But just as the divorce was happening, a new disaster hit: my husband’s family went bankrupt.
In May 2021, my husband, Gavin Drake, sat across from me, a knife driven into my desk, demanding to know where she was and—most importantly—whether she’d stashed any money with me.
I smoothed my collar and said calmly, “I honestly don’t know.”
Then he lunged and stabbed, right in front of the surgical department’s surveillance cameras.
He screamed, “I’m ruined anyway—nothing to lose! All of you can go to hell!”
In that instant a thousand thoughts ran through my head. Maybe I should have finished reviewing my life before I bled out, but at that moment someone knocked: “Chief Morgan, are you all right?”
“Yes.”
A few minutes later, my best friend’s husband woke up on the operating table.
He’d inhaled a little anesthetic and had nearly suffocated; his head was fuzzy and he found himself strapped to the OR. Of course, like every agitated patient, he started thrashing and shouted, furious, “What the hell did you do? Why am I not dead?!”
I was checking the povidone-iodine prep.
I flicked the syringe—maybe the barrel was thick, maybe the antiseptic looked gruesome—and he shuddered. But, honestly, it was just ordinary disinfectant. He redoubled his struggling work for no result.
“Quiet,” I said. “Or I’ll have to give you another sedative.”
He took a breath and snarled, “Why aren’t you dead?”
With a look that was almost tender in its own blunt way I said, “You think you’re the only person who causes a scene at hospitals?”
He stared at me, bewildered and terrified.
I sighed and revealed a corner of what I was wearing under my scrubs.
“See this? We medical staff wear bulletproof vests.”
He ground his teeth. “Why the hell weren’t you stabbed to death? What are you trying to do?”
“Don’t swear.” I examined his cheek.
“You snore so loudly at night—does anyone actually want to sleep next to you?”
“What?”
“Your septum is deviated. Very obvious. It was like that at your wedding, and it’s worse now.” My surgeon’s instinct had kicked in when I saw his nose.
He looked at me in disgust. “None of your damn business.”
I turned back to mix the prep.
He couldn’t help it and blurted, “What’s a deviated septum? Why do plastic surgeons say weird stuff?”
“It means your nose is crooked. Haven’t you noticed? The bridge tilts slightly to the left.”
“…Fuck. What does that have to do with you? You’re not going to operate on my nose, are you? I am not getting surgery!!!”
The anesthetic was wearing off faster now and he was regaining strength; the stretcher creaked and groaned as he twisted.
“Quiet, quiet.” I pinned him down. “You’re lucky—I can’t stand imperfections. I’ll fix your deviated septum. And to prevent your bridge from collapsing afterward, I’ll give you an implant for the bridge. Thank me. If I billed you like any other patient, this kind of surgery starts at $120,000. It used to be pocket change for you; now you can’t afford it.”
“I’ll—” he spat.
“Quiet.” I pressed the sedative to his face and watched his hateful gaze fade as he slipped under.
Twelve hours later I was back in the OR.
He’d been starved and weak, barely able to struggle. Still, he glared at me with venom. “You said you were going to do that surgery—why’d you leave me here? Are you and Hazel in on this? What do you want? I’ve been tied up for over twelve hours!”
Hazel Bennett was my best friend.
I answered, “Because I don’t want you to die. Your surgery requires general anesthesia. Before general anesthesia, a patient must be NPO—no food or drink for twelve hours—or they could die during the operation.”
His eyes went wide with fear. I knew he’d finally realized—I meant to operate on him.
“But don’t worry.” I wheeled his bed like I always do before a case, trying to calm a patient. “Aside from carrying syphilis and HPV, your other labs are fine. You completed the fasting protocol. You can have the operation. Don’t worry—patients with STDs can still have surgery. We surgeons treat everyone the same.”
“I’m not doing it! Why would you be so kind as to fix my nose?”
“No. That nose is a bonus. This surgery isn’t about your nose.”
I switched on the operating lights and the harsh glare stung his eyes until tears formed.
“What exactly are you going to do?! You’re not going to take out one of my kidneys, are you?!”
He shouted in terror; the scream echoed off the ceiling.
I said, “Don’t resist. I won’t take your kidney—nobody wants a kidney from someone with syphilis. But you are going to have major surgery that will change your life. Relax. You might not know this—Hazel, your wife, she had seven plastic surgeries in her life. Those seven operations changed her life. I performed all of those surgeries.”
The first one was a double-eyelid surgery.
Ten years ago, right before I graduated, Hazel took a six-hour bus ride to my school.
Her arrival caused a stir. In our medical school, many of the girls showed up bare-faced and the boys were disheveled; anyone would stare at a woman who’d fought through travel and still looked polished and stylish.
