His Design, My Ruin

Adrian had abandoned our anniversary dinner again—another patient having a bad reaction after plastic surgery.

The sixth time. Same scene. Same excuse.

Each time, I tried to convince myself this was simply the "price" of being married to a top plastic surgeon.

He was saving troubled souls, just as he'd once pulled me from the abyss of disfigurement after my car accident.

But why did a patient always have a problem on our anniversary?

Too coincidental. Suspiciously so.

The elegant dishes on the table glistened invitingly under the warm amber light, but my stomach felt stuffed with ice-soaked cotton—cold and bloated.

Just as I was about to get up and end this solo "celebration," a small hand suddenly tugged at the hem of my dress.

"Mommy, why are you sitting here? Daddy Adrian has a surprise for you. Come on, let's go!"

Mommy? Daddy Adrian?

No.

That damned car accident six years ago hadn't just ruined my face—it had stolen my ability to become a mother.

I would never have a child with Adrian. He'd been trying to convince me to adopt one.

"Sweetheart, you've got the wrong person," I forced a smile, keeping my voice gentle. "I'm not your mommy. Do you need help?"

The little boy tilted his face up, his gray-blue eyes—so remarkably like Adrian's—landing precisely on the pale pink scar above my left eye. The mark left six years ago, a flaw even modern medicine couldn't completely erase.

"Oh!" Realization dawned on him, his small face bearing that characteristic, cutting bluntness of children. "You're definitely not my mommy. You have an ugly scar. My mommy doesn't have one on her face. Sorry, Scarface Lady."

"Scarface Lady"... The words drenched me like ice water.

Not because of the child's thoughtless remark, but because of the information it contained—a woman who looked like me, but without the scar on her left eye.

My heartbeat quickened, as if trying to warn me of something.

The little boy seemed suddenly frightened and ran in a panic toward the restaurant staircase.

Without hesitation, I followed.

My heels made almost no sound on the soft carpet.

The stairs led to the top floor. A waiter in a crisp uniform stood at the entrance.

When he saw me, a flicker of surprise crossed his face.

I thought he would stop me—the top floor had obviously been reserved, and he was the gatekeeper.

But he didn't block my way.

This brought no relief. Instead, my sense of dread grew stronger.

I reached my destination unimpeded: a rooftop garden, meticulously designed.

Twinkling lights. Heart-shaped balloons. Masses of carefully arranged roses. A birthday cake with flickering candles. Obviously a birthday celebration.

I saw a woman with her back to me.

I watched her turn around.

That face.

It was my face.

No—more perfect than mine. No scar. No flaws. No trace of the accident from six years ago.

"Noah, where did you run off to?" She bent down and scooped up the little boy. "Daddy will be here any minute."

I couldn't see anything else. My vision was consumed by that eerily familiar face. I almost thought I was looking in a mirror.

But she had no scar below her left eye. None of the mark I'd wished countless times to remove—the one Adrian always said ruined this face.

Then the door on the other side of the garden opened.

Adrian walked in.

He slipped off his suit jacket and naturally bent down to kiss the woman's lips.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Eleanor?"

Eleanor.

Not a patient having a bad reaction.

Another woman. Another woman with my face. And another family?

I pressed against the wall, breathing hard, fingernails digging deep into my palms.

The pain kept me lucid, kept me from screaming in the corridor.

"How's Margaret doing?" the woman called Eleanor asked, her tone casual, as if discussing something trivial.

"Same as always," Adrian laughed. "She still thinks I went to handle a patient emergency. Six years, and she doesn't suspect a thing."

"What about the adoption?"

"Almost there." Adrian ruffled the little boy's hair. "Noah needs a legitimate identity. Once she signs the adoption papers, we can move to the next phase."

"Legitimate identity." "Adoption papers." The words sliced through my chest like a dull knife.

"Are you sure she won't find out?" Eleanor's voice carried a hint of worry.

Adrian laughed out loud.

"Find out what? Six years, and she hasn't discovered anything. You think she'll figure it all out in a few months?"

"You overestimate her. How smart can a stand-in really be?" Adrian kissed Eleanor's cheek reassuringly. "Relax. Her life, her face, everything about her—it's all under my control."

Stand-in.

My husband. My savior. The man I thought was a gift from heaven.

Called me nothing but a stand-in.

A stand-in for Eleanor.

My trembling hand rose to touch my face—this masterpiece crafted by Adrian's own hands, modeled after another woman. The woman who'd given him a child.

His. True love?

The room spun. My stomach churned. Acid seemed ready to surge up at any moment.

I clamped my hand over my mouth to stop any sound from escaping.

Tears slid down silently, splashing onto my hand.

But beneath those tears, something was crystallizing.

Not sorrow. Not despair.

A hatred so cold, so bone-deep, so capable of consuming everything in flames.

I had to learn the whole truth. Had to know what they were really planning.

And then Adrian—who had humiliated me, treated me as nothing more than a stand-in—along with everything he cared about, would be set ablaze by my vengeance and burned to ashes.

I retreated silently, melting into the deeper shadows as if I'd never been there.

When I turned to leave, my steps were remarkably steady, my mind holding only one crystal-clear thought—it was time for me to take control of this play.