“Who would want someone like you?”
“Emma, don’t take my photo from the side. Just don’t,” Olivia shot a sharp glance at the press photographer. “Why would you even shoot from that angle?”
“Miss Olivia, I photograph everyone,” stammered Emma, who had been darting around the circular table of distinguished guests, snapping pictures. “I just want everyone to be in the shots.”
“Only straight on, from that angle. Understood? Please. Just straight on, from there. Thank you,” Olivia clipped out before turning back to the room. “Colleagues, shall we return to discussing the contract?”
The guests exchanged uneasy glances, but no one dared speak. Olivia was the head of the firm, and she could do as she pleased—even dictate terms to a photographer in the middle of sealing a multimillion-pound deal.
Emma adjusted her approach, ensuring Olivia faced the camera head-on, never in profile. The warning had come from colleagues long ago, but she’d forgotten—and now she’d been scolded. She didn’t see the harm in a side profile; it looked fine to her. But for Olivia, “fine” was never enough. Everything had to be perfect. Her mother had always insisted:
“Olivia, you must be perfect. Perfect for a husband, for children, for colleagues—for the world. People should look at you and say, ‘She’s flawless.’”
“Mummy, I try so hard.”
“I know, darling. But not hard enough. You went to school in a wrinkled blouse. How could you? Didn’t I tell you to iron it?”
“I did iron it, but the creases wouldn’t go. I thought no one would notice,” Olivia mumbled, head bowed.
“If it’s ironed properly, no one notices. If it’s not, everyone does. Remember that.”
“Yes, Mummy.” Olivia sniffled, terrified of disappointing her.
“And stop rubbing your nose, Olivia. It’s already too big. When you cry, it swells halfway across your face. How did you end up with such a thing? And that bump—when is your school photo?”
“Tuesday.”
“Then practice in the mirror. Learn how to sit and angle your head so it doesn’t look so enormous.”
“All right, I will.”
“Look straight and tilt slightly. That’s better. Go on, try it now. Yes, just like that.”
Tears welling, Olivia turned her head this way and that, but no angle made the bump on her nose seem smaller. Had her mother never pointed it out, perhaps she wouldn’t have noticed.
“Without perfection, no man will marry you,” her mother often said. “You’ll end up alone forever.”
That fear drove Olivia. She starved her naturally curvy body with strict diets and punishing runs—no pastries, no ice cream, no pizza. Just loathed buckwheat, dry chicken, bitter greens, and endless cups of tea. She aced her studies, memorising every textbook. A worthy man wouldn’t want a dim, plump wife. She had to be beautiful, sharp, educated, and well-paid—who needed a dependent?
She graduated with top marks in economics, took marketing courses, and polished her skills relentlessly. Fluent in two languages, she could discuss nutrition, art, literature, anything. She aimed to be the perfect professional, the perfect wife.
She met Paul after university. He was decent—she was impeccable: tall, slender, manicured, coiffed, crisply ironed, stylishly accessorised. And she cooked brilliantly—the way to a man’s heart, after all.
Paul came from modest stock, unremarkable in ambition. A solicitor buried in dry paperwork, he wasn’t destined for greatness. But he was handsome—tall, fair-haired, blue-eyed, with elegant pianist’s fingers. Beside the perfect woman, shouldn’t there be a perfect man? He noticed her, and Olivia—terrified of solitude—swept him up. Paul didn’t object: his wife worked, kept the house spotless, cooked exquisitely, and doted on him. He was always fed, crisply dressed, shoes gleaming. Together, they looked like a magazine spread of marital bliss.
Two years later, their son was born. Olivia took charge, buying a manual titled *Raising the Perfect Child* and following it religiously. Organic meals, educational toys, designer baby clothes—heaven forbid anyone think they couldn’t afford the best.
