Plastika
Kristin Evans

© Kristin Evans, 2025

ISBN 978-5-0068-0348-0

Создано в интеллектуальной издательской системе Ridero

KRISTIN EVANS
PLASTIKA

Chapter 1: The Perfect Reflection?

The melodic chime of crystal glasses merged into a single, harmonious ring, a symphony of success. The air in the loft of one of Moscow’s trendiest galleries was thick and sweet with the scent of expensive perfume, champagne, and collective excitement. Svetlana stood at the center of this swirling vortex, smiling, nodding, accepting congratulations. And why wouldn’t she? She, Svetlana Orlova, a brilliant literary agent, had just closed a seven-figure deal for her young protégé, transforming his debut novel from a raw manuscript into the subject of a bidding war between major publishing houses.

«Sveta, this is phenomenal!» Simona, the gallery owner, air-kissed her cheek, leaving behind a trace of coolness and the scent of sandalwood. «You’re a true sorceress. That boy was a nobody yesterday, and today you’ve made him a star.»

«He made himself a star, Simona,» Svetlana parried softly, accustomed to and skilled at gracefully deflecting flattery. «I merely helped the world see him.»

Her voice was calm and confident, exactly how a woman holding the reins of such events should sound. She wore a simple yet impeccably tailored black dress that accentuated her slender figure. Her chestnut curls were swept up into a deliberately careless but perfectly calculated bun, with a few artfully escaped strands framing her face. To an observer, she was the picture of composure, success, and unattainable elegance.

Inside, it was a different story. Every laugh that echoed unnaturally in her ears, every handshake, every met gaze – Svetlana filtered it all through the dense internal sieve of her own insecurity. Her mind, honed on winning the most complex negotiations, now worked against her, picking up the subtlest nuances in people’s behavior and interpreting them in the worst possible light. That group of men by the bar glanced her way and smiled. Not because she’d just given a brilliant presentation, but because one of them had probably cracked a joke. That woman, touching up her makeup in a compact mirror, held her gaze for a second. Not out of admiration for her style, but to scrutinize and mentally criticize that particular feature of her face.

She caught these glances like infected viruses, and each one, subtly yet surely, brought her closer to the state she had so carefully hidden for years – the state of that teenage girl from a provincial town who was teased as «hook-nose» and «bird-face.»

To distract herself, she sought out Denis in the crowd. He stood slightly apart, by a huge panoramic window overlooking the evening lights of Moscow City, ablaze with millions of lights. He was looking at her, and his eyes held such boundless, almost paternal tenderness and pride that it took Svetlana’s breath away for a moment. Denis. Her anchor, her quiet harbor. He disliked these noisy gatherings, preferring the silence of his workshop that smelled of wood and varnish, where he created his astonishing, lifelike sculptures. But he always came to her events to support her. Catching her eye, he raised his glass and offered a faint, almost imperceptible smile. She responded in kind, feeling the nagging anxiety retreat for a fleeting moment.

Her author approached her, beaming, drunk on the sudden fame that had fallen into his lap.

«Sveta, I don’t know how to thank you!» he exclaimed, hugging her. «You… you’re just a genius!»

«Thank you, Lyosha,» she extricated herself from his embrace, patting him on the shoulder. «But remember, you are the genius. I’m just your humble, hard-working agent. Now it’s your turn to deliver and write the next bestseller.»

She said all the right, encouraging words, behaved like the perfect, collected professional, but her eyes were already searching for an escape. She needed a minute to flee, to catch her breath, to be alone with herself and verify that everything was still… under control.

«Excuse me, I need to make an urgent call,» she lied to Simona and Lyosha and, with an apologetic gesture, made her way through the crowd toward a distant balcony.

The balcony was empty. The fresh autumn air smelled of smoke and cold, a sharp contrast to the stifling atmosphere inside. Svetlana leaned on the railing, closed her eyes, and took several deep breaths, trying to force the rising nausea of anxiety back down. Get a grip, she ordered herself sternly. You are not that girl anymore. You are the one in charge here. You just won. Everything is fine. Everything is absolutely fine.

She opened her eyes and instinctively turned toward the glass door leading back to the gallery. At night, the tinted glass had become a perfect, if slightly darkened, mirror.

And she saw her.

Not Svetlana Orlova, the successful woman in a black dress with a champagne flute. She saw the girl. That same one. With eyes too serious for her age, frozen in a perpetual question: «What’s wrong with me?» Svetlana slowly straightened up, unable to look away from her reflection.

Her fingers, almost against her will, rose to her face. They didn’t touch the perfect makeup or the smooth skin of her cheeks. In a gesture practiced and painfully familiar over the years, they went to the bridge of her nose and gently traced a familiar, hated curve. The very hump she mentally referred to as her «family curse.»