Hazel didn’t care about the attention.
She grabbed my hand even though I’d just come out of the residency ward in a dirty lab coat and exhaustion written on me. “Irene Clarke, please—only you can help me.”
My mind jumped: “Are you pregnant by Ethan? How far along? Have you tested?”
Ethan Ward had been her boyfriend then—an art student like her. Typical arts graduates: decent-looking, some family money, but no bright future. Hazel shot me down immediately. “Don’t be ridiculous! I’m not pregnant. I want you to do plastic surgery on me.”
“What?!” That was more outrageous than the pregnancy idea.
I listed every reason it was impossible. Two big ones: one, I hadn’t even finished my undergrad—surgeons usually take years after medical school before being allowed to operate; two, Hazel was already gorgeous. She didn’t need surgery.
But she was stubborn in that protective way she always had—like in high school when she’d stand between me and bullies—relentless, fierce, impossible to talk out of things.
“I know your level,” she insisted. “You’re a real genius. Who else is interning at a major public hospital during undergrad? Haven’t you said you want to try operating yourself?”
At the time I thought she was crazy, like her future husband would later. But if your best friend is the kind of person who’s perpetually pursued and always in love, she’ll get what she wants. Hazel skipped classes and wore me down for three days and nights. She bought my breakfast, brought my lunch, ignored the leering looks of the guys in the ward and begged me. At night she slept in my dorm and whispered, “Irene, I don’t trust any other doctors. Only you. You’re my best friend—I know you won’t ruin me.”
I refused for three days straight.
At first I wanted to dissuade her. Then I compromised—suggesting my mentor, Dr. Charles Morgan.
Dr. Morgan was a master with twenty years of surgical experience. He’d been doing double-eyelid surgeries for over a decade and was the most reliable cosmetic surgeon I knew. Crucially, I was his intern and had seen several of his operations—they were flawless and the patients, or rather the beauty-seekers, were ecstatic.
But Hazel was louder and wilder than I’d expected.
I dragged her to Dr. Morgan for a consult and begged on her behalf. Half an hour later the mentor asked me, “Your friend—why did she run off after the consult?” I was exhausted, searching for her. Ethan was texting frantically about Hazel’s sudden disappearance. I had plenty of experience talking to Hazel’s boyfriends; when she wanted a breakup, she’d come to me and leave them bewildered.
Finally, one cold night on the dorm roof, I found her. She was in a white dress, crouched and shivering in the wind. I had no good options, so I went over and hung my lab coat around her shoulders. “Don’t catch a cold,” I said.
Hazel sobbed, “I don’t trust anyone else! Why won’t you do this for me?”
“If I were graduated—if I were even a junior attending—I’d do it. I’m not experienced enough now.”
“But you’ll have to have experience someday. You’ll be the best plastic surgeon in the world, right? People from all over will come to you, and you can charge whatever you want. Let me be your practice patient. You just need your first time. I’m your best friend—I trust you won’t hurt me.”
That night she begged until I couldn’t refuse. Maybe because I was moved by her tears, or because she was speaking to the ambition I’d hidden inside me—I wanted to become the best cosmetic surgeon on earth. I wanted unmatched skill, fame, and to make a fortune. Hazel was the girl who always seized the perfect moment. She picked the exact right time: I was ambitious, young, passionate, and a little reckless. If I’d been older or had more cases under my belt, I would never have dared to operate on her.
In the end, I can’t even recall the exact steps—the meticulous planning, gathering the official surgical meds and tools, or how brazenly I sneaked her into the empty anatomy lab at midnight to perform the operation.
Before anesthesia, the cadaver we’d just dissected yesterday lay right beside us.
I was mixing drugs and asked her, "Are you scared? It’s not too late to back out."
She said, "I’m scared. Precisely because I’m terrified, it has to be you who operates on me."
At the time I didn’t actually want her to regret it—after watching several surgeries, the urge to operate myself had settled into me and wouldn’t leave, as ridiculous as that was.
If I messed up even a tiny detail—if the local anesthetic mix was wrong—that could kill Hazel and haunt me forever.
But maybe Hazel was just lucky.
The immediate result looked very successful.
She left wearing bandages that day.
And I fell into the post-op introspection all surgeons dread, replaying everything, thinking I hadn’t done well, beating myself up: I had broken so many rules.
Expulsion from school would have been the mildest outcome—I’d even risked criminal charges.
That month I was tormented and lost over ten pounds.
But Hazel was a different person.
Ten days later she sent me a photo taken when they removed her stitches at the hospital in her city: clean, sharp eyelids in a pretty half-moon. Two weeks after that she was video-calling me with makeup on.
