“How old are you?” Plastic surgeon Dr. James Whitmore fixed his gaze on Evangeline’s striking face.
She blinked, smiled coyly, then met his eyes head-on. He’d seen it all before—the fluttering lashes, the nervous glances, the little feminine tricks women employed the moment age was mentioned. Evangeline was no different.
“And how old would you say I look?” she teased.
His expression remained unreadable.
“Twenty-nine,” she lied smoothly. Something about turning thirty always unsettled women.
“Thirty-nine, to be precise,” Whitmore corrected flatly, though out of kindness, he’d shaved off two years.
“You see right through me, Doctor,” Evangeline said, appreciating his tact.
“Why lie to me? I’m your surgeon, not a suitor. I need your age for medical reasons. If you were truly twenty-nine, you wouldn’t be here. You look remarkable for your age—better than most women half your age would envy.”
“You’re terrifying. Seeing straight through us like an X-ray,” she fluttered again.
“That’s my job. And my experience.”
“Your wife is lucky. You understand women so well.”
Whitmore almost said he wasn’t married but stopped himself.
“So why are you here? You don’t need surgery—not yet, anyway.”
Her eyes sparkled at the compliment.
“And at what cost do I keep this up, you might ask? Yes, I have a wealthy husband. I can afford every luxury—facials, treatments, miracle creams that cost a fortune. But I’m exhausted. Hours at the gym, then lying on a table while they slather anti-aging potions on my face. I’m not living—I’m fighting time itself. I’m tired,” she repeated.
“Then let time pass. There’s beauty in every age. Why chase being something you’re not?” Whitmore gave her one of his rare, warm smiles.
“Easy for you to say. You’re a man. You don’t wake up counting wrinkles or calories, skipping meals to keep your figure. Who pushes us to these extremes?”
“Who does?” he humored her. He liked her—her honesty, her fire.
“Men. You feel validated with a younger woman on your arm. The older you get, the younger we must be,” Evangeline scoffed, bitterness flickering in her eyes.
“I grew up in a tiny market town. Mother worked at a poultry plant, same as Dad. When it shut down, she took a job as a hospital cleaner; he ended up in a boiler room. No jobs there, just despair. Dad drank. I hated it—dreamed of escaping to London, becoming an actress.” Her voice softened with memory.
Whitmore understood. He’d fled a dead-end town too.
“I failed my drama school audition. Ended up working at a market stall. Then luck struck—a woman noticed me. I may have overcharged her,” she admitted with a wry smile. “She introduced me to modelling. Not runway, mind you. That’s where I met my husband. Young, reckless…” Her gaze drifted. He didn’t interrupt.
“He fell hard, proposed. I said yes. He was older, but I didn’t care. I’d won the lottery—a London flat, a country house, money, connections. Everything I’d ever wanted.”
She sighed. “His son from his first marriage is my age, lives abroad. My husband didn’t want more children. I accepted it. Restaurants, designer clothes, holidays. Women envied me. I’d escaped—I’d never go back.”
A pause. “Three days ago, I visited his office unannounced. Brought his favourite custard doughnuts and coffee.”
Her voice turned brittle. “His secretary wasn’t at her desk. No—she was in his office. They hadn’t even locked the door. I left the doughnuts on her desk and walked out. It was…” She covered her face.
Whitmore waited. He’d heard versions of this story too many times. Women confessed to him like he was a priest.
When she dropped her hands, her eyes were dry. Vulnerability wasn’t her style—life had taught her to keep her mask intact.
“I knew he strayed. But that day, it hit me: time is stealing my youth, and there are always younger women ready to take my place. They have what I’ve lost. You’re right—I’m forty. I can’t compete. Men like him want pretty, vacant girls. If he leaves me, I won’t get a second ticket out. I refuse to go back to that life. I’d rather die.”
Her raw despair stunned him.
“Could you walk away from London? Your house, your career, your money? Move to some backwater, become an ordinary surgeon?”
Whitmore stayed silent. She hadn’t expected an answer.
“Fine. Here’s the list of pre-op tests. Some can be done here. Then we’ll proceed.”
Her eyes flared with hope. She stood with sudden, girlish energy.
“Think carefully. Surgery is risky—especially on the face. Does your husband know?”
“No. But I’ll think of something,” she said brightly.
“You won’t look presentable afterwards.”
“How long?” Fear flashed, then vanished.
“Four weeks, maybe more. Everyone heals differently.”
“I’ll say I was mugged,” she decided, though her voice wavered.
“Even so, the gym won’t stop. Your face may change, but not your body. Results fade. You’ll be back under the knife—just like those actresses addicted to fillers. Every surgery leaves scars, inside and out. Remember Michael Jackson?”
She flinched but composed herself. “You’re trying to scare me. It won’t work. I’ve made up my mind.”
Whitmore exhaled. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”
As she left, he lingered on her file. She was healthy, beautiful—she didn’t need this.
—
The next morning, he marked incision lines on her face like a sculptor.
“I look like a patchwork doll,” she murmured.
“Don’t speak. You’re perfect.”
On the table, she looked serene—youthful without makeup, though faint lines showed. His scalpel hovered.
Then the anaesthetist shouted, “Crash! She’s coding—step back!”
Whitmore froze. He hadn’t even begun. The monitor screamed. Seconds later:
“Time of death…”
Impossible. He’d warned her. Had she lied about her health?
“Allergy to the anaesthetic,” the anaesthetist muttered later, pouring whisky. “She hid it. Your paperwork’s clean.”
Whitmore drank mechanically. Investigations would follow. Suspension, maybe worse. But the crushing weight was Evangeline—gone.
“She said she’d die before going back to that town,” he whispered.
“Her choice,” came the tired reply.
—
The next day, a hulking, red-faced man stormed into his office, flanked by bodyguards.
“You killed my wife!”
Whitmore stayed calm. “She reacted to the anaesthetic. She lied about her allergies.” He slid the autopsy report forward and played their first consultation’s recording—including her confession about his infidelity.
The man paled. “I’ll ruin you.”
“You drove her to this. She died because she feared you’d replace her.”
The threat hung in the air as he left: “If the law doesn’t bury you, I will.”
The investigation dragged, but no negligence was found. Evangeline’s omission sealed her fate.
Whitmore quit London. Took a humble post in a rural hospital, saving lives instead of reshaping them. He married a local nurse, had a son. When she mentioned a tummy tuck after their second child, he refused—fiercely.
Some nights, he dreamed of Evangeline on the table, her face crumbling along the green incision lines.
But he never returned to London.
**Lesson:** Chasing youth is a race against time—one you’ll always lose. True worth isn’t in a mirror, but in the life you build, not the one you preserve.
