if she needed proof she was perfect, just as her mother demanded. She bought a top-tier phone, curated her socials. No candid shots, no bare-faced mornings. One post required a hundred takes, then heavy editing. Professional family shoots were frequent—happy snaps of her, devoted Paul, their brilliant boy.
Paul loathed these sessions. Olivia became unbearable.
“Not in profile,” she’d snap. “Not from that angle.”
“Let me compose the shot naturally. If you look at each other, it’ll be lovely.”
“Do as I say. I’m paying you.”
Afterwards, exhausted, Paul would sigh.
“Why were you so harsh? You scolded him like a child.”
“I won’t use bad photos. He’d take awful shots, and they’d be wasted.”
“What’s awful? We’re dressed well, our hair’s done, you’re made up.”
“Plenty. Like my nose in profile—that horrid bump.”
“Your nose is fine. Why fuss over it your whole life?”
“‘Fine’ isn’t good enough. It must be perfect.”
Eventually, she saved a fortune for rhinoplasty. But doctors refused—medically unsafe.
“I’ll pay whatever it costs.”
“It’s not about money, Mrs. Whitmore. The risks are too high. You might never breathe properly again.”
After consultations, she resigned herself to the “flaw.” Paul stopped reassuring her. Her ageing mother didn’t.
“Olivia, that new photo—you’ve gained weight.”
“No, Mum. I watch everything.”
“You look off. And your hair’s dull.”
“I just had it done. It’s fine.”
“The boys look well. Paul’s as handsome as ever. You’ve let yourself go. Don’t slack, or he’ll replace you.”
Olivia, strong and independent, felt like that schoolgirl again, practicing poses. Tears welled. “We love each other. We have a family.”
“Men won’t tolerate frumpy wives. Stay sharp, or you’ll raise that child alone.”
“I should go,” Olivia said wearily. “Things to do.”
“But you were staying over. We hardly see you.”
“Plans changed.”
A lie. She just needed escape.
She’d meant to stay. Their son was with his grandparents; Paul was working late. But now she craved home. Exhausted, she didn’t call him. Let him work.
Quietly, she turned the key. Paul was awake—talking. A video call with colleagues? Then she heard a woman’s voice. From their bedroom.
“Poor darling… Living with her must be exhausting.”
“It is. Like living in a shop window. Everything for show.”
“Why not leave?”
“I want to, but I can’t. What we have is love. With her, it’s just… business.”
“Money?”
“You enjoy the perks, don’t you? The clothes, the meals.”
A laugh. Kissing sounds.
Olivia flung the door open. The woman gasped; Paul paled.
“Liv—you’re home early?”
“What is this?!”
The other woman—plump, short-haired, chipped nails—smiled coolly.
“Hello, Olivia. Nice to meet you properly.”
“Who are you?! How dare you—”
“Victoria. Paul and I love each other. You? You’re just a pretty picture. Empty.”
Paul sat silent, head bowed. Rage boiled in Olivia—not just at the betrayal, but at Victoria’s confidence. Caught, yet unashamed of her size, her messy hair, her audacity. She carried herself like royalty. And in that moment, it was Victoria who seemed regal—not polished, perfect Olivia.
Victoria dressed calmly and left, head high. Olivia and Paul talked for hours—no shouting. Perfect families didn’t make scenes.
“How could you pick her? Is she better?”
“She’s real, Liv. You’re a mannequin. I’m tired of the act.”
“Should I get fat, then? Stop caring?”
“I just want you to live. We never have, thanks to your rules. You care more about your nose than our son’s happiness.”
“What’s wrong with his schooling? He’s at the best in London.”
“He’s miserable. Can’t fit in. You’re too busy playing perfect to notice.”
She scoffed. “As his father, you could’ve told me. Or were you… preoccupied?”
“The problem is you’re too perfect. Not a wife—a prop.”
She couldn’t fathom it. She’d spent her life becoming this. And Paul hated it.
“We’re done,” she said.
“What? You’d divorce me?”
“Yes.”
“What about your perfect-wife image? Our picture-perfect family?”
“Enough pretending.”
“I won’t agree,” Paul blustered, scared of losing his comfortable life. “You’ll lose your status. Your perfect life. Ready for that?”
“No. But I won’t forgive you. Go enjoy your ‘real’ life.”
She cried all night, took sudden leave from work, vanished for two weeks. Projects crumbled; clients raged. She ignored them. She wept, packed Paul’s things, wandered London alone, ate pizza and