"Do I look good?"
She was radiant on screen. "I knew you’d do it."
"Any pain? Any bruising on the lids? Take off the eye makeup so I can really see the healing."
I worried about other things.
"Not at all! No bruising!"
She laughed. "Relax. You’re a genius surgeon. Even Chief Morgan might not be better than you."
To be fair, she did look a lot better then.
Hazel had always been beautiful—no wonder she’d been chased since childhood—but the double eyelids made her look that much more refined, like a pretty face upgraded to celebrity-grade.
Think Yui Aragaki.
Yes—later people would say her eyes reminded them of that actress. It was that kind of effect.
But I was so anxious back then. If it were now, I’d be proud of my "work" instead of second-guessing the outcome.
"Did you break up with Ethan?" I asked.
"Yeah. Did he contact you?"
Her tone on the other end went suddenly cold. "You don’t like him anymore? Why break up?"
I couldn’t understand. "He sent me a lot of long messages."
"Don’t reply to him."
Hazel’s bright eyes looked at me through the video as if across ten years. "I’m going abroad, Irene."
…Ten years later, Hazel’s husband lay in bed and sneered, "Her ex? I met that loser. You think I don’t know everything? Ten years ago she was already someone else’s mistress! She became her mentor’s mistress! If not for that, how could she have gone to England?"
I pointed out, "Hazel’s family was wealthy then. She didn’t need someone else to get abroad. Ethan later defamed her online, was sued by her agency, and lost."
"No! You idiot!" he roared. "Hazel got surgery to become a mistress! That’s the kind of woman she is! Her mentor liked double eyelids— I knew it! That bitch!"
"You haven’t eaten for twelve hours. How do you have the strength to yell?" I said.
He went suddenly slack, his voice hoarse with despair. "You old woman who never loved—what do you know? I know if she cheated. She duped me… why did she pick you as her best friend? Because you could operate on her?"
"Don’t judge my relationship with her, Mr. Porter. Push me and I might actually take one of your kidneys out. Keep in mind your family went bankrupt—you can’t even afford a kidney now."
He sneered. "So what exactly are you going to do for me?"
"I’ll give you the surgery that changes your life. The same way I did for Hazel."
The second surgery: a full rhinoplasty.
When Hazel returned from England, I had barely become a resident.
That’s the tragic part of medical training: by the time some classmates study abroad or make early career moves, we’re just fresh grads slogging under chiefs.
So I was shocked when Hazel sought me out.
"Weren’t you writing your thesis a few days ago? Why are you back all of a sudden?"
I looked her over. Her makeup was more precise, her aura more striking—she always seemed impossibly feminine next to my plain, wan look. But I never envied her. If anything, her dangerous charm had sheltered the odd, obsessive, isolated me.
"I need something from you," she went straight to it.
A familiar, ominous sense rose in me.
Sure enough—
"No! Absolutely not!" I rejected her fiercely, babbling, "Do you think I’m still in my early twenties?! I was crazy to do your eyelids back then! Not now. No way. I won’t do it. Why would you want your nose done? Your nose is fine!"
"Irene, just listen."
"I’m not listening. This is absurd."
"I took a leave from school," she said, staring at me without moving. "My dad was shuanggui earlier this year, and my mom passed away, you know that, right?"
"Yeah…"
Her New Face, His Fallen Empire
I remembered Hazel taking me to their small garden when we were kids. I saw a yard with flowers for the first time—roses, peonies, crabapples—she'd tell me her dad planted them and her mom tended the beds. Sometimes we'd meet her mother, who would smile and murmur my name, praising how good we were together.
Later, when her father made the news, we learned that people had sent expensive plants and rare bulbs. We didn't know then that those pretty pots could be worth tens of thousands.
Hazel said, "I came back on my own. My family has no money. I can't pay tuition."
"How could—"
"Did you think my dad, like many corrupt men, had hidden money abroad?" she forced a smile. "No. He only cared about his garden. He even borrowed money for my mom's ICU. We really have no money now."
I didn't know what to say. Then she grabbed my hand—soft and warm as years before.
"Irene, I only have you left. I know you'll help."
Her eyes burned. "I signed with a talent agency. I'm going to be a fashion influencer. They'll use top resources to promote me. I'll be famous. I'll pay back the family's debts."
"But—"
"On one condition. They want me to get my nose done, otherwise they won't sign me."
Her gaze dropped to the precise double-eyelid crease. "My nose isn't ugly, but it doesn't read well on camera."
I had nothing to say.
What I remember most is her intense eyes and her grip on my hand. "If someone has to leave a mark on me, I want it to be you."