The noise of the party faded, turning into a muffled, distant hum. The lights of Moscow City vanished, Simona, Lyosha, even Denis disappeared. Only she and her reflection remained. Twenty years in the past.

Summer. The dacha. She was twelve. Sitting on the porch steps, immersed in a book, lost in a world of adventure. Older boys from neighboring houses walked past.

«Look, Hunchback is guarding her treasure,» one of them, Kolya, the oldest and the nastiest, said loudly.

She pretended not to hear, her cheeks burning.

«Hey, Bird-face!» he persisted. «Who’d you get that nose from? Your dad the mountaineer or your mom the skier?»

Laughter. Her eyes welled up with treacherous tears. She jumped up and ran into the house, stumbling on the step, and heard them shout after her:

«And she’s got chicken legs too! A total chicken!»

She locked herself in the bathroom, climbed into the empty cast-iron bathtub, and sobbed, staring at her tear-streaked, ugly – as she thought – reflection in the shiny faucet. She hated it. Hated her nose, her freckles, her thin, matchstick legs. She hated herself.

The memory hit with such force that Svetlana physically recoiled from the glass door. Her heart hammered wildly in her chest. She gripped the cold balcony railing, trying to stay upright. Twenty years had passed. She lived in the most expensive capital in the world, was loved by a wonderful man, and her name commanded respect in professional circles. She could afford couture dresses and vacations in the Maldives. But it took just a second of lowered guard for that girl from the past, bruised by her own insecurity, to break through, sweeping away everything she had managed to achieve.

She looked at her reflection again. Now she saw both the successful woman and the frightened child simultaneously. The woman had money, status, power. But the child held a different kind of power – the power of memory, power over the soul.

«Sveta? You out here? Everything alright?» Denis appeared in the doorway, his face etched with mild concern. «You’ve been gone awhile. You must be freezing.»

He stepped onto the balcony and, without waiting for an answer, took off his soft tweed jacket and draped it over her shoulders. It smelled of him – wood, varnish, his warmth. It was the smell of home, of safety, of real, unpretentious love.

«I’m fine,» her voice sounded hoarse, and she cleared her throat. «Just… a bit dizzy from all that noise.»

Denis looked at her carefully. He saw more than others. He always did.

«Let’s go home,» he said softly. «The main event is over. You won. Time to call it a night.»

He put his arm around her shoulders, and she leaned into him, greedily absorbing his warmth and calm.

«Just a little longer,» she whispered. «I need to say goodbye to a few more people.»

«Okay,» he didn’t insist. «I’ll wait for you inside.»

When he left, Svetlana was alone again. But now his jacket on her shoulders felt like a protective cocoon. She made one last attempt to look at her reflection as a winner. As Svetlana Orlova.

But the shadow of the girl from the dacha didn’t vanish. It hid in her eyes, in the slight tremble of her lips, in that same, painfully familiar curve of her nose.

She slowly turned her back to the mirror, to the party, to her success. She looked out at the lights of the night metropolis, this cold, soulless city that could give her everything except one thing – freedom from herself.

And in that very moment, gazing at the endless, indifferent beauty of nighttime Moscow, where every light was someone else’s separate, perhaps equally tangled life, Svetlana made a decision. A quiet, clear, long-suffered decision.

It didn’t come as an epiphany, but as the only logical conclusion to her entire life. Like a key that was finally meant to unlock the door and set that very girl free, allow her to grow up at last.

She would hide it no longer. She wouldn’t compensate for it with success, money, brains, or Denis’s love. She would fix it.

She would go to a plastic surgeon and get rid of her nose. Once and for all.

And only then, perhaps, she would finally be happy. Or at least stop feeling like an ugly teenager at an adult party.

She shrugged the jacket off her shoulders, straightened her back, and with a new, icy calm, walked back into the noise and light of the gallery. Denis was waiting for her. Life was waiting for her. But now she had a secret. And a purpose.

Chapter 2: The Ghost from the School Album

The silence in their apartment after the noisy party was thick, almost ringing. It pressed on their eardrums like the pressure change in an airplane. Denis, having kicked off his shoes and unbuttoned his shirt collar, went straight to the kitchen to put the kettle on. His movements were calm, measured – the ritual of creating coziness after external chaos. Svetlana, however, stood in the middle of the living room, still in her elegant black dress, like a frozen wax figure. The noise of the gallery still echoed in her ears, mingling with the intrusive echo of her own anxious thoughts.

Denis’s jacket still lay on the back of an armchair. She reached for it mechanically, draped it over her shoulders again, seeking comfort in the familiar scent. But today, even that didn’t help. The decision made on the balcony burned inside her like a hot ember. It was both terrifying and liberating. Now she just had to take the first step. But first – to finally convince herself of its necessity. To confirm her pain, to reopen old wounds to justify the need for the future operation.

