“Who would want someone like you?”
“Emily, don’t take my photo in profile. Don’t,” Olivia shot a furious glance at the photographer from their press team. “Why are you shooting from that angle?”
“Olivia, I’m photographing everyone,” Emily stammered, darting around the round table of honoured guests, snapping pictures with her camera. “I want everyone in the shots.”
“Only shoot me straight on, from that spot. Understood? Please. Only straight on, from there. Thanks,” Olivia clipped sharply. “Colleagues, let’s return to discussing the contract.”
The guests exchanged surprised glances, but no one said a word. She was the boss, and she could do as she pleased—even ordering the photographer around during a multi-million-pound deal.
Emily now aimed more carefully, ensuring Olivia always faced the camera and never appeared in profile. Colleagues had warned her about this before, but she’d forgotten—and now she’d been scolded. She honestly didn’t see what was so wrong with profile shots. They looked fine.
But for Olivia, “fine” or “normal” wasn’t enough. Everything had to be perfect. Her mother had always told 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 perfect.”
“Mum, I’m trying so hard.”
“I know, darling. You try, but not enough. You went to school in a poorly ironed blouse. How could you? Why didn’t you press it like I told you?”
“I did, but the creases stayed. I thought no one would notice,” Olivia mumbled, lowering her head.
“If it’s well ironed, no one notices. If it’s not, everyone does. Remember that.”
“Alright, Mum.” Olivia sniffled, hurt and terrified of disappointing her.
“And stop rubbing your nose, Olivia. It’s already enormous. When you cry, it takes up half your face. How did you end up like this… and that bump, too. When’s your school photo day?”
“Tuesday.”
“Then practise in front of the mirror—how to sit, how to look at the camera so your nose doesn’t seem so huge.”
“Fine, I will.”
“Look straight and tilt your head slightly. That’s better. Go on, try it now. Yes, like that.”
Tears brimming, Olivia turned her head in the mirror, but no angle made her nose look smaller. If her mother hadn’t mentioned it so often, maybe she wouldn’t have noticed it at all.
During these talks, her mother often repeated: “If you’re not perfect, no one will marry you. You’ll be alone forever.”
That terrified Olivia most of all. So she worked relentlessly to become that perfect woman. She starved her naturally curvy body with diets and runs—no pastries, ice cream, or pizza. Only despised buckwheat, chicken breast, green salads, and tea. She aced her studies, memorising every word. A worthy man wouldn’t want someone fat and stupid. She had to be beautiful, intelligent, educated, and well-paid. Who wanted a gold-digger?
Olivia graduated with a degree in economics, took marketing courses, and constantly upskilled. She spoke two languages, understood nutrition, art, literature, and painting. She aimed to be the perfect professional and the perfect wife.
She met Paul after university. He was decent; she was perfect—tall, slim, toned, flawless manicure, hair styled strand by strand, crisp shirts, sharp trousers, elegant jewellery. And Olivia cooked brilliantly, knowing the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach.
Paul came from an ordinary family, with no exceptional talents or prospects. He worked as a solicitor, buried in dull paperwork, never reaching for the stars. But he was handsome—tall, blond, blue-eyed, with delicate pianist’s fingers. A perfect woman needed a perfect man, right? He noticed her, and Olivia, fearing loneliness, reeled him in quickly. Paul didn’t resist—his wife worked, kept the house spotless, cooked well, and doted on him. He was always fed, wore pressed clothes, and polished shoes. Together, they looked like a picture-perfect family from a TV drama.
Two years after their wedding, Olivia and Paul had a son. Olivia took charge here too, buying a book: *How to Raise the Perfect Child* and following it rigidly. She planned meals, bought educational toys, dressed him in trendy clothes, and splurged on the most expensive baby gear—God forbid people thought they couldn’t afford the best!
Olivia craved validation from colleagues, friends, neighbours, even strangers. As if she needed proof she was perfect—just as her mother had demanded. She bought a high-end phone and started social media. No candid shots or makeup-free morning videos. For one post, she took a million photos, then heavily edited them. She arranged professional family shoots, filling her feeds with happy images: her, her loving husband, and their brilliant son.
Paul loathed these sessions—his wife became unbearable on shoot days.
“Don’t photograph me in profile,” she often told the photographer. “And not from that angle. Don’t.”
“Let me frame it as I see fit. If you look at each other, it’ll be lovely.”
“No, do as I say. No profile shots. I’m paying you. Follow my instructions.” When it came to her photos, Olivia was harsh.
After shoots, an exhausted Paul would say,
“Why do you do that, Liv? Why snap at the photographer like he’s a naughty schoolboy?”
“Because I won’t use photos I can’t show. If he takes bad ones, they’ll just get deleted.”
“What’s so bad? We’re all dressed nicely, Tommy and I are groomed, you’ve got perfect hair and makeup. What could go wrong?”
“Plenty, Paul. Like him capturing my nose in profile, highlighting that awful bump.”
“Your nose is fine. The bump’s fine. Why obsess over it? People live with worse.”
“*Fine*. Great. It should be *perfect*!”
Eventually, Olivia saved up and decided to fix her nose—shrink it, file it down, make it perfect. But doctors refused. Medically, rhinoplasty was too risky.
“Doctor, I need it done. How much? I’ll pay.”
“It’s not about money, Olivia. See this scan? No surgeon would take the risk. You might lose nasal function. I can’t allow it—nor would my colleagues.”
After several consultations, Olivia accepted she’d live with her imperfect nose forever. Paul stopped reassuring her, but her ageing mother never let up, still critiquing her grown daughter.
“Olivia, I saw your new photo. You’ve put on weight.”
“No, Mum, I track everything. I couldn’t have.”
“Well, you look off. And your hair colour—so dull.”
“I just had it done. I thought it looked nice.”
“The boys came out well. Paul’s still handsome. But you… Olivia, keep up, don’t slack off, hear me? Or he’ll replace you.”
“Mum, don’t say that,” Olivia—strong, independent—suddenly felt like that schoolgirl practising for photo day. Her mother’s words stung. “Paul and I love each other. We’ve got a family, a son. It’s fine.”
“Olivia, I warned you. Men don’t want frumpy, ugly, overweight women. Who’d want a slob? Keep up, or you’ll be alone raising that child.”
“I’ve got to go, Mum,” Olivia sighed. “Things to do at home.”
“What? You were staying overnight. We barely see you.”
“Plans changed. Forgot something important.”
A lie, of course. She just wanted to leave.
Though she had planned to stay. Tommy was at his grandparents’, Paul was working late on a project. She’d meant to give him space, but now she craved home—safety. She was exhausted.
Olivia didn’t call Paul. Let him work. She quietly turned the key to their flat. Hmm—Paul was awake, talking. Probably on a work call. Then she listened closer. No—a woman’s voice. From their bedroom.
“Tired, my love… It’s hard living with her.”
“Exhausting. And boring. Like living in a shop window. Always worrying what people think.”
“I get it. Why not divorce?”
“I want to, but I can’t. What we have is love. With her, it’s just… different.”
“Money?”
“You like nice things, don’t you? Clothes, good food.”
“I do. But I hate sharing you, Paul. It’s been too long.”
“I know. But think of my marriage as business. With you, it’s real.”
The woman laughed, then kissing sounds followed. Stunned, Olivia stood frozen before flinging the door open. The woman shrieked; Paul paled.
“Liv! You’re back early?”
“What is this?! Paul, how could you?! You