So I broke rules again.
This time, though, Chief Morgan—the same man who'd been my mentor and recently promoted—consented. I had the best OR, the most attentive nurses. I even advanced some of my meager pay to buy the imported nasal implant she wanted; Chief Morgan gave me the green light.
I remember the surgery took three full hours.
By modern aesthetic surgery standards it wasn't complex: implant for the nasal bridge, ear cartilage tip plasty, and base augmentation. Routine stuff.
Halfway through, I started to go wrong.
Nasal surgery is a strange thing if you haven't seen it—you anesthetize someone and then basically open the whole nose up.
I'd assisted Chief Morgan many times for cases like this. But only that day did I suddenly get squeamish about blood.
The nurse noticed and asked if we should get the chief back in. In that instant, seeing Hazel lying there made me anxious, and then I snapped back. I told the nurse to bring glucose and wipe my sweat. I gulped a mouthful of glucose and dove into carving the implant.
The implant has to be sculpted.
I'd carved many for Chief Morgan as his assistant before, but none like the one for Hazel that day.
I kept placing the implant against her bridge, imagining. I finally realized how reckless the undergraduate me had been, daring to cut her eyelids back then.
The more you learn about plastic surgery, the more you see how ignorant you once were.
I slipped deeper, unaware even when the nurse stopped wiping my brow. I altered the nasofrontal angle a little, lowering it to give her a more natural, cute root-to-bridge transition.
It wasn't exactly what we'd first discussed.
But in that moment I felt invincible—my hands moved fast and precise. Fillings, framework, a slight alar reduction, then suture and snip.
I worked in one long flow.
The nurse later said I left the OR so exhausted I fell asleep in the lounge with my shoe covers still on.
Hazel's surgery was, in the end, extremely successful.
Immediate results were clean and beautiful. Three months later, recovery was perfect and natural, distinct from the current trend of influencer noses.
She quickly signed with the agency as a "British study-abroad fashion influencer," cultivated a luxe-white-rich-beauty image, and even started getting invites to fashion weeks, sitting in the front row.
And that was my first primary rhinoplasty.
From then on my career in plastic surgery smoothed out. My reputation grew. Chief Morgan praised me as a once-in-thirty-years talent—swift, steady, born for aesthetic surgery.
Until she came back to me again, asking me to redo her nose.
…Ten years later, on the operating table, Hazel’s husband glared at me and sneered, “Hey, didn’t you say you did a great job before? If it was such a great job, why redo it? Quack doctor, huh?”
“Because of you,” I said. “Her nose was my proudest work. If it weren’t for you, I would never have operated on her again.”
Third operation: nasal revision.
When Hazel returned from England this time, I remember I already had my own independent department and could be called “Director Irene.”
That kind of rapid promotion was rare.
Besides Chief Morgan grooming me, it was because I threw myself into aesthetic surgery wholeheartedly. I had no family, no social life, no romance—nothing else.
She walked straight into my office this time.
She carried an Hermès bag, a Bvlgari necklace at her throat, a Cartier bracelet on her wrist. Her hair was fuller. She looked wealthier than before, stylishly melancholy.
I recognized her instantly.
And almost didn’t.
“How come you’re back?” I asked, gripping her hand.
Her palms were still as warm as when we were kids.
“I didn’t get my diploma,” she said, haggard.
I froze.
Then it hit me—failing to graduate wasn’t entirely surprising. Hazel was never an academic star. And there are plenty of women who are successful fashion influencers without graduating top of the class in London. Expecting flawless academic results from that kind of school was harsh.
“Not finishing your master’s isn’t the end of the world. You still have your bachelor’s,” I said. “You have so much work experience—who wouldn’t hire you? Besides, you’re doing great as an influencer. You can already afford Hermès.”
I looked at her with a little envy.
I had only recently escaped being a bookish nobody myself. I was just learning luxury brands. I couldn’t even afford them—Hermès Birkin bags were the kind of thing only the society ladies who came to Chief Morgan for surgery could carry.
She smiled faintly. “It wasn’t bought by me.”
“Oh…”
“Irene, I’m getting married.”
She grabbed my arm suddenly.
“What!” I was stunned.
It felt like yesterday she was entangled with Ethan, and he’d gone on drunken rants when she tried to break up, sending me pages of melodramatic messages overnight.
“I’m getting married.” She clutched me, her eagerness threaded with sadness. “You have to help me.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I have to get the hump on my nose shaved down. His family’s the kind that believes in fortune-telling. They say the hump will ruin my marriage. If I don’t remove it, his mother won’t let me in.”
Of course I wanted to refuse this ridiculous request.
Or rather, Hazel’s requests were getting more and more absurd each time.