«Mint tea?» Denis called from the kitchen. «Or maybe chamomile? I thought you said your head was hurting.»

«Mint,» she answered automatically. Her gaze fell on an old, time-tarnished brass box on the bookshelf. It contained what she had avoided for years. Her past. Photographs, letters, a few trinkets. The box was a kind of ark where she had locked away her demons, hoping they would sleep forever.

Her heart began to beat faster. Her hand reached for the box on its own. It was self-flagellation, masochism, but she couldn’t stop. She needed to look. To see it again. To feel the full depth of the old pain, so that the present, muted, adult version would seem a sufficient reason for such a radical step.

She took the box from the shelf. A thin gray layer of forgotten dust settled on her fingers. She lifted the lid. It smelled of old ink, dried glue, and time.

Right on top lay it. The school album. Navy blue, with gold-embossed numbers «1998—2002» – her high school years. She barely remembered how it had ended up with her. It seemed she had left all that back there, in her provincial town, along with her prom dress and the tears of her first unhappy romance.

She took the heavy album in trembling hands and sank into an armchair, wrapping herself in the jacket like a cocoon.

«Tea’s ready,» Denis emerged from the kitchen with two hot mugs in his hands. Seeing her with the album on her lap, he stopped. His face showed mild surprise. «Oh, what’s this relic? I don’t remember you ever going through old photos.»

«Nostalgia,» she lied, attempting a smile that came out crooked and strained.

Denis put the mugs on the table and perched on the arm of her chair, peering over her shoulder.

«Haven’t opened it in a while? Let’s see what you were like at sixteen. Probably a cute little braid, ribbons, the whole deal.»

He spoke lightly, unaware he was approaching a minefield. Svetlana silently opened the album. The first pages were class photos. A sea of young, spirited, slightly silly faces. Her gaze skimmed over them, barely recognizing anyone. Then her finger slowly crept down to the row where she stood.

And there she was.

Svetlana Orlova. 16 years old.

She looked at herself, and a wave of icy cold ran through her body. The girl in the photo wasn’t smiling. She stared into the lens with defiance and fear simultaneously, as if expecting to be hurt. Her hair was pulled back into a tight, awkward ponytail that only accentuated her face. And on that face… on that face was that nose. Her personal curse. Not ugly, not crooked, just… different. With a hump. Unruly, prominent, drawing the eye like a magnet. At sixteen, she thought it was the only thing people saw in her.

«Oh, God,» Denis laughed quietly with genuine tenderness. «You were so serious! A real little professor. And look at that fashionable fringe! And those freckles!»

He saw a cute, slightly sullen girl. He didn’t see the main thing. He didn’t see it.

But Svetlana no longer heard him. She was falling into a black hole of memories. The album ceased to be a book of photographs. It became a portal.

She is standing in a school hallway, her back pressed against cold tiled walls, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. She just got her algebra test back – a big red B. She knew the material perfectly, but got nervous and made a stupid mistake. A group of her classmates, her age but seeming much older and more confident, are discussing the upcoming weekend. In the center is Kolya Semyonov, the king of their neighborhood, the ringleader and chief bully. His gaze slides over her, appraising, mocking.

«Orlova, what’s with the long face?» he shouts across the hallway. «Going to climb your hill again? The snow’s already melted!»

Laughter. A girl from his group, Alina, whom Svetlana quietly and hopelessly hated for her perfect straight posture and upturned nose, snorts:

«Leave her alone, Kolya. She’s smart. She’ll help us during exams. We can forgive the nose for that.»

The words burn like boiling water. Smart. That was the worst insult from her mouth. It meant – ugly. Uninteresting. Not like us. Svetlana clutches her notebooks, her fingers white with tension, and tries to walk past, to leave, to disappear. But Kolya doesn’t let up.

«Come on, I’m a nice guy. Listen, Svetka,» he pretends to think. «If you’re so smart, tell me: if you sled down a hill on your nose, does that count as a sled or is it considered a vehicle now?»

The laughter becomes deafening. Someone slaps Kolya on the back, admiring his «wit.» Svetlana feels hot, treacherous tears crawling down her cheeks. She turns sharply and runs, not seeing where she’s going, stumbling over someone’s backpacks, hearing their laughter chasing her. She hides in the farthest bathroom stall, clicks the lock, and, pressing her forehead against the cold partition, sobs soundlessly, frantically, biting her own fist to keep from screaming with shame and humiliation.

«Sveta? Honey, are you crying?»

Denis’s voice sounded very close, frightened and confused. His hand lay on her shoulder.

Svetlana flinched and recoiled as if from a red-hot iron. She ran her palm over her cheek – it was wet with tears. She hadn’t even noticed when she started crying.

