“Who would want someone like you?”
“Eleanor, don’t photograph me in profile. I don’t want it,” Olivia shot a furious glance at the press photographer from their team. “Why are you shooting from that angle?”
“Olivia, I’m just taking pictures of everyone,” stammered Eleanor, who had been darting around the round table of distinguished guests, snapping photos. “I want everyone included.”
“Only shoot me straight on, from this angle. Understood? Please. Only from the front, right here. Thank you,” Olivia clipped sharply. “Colleagues, let’s return to discussing the contract.”
The guests exchanged surprised glances, but no one dared speak. She was the director, after all—she could do as she pleased, even dictate a photographer’s work mid-million-pound deal.
Eleanor now aimed more carefully, ensuring Olivia faced the camera head-on, never in profile. Her colleagues had warned her about this long ago, but she’d forgotten—now she’d earned a scolding. She honestly didn’t see the harm in a side profile. It all looked fine to her.
But for Olivia, “fine” was never enough. Everything had to be perfect. Her mother had always told her so.
“Olivia, you must be perfect. Perfect for a husband, for children, for your colleagues, for the world. People should look at you and say, ‘She’s flawless.’”
“Mum, I try so hard.”
“I know, darling. You try, but not hard enough. You went to school in a wrinkled blouse. How could you? Why didn’t you iron it properly?”
“I did iron it, but the creases wouldn’t go. I thought no one would notice.”
“If it’s done well, no one notices. If it’s done poorly, everyone does. Remember that.”
“All right, Mum,” Olivia sniffled, heart heavy with the fear of disappointing her.
“And don’t rub your nose, Olivia. It’s already too big. When you cry, it takes up half your face. How did you end up with such a thing? And that bump… When are your school photos?”
“Tuesday.”
“Well, practice in the mirror—how to sit, how to face the camera so your nose doesn’t look enormous.”
“Fine, I will.”
“Look straight ahead and tilt your head slightly. That’s better. Go on, try it now. Yes, like that.”
Tears welling, Olivia turned her head this way and that, but the bump on her nose seemed unmissable from every angle. If only her mother hadn’t pointed it out so often—perhaps she wouldn’t have noticed at all.
During these talks, her mother always said, “If you’re not perfect, no man will marry you. You’ll be alone forever.”
That terrified Olivia most of all. So she worked tirelessly—starving her naturally curvy frame with strict diets and punishing runs. No pastries, no ice cream, no pizza. Only dreaded porridge, grilled chicken, green salads, and tea. She aced her studies, memorising every textbook. A respectable man wouldn’t want someone plump and dim-witted. She had to be beautiful, intelligent, educated, and well-paid. Who needed a kept woman?
Olivia graduated with honours in economics, took marketing courses, and never stopped improving. She spoke two languages, knew art, literature, and painting. She aimed to be the perfect professional—and the perfect wife.
She met Patrick after university. He was decent—she was immaculate: tall, slender, polished. Manicured nails, hair styled strand by strand, crisp shirts, tailored trousers, elegant jewellery. She cooked brilliantly, too—the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, after all.
Patrick came from an ordinary family, without grand ambitions. A solicitor, he shuffled dull paperwork, no great shakes. But he was handsome—tall, blond, blue-eyed, with pianist’s fingers. Beside a flawless woman, shouldn’t there be a flawless man? He noticed her, and Olivia—terrified of loneliness—swept him up at once. Patrick didn’t resist: his wife worked, kept the house spotless, cooked beautifully, and doted on him. He was always fed, his clothes pressed, his shoes gleaming. Together, they looked like a picture from a happy-family sitcom.
Two years after their wedding, their son was born. Olivia took charge here, too. She even bought a book: *How to Raise the Perfect Child*, following it religiously. She planned meals, bought educational toys, dressed him in the trendiest outfits—heaven forbid anyone think they couldn’t afford the best!
Olivia cared deeply what colleagues, friends, neighbours—even strangers—thought. As if she needed constant proof she was perfect… just as her mother had demanded. She bought a high-end phone and curated her social media. No casual snaps, no bare-faced morning clips. Every post required a hundred takes, then heavy editing. She staged professional photoshoots for the family—happy, polished images of her, her doting husband, and their brilliant son.
Patrick loathed these sessions. His wife became unbearable on shoot days.
“Don’t photograph me in profile,” Olivia would remind the photographer. “And not from that angle. Don’t.”
“Let me compose the shot as I see fit. If you look at each other, it’ll be lovely.”
“No. Do as I say. No profiles. I’m paying you. Follow my instructions.” When it came to her photos, Olivia was cold and exacting.
Afterwards, an exhausted Patrick would sigh, “Olivia, why must you speak to him like that? You treated him like a schoolboy.”
“Because I won’t use photos I can’t show. If he takes them wrong, they’re useless.”
“What could possibly be wrong? We’re all dressed well, Tom and I are groomed, your hair and makeup are done. What’s the problem?”
“Plenty. Like my nose in profile—that hideous bump.”
“Your nose is fine. The bump is fine. Why have you obsessed over it your whole life? People live with worse.”
“‘Fine’ isn’t good enough. It should be perfect!”
Eventually, Olivia saved a fortune and resolved to fix her nose—shrink it, file it down, perfect it. But doctors refused. Medically, rhinoplasty was too risky.
“Doctor, I need this. Name your price.”
“It’s not about money, Olivia. Look at these scans. Any surgery could leave you unable to breathe. I can’t take that risk. No reputable surgeon would.”
After several consultations, Olivia accepted she’d live forever with an imperfect nose. Patrick stopped insisting she looked fine, but her ageing mother never relented.
“Olivia, I saw your latest photo. You’ve gained weight.”
“No, Mum, I watch every calorie. 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. Time passes, but Patrick’s still handsome. You, though… Olivia, keep yourself up, or he’ll replace you.”
“Mum, how can you say that?” The strong, independent Olivia felt like that schoolgirl again, practising poses for picture day. Her mother’s words cut deep. “Patrick and I love each other. We have a family, a son—everything’s fine.”
“I’m warning you, men don’t want slovenly, unattractive, overweight women. Who’d want a frump? Take care, unless you fancy raising that child alone.”
“I should go, Mum.” Olivia sighed wearily. “Things to do at home.”
“What? You were staying the night. We never see you.”
“Changed my mind. Forgot something important.”
A lie, of course. She just needed to leave.
She had planned to stay. Tom was with his grandparents, Patrick was working overnight on a case. She’d meant to give him space—but now, she craved home. Safety. Exhaustion weighed on her.
She didn’t call Patrick. Let him work in peace. Quietly, she turned the key in their flat. Hmm—he was awake, voices murmuring. Probably a video call with colleagues. Then she listened closer. No—this wasn’t work. A woman’s voice. From their bedroom.
“You’re tired, darling… Living with her must be hard.”
“It is. Hard and dull. Like living in a shop window. One wrong word, one wrong thought.”
“I understand. Why not divorce?”
“I want to, but I can’t. What we have is love. What I have with her is… transactional.”
“Money?”
“You enjoy nice things, don’t you? Good clothes, good food.”
“I do. But I don’t enjoy sharing you, Patrick. It’s been too long.”
“I know. But think of it this way—my marriage is business. Ours is real.”
The woman laughed. Then—kissing. Stunned, Olivia stood frozen before flinging the bedroom door open. The woman shrieked. Patrick paled.
“Olivia! You’re home early?”
“What is this?! Patrick, how could you?! Who is she?!”