A dorsal hump—if you know Liu Yifei’s face, you get it. Lots of girls now ask for that slightly angled nose; it creates a cool, aloof look that balances softer facial features. It’s not a bad thing at all.
And on Hazel, that hump was perfectly right. Her fans online even praised the beauty of her natural dorsal hump—it wasn’t the one I’d augmented for her before; that part was hers by birth.
I said, “If they’re that superstitious, don’t marry them.”
She wore an expression I couldn’t refuse. “I want to have kids, Irene. My dad’s in prison, he’s getting older—he wants to see me get married.”
I don’t remember exactly what else she said after that.
In any case, like every other time, I couldn’t say no.
Lying on the operating table, I thought of us as children.
I was lonely and mute in class, always sitting in the corner without speaking. She walked out of a cluster of kids and said, “Why are you alone? Come play with me!”
Her small, hot hand pulled me up. I was dazed and couldn’t refuse. Our lives were tied together from that moment.
…Ten years later, Hazel’s husband William lay on the OR table, shocked, shouting, “I don’t remember her ever having a hump!”
I couldn’t help but sigh. He was, as always, very, very stupid.
“Because I shaved it off. What you met after the wedding was the nose without the hump. Reducing a dorsal hump is a very, very minor surgery with high safety. For me, it’s hardly a procedure.”
“That’s not it,” he said. “I know what she looked like before. How do I not remember a hump? If my mother asked her to remove it, when did she ever say such a thing? How would I not know?”
“Do you know every single way your family privately gave her a hard time?” I asked.
He fell silent.
“There are so many things you don’t know, Mr. Porter. For example, did you know she had implants for you?”
Fourth operation: breast augmentation.
I felt awful about Hazel’s wedding.
Even as her maid of honor, and despite being the most credentialed person there, praised and queued up by wealthy socialites for consultations, despite being flown to the Maldives on her in-laws’ private plane, staying in luxury hotels, all the champagne and seafood, Hermès and Cartier gifts—I still felt sick when I saw William for the first time.
I met him on the second day after landing in the Maldives. Back home, the marriage had been spun into a strange romantic tale: a prodigal heir and a picturesque influencer, a successful sea-siren and a supposedly reformed playboy.
But the moment I saw him, I knew this man would never settle. Apart from coarse manners and stilted English—rumor had it his Yale degree was bought—he posed with Hazel like he was showing off a trophy. He pressured her to change outfits, to take photos, to “let the boys see.” He acted like he had scored a million-follower influencer the way someone brags about buying a rare Hermès bag.
I was extremely uncomfortable. When she came alone, I couldn’t help being blunt: “He snores. Can you sleep next to him?”
“How do you know he snores?”
“Because he has a deviated septum. Anyone with that snores—this guy’s worse than anyone you dated before.”
“Oh.” She laughed. “But he’s the richest.”
My heart ached.
“Is that all?”
“That’s all.” She sighed. “It’s enough for me, because I’m not as smart as you, Irene. I can’t study, I can’t take tests. My dad’s in jail and I only know how to be in love. I’m getting older. I can’t make it on my own like you.”
“I’m not as pretty or as popular as you.” I said.
She smiled and hugged me. “That’s why I have you.”
She wasn’t only with me.
Hours later she wore a Vera Wang gown, exchanged Cartier rings, and, with tears in her vows accompanied by a famous pianist, kissed William. I held her long train, watching them, feeling sour and ridiculous: my best friend, who’d dated so many handsome, wild, talented, and wealthy men, had ended up marrying the richest—and most notorious—of them all.
After the wedding I went back to my booming practice, seeing more than two wealthy patients a day.
Hazel flew to Europe for her honeymoon. I expected she’d be gone a month.
She was back in less than two weeks.
This time she was forceful. “I know hospitals are trying to poach you. You’ve wanted to leave the major public hospital for a while, right?”
“Of course. Every aesthetic surgeon leaves the major public hospital at a certain point. There’s too much admin.”
“Good. Don’t go to any of them.” She emphasized, “I’ll invest. You’ll be the director.”
“What?!” I almost spilled my tea onto her expensive Chanel jacket.
“Didn’t I tell you when we were kids? I’ll put up the money, you run it.” She was calm. “Why work for someone else when you can work for yourself? You’re a genius—Irene, you should be doing a lot more surgeries. Do whatever you want.”
Her words ignited that familiar heat inside me—the same fever she’d stirred in me in my early twenties. I knew I lacked the age and credentials, but her promise fed my ambition.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked.
“I want breast augmentation.” She unbuttoned her coat. “Make me a D cup.”
