I took a deep breath, the mask filtering the air. I forced my eyes to crinkle in a professional smile she couldn’t see.
“I understand completely,” I said, my voice smooth as steel. “We can certainly achieve a… striking resemblance. I will make you a masterpiece.”
Chloe beamed, a shark smelling blood. “Good. Money isn’t an issue. He gave me his card.”
She slid a sleek, black card across the glass. Richard Vance. Vance Corp.
My husband was paying for his mistress to replace me. He was funding his own haunting.
“Excellent,” I whispered, picking up the card. It felt heavy, like a weapon. “The nurse will take you to prep. I’ll see you in the OR.”
Chloe signed the cnsent forms without reading a single word. She stood up, checking her reflection in the window, preening.
As the nurse led her away, I sat alone in the silence. The rage didn’t burn; it froze. It crystallized into a plan so perfect, so symmetrical, that it felt like destiny.
Chapter 2: The Anesthesia of Ignorance
The prep room was quiet. I washed my hands, the ritualistic scrubbing grounding me. Finger to elbow. Scrub. Rinse. Repeat.
My phone buzzed on the metal tray. A text from Richard.
Richard: Stuck in meetings late tonight, babe. Mergers are a nightmare. Don’t wait up. Love you.
I stared at the screen. He wasn’t in a meeting. He was probably at a bar, or a hotel, waiting for his “upgrade” to wake up.
I looked through the observation window. Chloe was lying on the table, the anesthesia already taking hold. Her eyes were fluttering shut. She looked peaceful. Innocent.
But innocence is an action, not a look. And she had chosen violence.
I walked into the Operating Room. The lights were bright, casting no shadows.
I picked up the marking pen. Usually, I follow the Golden Ratio—phi, the divine proportion. I measure distances to the millimeter to create objective beauty.
