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.
Today, I followed the lines of my own memory.
I leaned over her sleeping form. I traced the bridge of her nose. It was straight, cute. I drew a line to indicate a deviation—a slight bump, just like mine. I traced her jawline. It was soft. I marked it for reduction, for sharpening, to match the severity of my own profile.
I stopped viewing her as a patient. She was clay. She was raw material.
For a second, my hand trembled. This was malpractice. This was mutilation. This was the end of my career if anyone found out.