I again thought Hazel had no real need for implants. She was already top-tier in the influencer world. But she shut me down with one line: “William likes big boobs.”
Fine. I had nothing to say. In our field, most patients undergo surgery to please men—sad but true.
“But I’ve never done breasts. I’m good with noses and eyes.” I told her. “I’ll arrange our best breast surgeon—”
“No. I want you to do it.”
Of course she insisted. This time I refused more firmly than ever, and she was more stubborn than before. Her reason was simple: she wanted me to leave my mark on her.
“Stop it,” I snapped. “I’ve never done breasts! I can’t even tell brands of implants apart!”
“I want Annora implants. I’ve already chosen them.” She snapped back. “I don’t trust anyone else. I trust you can do it. You can do anything.”
“No way.”
“You can! You did my nose and eyes the first time—it was your first time too, wasn’t it? After you do my breasts, you’ll be able to do breasts for others! I know you’ve wanted to expand your services. Isn’t that good?!”
She tangled me up until I had no escape and had to flee my office.
She shadowed me everywhere, chattering nonstop—annoying as hell. But I was an experienced surgeon; my plan was to have her finish the physical, get the scans, and then slowly talk some sense into her.
When I got her physical report, though, my blood went cold.
"Draw her blood again."
I told her.
"No need."
She looked at me calmly. "What did it show?"
"How do you have syphilis? Why is your syphilis test positive?!"
I stared at her, my voice shaking.
She smiled that small, sad, mocking smile.
I knew exactly what she meant.
I clenched my fist until my nails bit into my palm.
"William Porter was out sleeping around? He gave it to you?"
I ground my teeth.
"He's always been like that," she said.
"Then why—"
I wanted to yell at her for marrying someone like him, for not valuing herself, for making one terrible choice after another, but she just folded into me and started to sob.
"Irene," she said softly. "My life has come to this. I can't help it. I only have you."
And I couldn't either.
Every time, I couldn't.
So I scrubbed in and operated on her again.
Only this time was different—this time I had to wear a full protective face shield, the nurses suited up head to toe.
Before she went under, I knelt by the table and said, "Don't worry. You'll sleep and wake up fine."
She smiled sweetly. "I know, Irene. Sometimes I wish I could be you—be as good as you… but I can't. So I want to watch you succeed."
I don't remember exactly how I finished that surgery.
In short, it was like all the others—the operation went beautifully, the result was exceptional, my reputation climbed another notch, and patients asking me for breast augmentations increased.
But I'd never felt so hollow.
I remember being dazed for a long time after that surgery. At some point I found myself back in the OR while my intern was cleaning.
"Dr. Clarke, you worked so hard."
Intern Jason greeted me with admiration. "This was a syphilis case, too. Wow, it's the first time I've seen one in surgery."
"Why aren't you resting?"
"We're just disposing of these risky medical wastes and then we'll go. Thank you, Doctor."
I had an intern now.
It felt like yesterday I was the fearless newbie under Chief Morgan, sneaking a scalpel into the anatomy lab to give Hazel a double eyelid opening. That should've been my last memory of the major public hospital.
After that, I had my own clinic, always full, my skills sharpening and reputation growing—until today.
…Ten years later, William Porter lay sneering on the operating table in my own clinic, the clinic Hazel and I had built together. He spat, "She got implants? She told me I made them bigger… pfft. That bitch never tells the truth."
I looked at him. "You had syphilis and infected your wife. Don't you have anything to say?"
He sneered, "So what? Even Mozart had syphilis. Besides, she was a washed-up influencer whose dad had scandals—she married me for money and status, right?"
I studied him closely.
He glared at me with disgust. "What are you staring at?!"
"You know you're worthless without money. You think no one would love you for yourself, right?"
"Isn't Hazel the same?" he shot back. "She's just a gold digger. Without plastic surgery, would she have married me?"
I was silent for a moment.
I knew, in the long and short stretch of those years, they had once had more possibilities and even genuine moments than I had thought—but those chances were gone.
"So what happened next?" he asked. "Where else did she get work done?"
"You don't know at all?" I said. "Her next surgery was the most dangerous. You pushed her off the stairs, she miscarried, she nearly died."
The fifth operation was full facial reconstruction.
The primary surgeons that time weren't even me—they were the emergency team.
She'd been brought in by ambulance barely alive.
I remember hearing the news and my head buzzing. I dropped the patient I was seeing, ran to the lobby, to her gurney—one eye bleeding, the other barely seeing. She looked at me, lips trembling.
I gripped her hand and heard myself cry.
"Don't be afraid. I'm here. I'm here, Hazel. We're at St. Augustine Medical Center—the best hospital. You'll be okay."