Colleagues, friends, even strangers—their opinions mattered desperately. She needed validation that she was perfect, just as her mother demanded. Olivia bought a premium phone and curated her social media. No candid shots, no bare-faced morning posts. Each upload required a hundred takes and heavy editing. Professional family photoshoots became routine—smiling, polished, #blessed.
Paul despised these sessions. His wife turned into a tyrant.
“No profiles, and never from that angle,” she’d snap at the photographer.
“Let me compose the shot naturally. If you look at each other, it’ll be lovely—”
“Do as I say. I’m paying you.”
Afterward, exhausted, Paul would sigh, “Why be so harsh? You treated him like a schoolboy.”
“Because I won’t use bad photos. If he shoots my nose in profile, that hideous bump will show.”
“Your nose is fine. People live with worse.”
“‘Fine’? It should be *perfect*.”
Eventually, Olivia saved a fortune for rhinoplasty. But the doctors refused—medically too risky.
“Doctor, name your price.”
“It’s not about money, Miss Olivia. See here? Surgery could leave you unable to breathe. I won’t take that risk—nor will my colleagues.”
After multiple consultations, she accepted her imperfect nose. Paul stopped pretending it didn’t matter. But her ageing mother never relented.
“Olivia, that new photo—you’ve gained weight.”
“No, Mummy, I monitor everything. I couldn’t have.”
“You look off. And your hair colour—so dull.”
“I just had it done. I thought it was nice.”
“Paul and the boy look well. But you? Tsk. Don’t let yourself go, or he’ll replace you.”
“Mummy, please.” The strong, accomplished Olivia shrank back into the girl practising poses before the mirror. “We love each other. We have a family.”
“Men won’t tolerate slovenly, plain, fat wives. Who’d want that? Stay sharp, or you’ll be alone.”
“I should go.”
“But you were staying the night!”
“Forgot an errand.” A lie. She just needed to escape.
At home, she turned the key quietly. Paul was awake—talking. Not a work call. A woman’s voice, from their bedroom:
“Exhausted, darling? Living with her must be dreadful.”
“It is. Like living in a shop window. Every move judged.”
“Ever think of leaving?”
“Often. But there’s… other considerations.”
“Money?”
“You enjoy your luxuries, don’t you?”
“I do. But I hate sharing you.”
“Think of it as a business arrangement with her. With you, it’s love.”
Laughter, then kissing. Olivia flung the door open. The woman gasped; Paul blanched.
“Liv! You’re home early—”
“What is this?!” Olivia’s voice cracked. “Who is she?!”
The interloper—plump, frizzy-haired, chipped nails—smiled. “Hello, Olivia. Nice to finally meet you. I’m Victoria.”
“You shameless—in my house—!”
“Not ashamed at all. Paul and I have something real. You? Just a pretty facade.”
Paul stayed silent. Olivia’s rage wasn’t just at the betrayal, or this woman in her bed—it was Victoria’s calm. Caught, unbothered by her flaws, her audacity. She carried herself like a queen. And in that moment, Victoria *was* regal—not polished, perfect Olivia.
They talked calmly later, no screaming. Perfect families didn’t make scenes.
“How could you pick *her*?”
“She’s real, Liv. You’re a mannequin.”
“So you want me fat and sloppy?”
“I want you to *live*. Our son hates his posh school—did you even know?”
“He never said—”
“Because you’re never *here*. Too busy being perfect.”
She filed for divorce. Paul panicked—no more cushy life. “What about your perfect-wife image? Your ‘happily ever after’?”
“Enough pretending.”
He fought back: “Alone, you’ll lose everything—your job, your reputation!”
“I’d rather lose that than live a lie.”
For two weeks, Olivia vanished. Projects collapsed, clients raged. She lay in bed, sobbing, packing Paul’s things, wandering London alone. She ate pizza with her son—food she’d banned for years.
Returning to work, she wore trainers, comfy trousers, no makeup.
“Miss Olivia, you look… different,” her secretary murmured.
“Good. I’m learning to live differently
