**Charlotte**
“How old are you?” Plastic surgeon Dr. Edward Whitmore fixed his gaze on Charlotte’s striking face.
She blinked, flashed a coy smile, then glanced away before meeting his eyes again. He’d seen it all before—the nervous tics, the flustered looks, the little tricks women played the moment their age came up. As soon as he asked, they remembered they were sitting across from a young, attractive man. Charlotte was no exception.
“What would you guess?” she teased.
His expression remained stern.
“Twenty-nine,” she lied without missing a beat. Something about turning thirty always sent women into a panic.
“Thirty-nine, to be precise,” he corrected flatly, though out of pity, he’d shaved off two years.
“You see right through me, Doctor,” she replied, appreciating his tact.
“Why try to fool me? I’m a surgeon, not a potential suitor. If you were really twenty-nine, you wouldn’t be here. You look fantastic for your age—better than most. Plenty of women would kill to be in your shoes.”
“You’re terrifying. Like a human X-ray,” Charlotte said, fluttering her lashes theatrically.
“Experience, that’s all.”
“Your wife’s lucky. You understand women.”
Whitmore nearly mentioned he was unmarried but thought better of it.
“So why are you here? You look incredible—no work needed. Not yet, anyway.”
The compliment sparked interest in her eyes.
“Don’t you want to know what it costs to keep it this way? Yes, I have a wealthy husband. I have access to the best treatments money can buy—and trust me, it adds up. But I’m tired of spending hours in the gym, then half my life on a cosmetic clinic’s table, slathered in miracle youth serums. I’m not living—I’m just chasing time. I’m exhausted.”
“Then let time pass,” Whitmore said gently. “There’s beauty in every age. You don’t need to look younger than you are.” He gifted her one of his rare, dazzling smiles.
“Easy for you to say. You’re a man. You don’t wake up counting wrinkles and calories, starving yourself for a figure that won’t last. And who makes us do it? You lot!”
“Do enlighten me,” he humoured her.
He liked Charlotte. There was something refreshingly real about her—witty, lively, effortlessly charming.
“Men like you, that’s who. You feel better about yourselves with a young, pretty thing on your arm. She’s your trophy—proof you’ve still got it. And the older you get, the younger the women get.” A bitter smirk twisted her lips, but even then, she was radiant.
“I’m from a tiny town up north—Bradford. Mum worked at a poultry plant, Dad too. Then it shut down, and she scrubbed floors at the hospital while he stoked boilers. Jobs were scarce. Dad drank, obviously. I hated it—dreamed of escaping to London, becoming an actress.” Her gaze turned distant.
Whitmore understood. He’d come from a nowhere town himself.
“Didn’t get into drama school. Ended up behind a market stall instead.” The admission stung; he could tell. “I won’t bore you with how I scraped by. But luck struck—some posh woman took a shine to me. I’d overcharged her, ironically. She got me into fashion. Not the catwalk kind—the *other* kind. That’s where I met my husband. Young, reckless…” Her voice trailed off. Whitmore stayed silent.
“He fell hard. Proposed. I said yes—didn’t blink at the age gap. Hit the jackpot, really. A London flat, a country house, connections, money. Everything I ever wanted.”
There was a son from his first marriage—her age, lived abroad. No kids for her. She’d made peace with that. Restaurants, designer labels, holidays. Life was good.
“Three days ago, I popped into his office as a surprise. He loves doughnuts—the pink-iced ones. 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. Didn’t even lock the door. They didn’t see me. I left the doughnuts on her desk and walked out.” Her voice wobbled. “It was vile.”
She buried her face in her hands. Whitmore 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 slid back into place. Vulnerability wasn’t her style—life had taught her to keep a poker face.
“I wasn’t naive. I knew there were others. But this time, it scared me. Time’s ticking, and I’m not getting younger—but those girls with their endless legs and zero standards? They are.”
“Everyone wants money. They’ve got what I’ve lost—youth. You’re right, I’m forty. I can’t compete. Men like him want young, pretty, and dumb. If he tosses me aside, there’s no second jackpot. Once you’ve had luxury, you can’t go back. I’d rather die than return to that life.”
Her raw despair stunned him.
“Could *you* walk away from London? The house, the car, the money? Live in some backwater, playing GP?”
Silence. She didn’t expect an answer.
“Fine. Here’s your pre-op checklist. Some tests can be done here. Come back when you’re ready.”
Her eyes lit up. She stood with effortless grace—still every inch the society wife.
“Just think it over. Surgery’s a risk, especially on the face. Does your husband know?”
“No. But I’ll think of something.”
“Post-op, you’ll look… well, rough.”
“How long?” Fear flickered, then vanished.
“A month, maybe more. Varies.”
“I’ll say I was mugged.” The lie lacked conviction.
“Fair enough. But the gym’s non-negotiable. Surgery won’t fix everything. And it’s temporary. Look at Hollywood—once they start, they’re hooked. Your body *will* fight back. Remember Michael Jackson?”
Her composure held, but he caught the panic in her eyes.
“I know what you’re doing. It won’t work. I’m *done* fearing age, indifference, the cost of upkeep. Surgery’s the easier fix.”
“Pointless arguing, isn’t it?” Whitmore stood. They were the same height. For a second, they just looked at each other. He knew she fancied him. Reluctantly, she glanced away, pulled an envelope from her bag, and set it on the desk.
“Pay at reception,” he said briskly.
Back to doctor and patient. He busied himself with paperwork—appointment over.
He’d met hundreds of women in that chair. Never saw them as anything but patients. But Charlotte? Different. Maybe it was the shared northern roots, the hunger for more.
Her face didn’t need fixing. He liked it as it was—alive, expressive, faint lines artfully concealed. He’d tried to dissuade her. But she’d cling to her golden life with everything she had.
Days later, she returned with test results. He skimmed the file, sensing her hopeful stare.
*Perfect health. Stunning. Eyes begging like a puppy for treats. Fine—minimal work. Preserve what nature gave her.*
“Alright,” he said aloud. “Here’s what to bring. No meds without my say-so. Any allergies?”
“None.”
“Sign these.” He slid over consent forms.
She scribbled without reading. *Rushing. Her choice.* He checked she’d signed them all.
“You’ve got till tomorrow to change your mind. Fast from midnight.”
He wanted to shake her hand, touch her—stopped himself.
Pre-op went smoothly. No red flags. Whitmore prided himself on precision—prep was half the battle. Minimal intervention planned. But surgery was never without risk.
“Still sure?” he asked the night before.
“Petrified. But yes.”
“Last chance to back out.”
“No. I’m ready.” But doubt flashed in her eyes.
The next morning, he marked incision lines like a sculptor planning cuts.
“I look like a patchwork doll,” Charlotte murmured.
“Don’t talk. You’re fine.” They wheeled her away.
On the table, she lay serene—no makeup, younger yet more fragile.
His scalpel hovered. Then—
“Crash! Get back!” the anaesthetist yelled.
The monitor screamed. Whitmore staggered back, stunned. *Healthy. No cuts yet.*
“Time of death—”
*No. Impossible. I warned her.* Had she lied? Hidden something?
“Not your fault,” the anaesthetist said later, pouring brandy. “Allergy.The next spring, Whitmore took his son to a park in Bradford and watched the boy chase pigeons, thinking how Charlotte would’ve laughed at the irony—that in the end, he was the one who’d let go of everything.