Then the crash of the ER doors opening.
They rushed her into the OR and I collapsed to the floor, helpless.
My colleagues had to haul me up and strap an oxygen mask on me.
"Dr. Clarke is hyperventilating," someone said. "Doctor, relax. Don't panic."
I don't remember how that day passed.
Thankfully my clients didn't sue—I didn't care.
Like any frantic family member, I wailed and pounded the walls outside the OR.
When the surgeon finally came out, I could barely stand—I crawled to him.
"Don't worry, Dr. Clarke," the attending said, sighing. "She's going to be okay. But you should talk to her, then hire a lawyer and call the police."
Later I learned William had shoved her down the stairs.
The room filled with gifts and flowers, but the two-month pregnancy was gone forever.
I was furious, but I couldn't say a word in front of her.
The day she woke, I was on rounds and sprinted there when they called me—she turned her face toward the weak morning light, a little sad, and asked, "Irene, do I look awful now?"
"No," I said. "First, you need to get strong."
She smiled, nose still a little crooked—the nose I'd once been most proud of, the nose hailed as one of the top influencer noses—and my chest felt like it was being ripped apart. "Do full facial reconstruction for me," she said. "I know you can do it. I'm counting on you."
She didn't say anything about the baby, and I dared not bring it up either—as if we'd never joked about the child we once imagined.
"You're going to have a kid. When will you have one?" she teased once.
"Like that's possible. I don't even have a partner."
"Okay, then my child will only have you as godmother. They can't be sisters to your child if you don't have one."
"Why sisters? You haven't even done a fetal sex test yet. Besides, it's illegal."
"I know. I'm just saying… if two little girls could have flowers in the yard like my father's, and they'd play in the garden in spring—"
Remembering that, I cried in the ward.
After that I developed PTSD around the ER; I couldn't be near it without hyperventilating. I hardly ever went back.
I left the major public hospital after Hazel's full facial reconstruction and became director of my own clinic.
…Now, William lay incapacitated on the table in my clinic—our clinic.
I asked, "Why did you push Hazel down the stairs?"
He looked blank, then counters, "Why would I? She was pregnant and moody, always making trouble."
"Did you know she was carrying your child? You never visited her in the hospital."
"So what?" he snapped. "My mother went."
Right—William had never shown up. Only his mother came once; she nodded at me, grabbed her crocodile-skin bag, and left.
After she left, Hazel smiled pure happiness for the first time. "Irene, I'm getting a divorce."
I squeezed her hand. "About time."
"We've raised the money for the clinic," she said. "Earlier, his mother offered me two hundred million not to sue."
The sixth operation was zygoma reduction and mandibular contouring.
"You know what, William Porter? You're despicable, a social parasite," I told the man on my table. "Leave your mother and your family and you're nothing."
"People without ability love to insult me," he said, oddly pleased. "But I admit you're talented, Dr. Clarke. The hostesses in the clubs who drank with me would line up if they heard you knew them and asked you for appointments. I admire you for threatening me. So what are you and Hazel up to?"
"Don't get ahead of yourself. We haven't finished—" I said. "The sixth operation was after you guys came back from that resort, remember?"
His eyes twitched.
I stepped closer and studied his face. It looked almost the same as at the wedding ten years ago, except sagging, more drooped skin, a more deviated septum, repulsive features that made me sick.
"You should really thank me," I said, pointing at his nose. "Even doctors at the major public hospital can't find someone with my aesthetic sense, skill, and patience to help you."
"Shut up! You want me dead? I'll have someone kill you out there!" he barked.
"You still have that nerve?" I said, stunned. "Isn't your family on the brink of bankruptcy? Your factory had an accident, the national investigation team is in, your mother was arrested, you lost billions in risky investments—and you still think you can threaten people?"
"I always knew it was you and Hazel who reported us—ah!!!"
"Watch your language," I said, setting down the electrocautery.
"You've been cursing the whole time. William, I remember you went to Yale—your education is higher than Hazel's and mine."
"Even though this was paid for by your family's money, how can you treat our alma mater with such disrespect?"
"Get the hell off me—ah!
Ah!
Ah!"
"I know what you're trying to say. You think you still have a trump card, don't you? After your account was frozen, you used her money—her account—to buy Bitcoin. Now it's worth billions…"
"You knew?"
He sneered. "Hazel told you?"
"How could she not tell me? After all, that money was her premarital property, and technically mine—"
I pulled my mask off.
He froze for a second, then screamed like a banshee.
"Who are you!? Who is it!? Let go of me! Who the hell are you? What are you doing?! Hazel! You lunatic, you—"
"Don't freak out, Mr. Porter."
I leaned in until my face was right near his eyes.
He couldn't move. He couldn't even look at me.
"Why are you afraid to look at this face? Does it make you doubt?"
I smiled and touched my cheek. "Don't blame you. Sometimes when I look in the mirror, I doubt myself, too."
I lifted my head to the mirror over the operating table.
The face in the glass was unnervingly real—fan-shaped double eyelids, a nose that had been repaired twice and now lacked tension in the bridge, a neat small face, a V-shaped jawline.
"Hazel…"
He cried out in terror. "Don't come near me… you fell into the water yourself… it has nothing to do with me…"
"Oh? Mr. Porter, so you admit you pushed Hazel into the reservoir?"
I stroked my jaw. "I thought you'd at least deny it."
Cold sweat beaded on his forehead; after a moment he regained some composure. "Irene Clarke, you turned yourself into her? You're using her face to get revenge on me?"
I didn't answer. I pulled a piece of bone from the surgical tray.
"What is that!? Get that away!"
He screamed.
"What are you afraid of? It's a mandible—everyone has one," I said. "Guess whether this came from Irene or from Hazel."
The long, sharp fragment of jawbone hovered near his face, tracing near his eye. It had been cleaned and dried, but still bore a little red marrow and some yellow marrow—gruesome and disturbingly real.
He wanted to scream but no sound came out. I pressed the sedative into him again.
He stared at me, struggled for two useless seconds, then passed out completely.
"You should be thanking me," I told him. "What I gave you was the seventh operation. The septal repair? Consider that a bonus. I couldn't stand your crooked nose."
The seventh operation was the last one.
When Mr. Porter woke from the nightmare, he tried reflexively to snore, still half in anesthesia.
"Awake?" I said kindly.
Like every patient coming out of a long surgery, he was helpless.
Yes—even the most arrogant person is helpless before medicine. Medicine is equal; marriage is not. Poverty or wealth, health or illness—any of it can wreck a marriage. But in front of anesthesia, everyone blacks out equally.
"What… did you… do…?" he croaked.
"I gave you her seventh operation," I smiled. "And I gifted you the septal repair. Say thank you."
"What seventh operation…?"
"Want to know?" I asked. "You can lift your hands, right? Try—I'll help. Touch yourself."
He trembled, reached toward his pants, then froze.
"Understand now? Your seventh operation was a sex reassignment. Remember when you beat her until she lost the pregnancy? Now—even if you can't get pregnant—you might be able to feel what it's like to lose one."
I said, "I've given you both her and my pain, forever. Now you're a woman. And a woman with a pretty nose. To improve your figure, I also injected shoulder-slimming and leg-slimming agents—thoughtful, right? Your family's bankrupt now. You can always marry a rich husband, shouldn't be hard, right?"
"No!!!"
He—now she—passed out again, slumping on the operating table.
I smiled, shed my surgical coat, cap, and shoe covers, tossed the medical waste into the disposal bin, and walked out of OR 3.
"Chief Morgan!"
"Is the chief okay?"
My colleagues greeted me, anxious.
I was calm and nodded to them.
"I'm fine. Today I performed a groundbreaking operation—something I'd never tried before. It was a success."
"As expected of the chief!"
"Remember to disinfect the operating room thoroughly. Today's patient carried syphilis and HPV, understood?"
"Understood, Chief!"
"What's that bottle you're holding?"
I glanced at the jar. Inside, a dark, long strip floated up and down.
"Nothing—it's tissue removed from the patient; medical waste. Because he had infectious disease, it needs to soak a bit in disinfectant."
"Got it."
"Wait." I stopped a colleague. "I might not be at the hospital tomorrow. While I'm gone, you're acting chief. Calm the patient's emotions when he wakes; don't let him rampage. And remember: he's infectious."
…With that, holding the jar, I took off my white coat and headed to my car.
In the driver's seat, a girl with her whole face hidden under a mask and sunglasses turned and smiled at me.
"All done?" she asked.
"All done," I said.
"Where are we going?"
"Anywhere," I said. "But remember to go where you can cash out Bitcoin. It's in your account—use your face to withdraw, right?"
She smiled, started the engine.
As the morning air filled with the scent that always clung to Hazel, I suddenly realized this conversation happened long ago—back when we first stepped into middle school. When I was bullied, locked in an empty classroom bathroom, sitting there alone for hours and hours, she smashed through the skylight and jumped in before dawn.
"Let's go," thirteen-year-old Hazel said.
"Where to?" thirteen-year-old me asked, staring at her scuffed, battered face.
She smiled and took my cold hand with her warm, burning palm.
"Anywhere. Let's go."
(The End.)