«No… no, it’s fine,» she tried to pull away, slamming the album shut as if wanting to lock the ghosts inside. «It’s just… nostalgia, like you said. Silly stuff.»

But Denis didn’t back down. He crouched in front of the armchair to be at her level and took her cold hands in his warm, rough palms, calloused from working with wood.

«Sveta, what happened? They’re just old photos. What could be so bad?»

He didn’t understand. He looked at her sixteen-year-old face and saw a cute girl. He didn’t see the agony unfolding behind that picture. He didn’t hear the echo of those taunts. For him, school years were, if not carefree, then certainly not traumatic. He couldn’t understand that for her, this photograph wasn’t a memory, but evidence of a crime. A crime against her own self-esteem.

«It’s just… they were hard times,» she exhaled, looking away. She felt ashamed. Ashamed of these tears, of her weakness, of this old, unhealed pain that seemed so absurd and trivial from the outside. «You know, teenage years… complexes and all that.»

«Complexes?» Denis smiled softly, trying to cheer her up. He ran his thumb over her knuckles. «You couldn’t have had any. You’ve always been a beauty. Look at those intelligent eyes, that expressive face.»

He said it again. «Intelligent.» Even with tenderness, the word acted as a trigger. It didn’t comfort her; it only drove her deeper into herself. He didn’t see what she saw. He didn’t see the problem. Which meant he couldn’t be her ally in solving it.

She slowly freed her hands from his.

«I’m tired, Denis. I’m going to take a shower.»

She stood up, dropped the jacket, and without looking at him, walked to the bedroom, leaving him sitting on the floor in front of the open album, full of bewilderment and quiet concern.

In the bathroom, she locked the door, turned on the water, and finally let herself cry. Quiet, wrenching, soundless sobs that poured out years of accumulated shame. She cried for that girl who had been in so much pain. She cried with rage at those who had hurt her. But most of all, she cried from the realization that this pain was alive. It hadn’t died, hadn’t dissolved over the years, hadn’t been healed by Denis’s love or professional success. It had just hidden, like a dormant virus, waiting for its hour.

She went to the mirror, fogged up by steam. With her palm, she wiped away the condensation to see her reflection. The face of an adult woman, tear-streaked, with smudged mascara. And again, her treacherous fingers rose to the bridge of her nose. To this eternal, indelible reminder.

She looked at herself and saw not the successful Svetlana, but that same Svetka-hooknose, Svetka-bird-face. And that sixteen-year-old girl stared back defiantly from the other side of the mirror, as if saying: «Well? Managed to run away from me?»

«No,» she answered mentally. «But I’m going to fix it now. I will destroy you.»

She washed her face, removed her makeup, took a shower, but the feeling of defilement didn’t leave her. She returned to the living room. Denis had already put the album away and was drinking his cooled tea, looking out the window. He turned at the sound of her footsteps.

«Sorry,» she said quietly.

«It’s okay,» he answered just as quietly. «Do you want to talk?»

«No. I just… I need to sort some things out on my own. Things from the past.»

He nodded, not insisting. He respected her boundaries, her silence. And at that moment, it almost infuriated her. She wanted him to yell, demand explanations, pull out this splinter. But he just remained silent, giving her the space she now so desperately wanted to fill with something else.

«I think I’ll go to bed,» she said. «I’m exhausted.»

«Go ahead. I’ll sit here for a while.»

She went to the bedroom and closed the door behind her. She didn’t go to sleep. She sat down at her dressing table, turned on the lamp, and opened her laptop. Her fingers, cold and damp, flew across the keyboard, typing into the search bar the only question that had tormented her all these years.

«Nose job. Rhinoplasty. Moscow.»

Dozens of websites for private clinics flashed on the screen, «before and after» galleries, smiling faces of surgeons promising a new life. She clicked link after link, examining the photos with greed and disgust. Here was a woman her age before the operation – insecure, with a large nose. And after – beaming, with a neat, small nose. Completely different. Happy.

Svetlana looked in the mirror again, comparing her reflection to the pictures on the screen. Yes, her nose wasn’t as big as some of the «before» ones. But it was… hers. And that was the whole problem.

She found the website of one of the most expensive and renowned clinics – «Esteticus.» Gloss, sparkle, confidence. And the head surgeon – Dr. Arseny Vladimirovich Ignatov. Ironic – they shared a surname. He looked from the screen with cold but perceptive bluish-gray eyes. The gaze of a man who didn’t see faces, but saw anatomy, framework, material to work with. His gaze held no judgment or admiration. Only calculation. And that was surprisingly calming.

She lingered on his page. Reviews, diplomas, impeccable English. Prices that took your breath away. But that didn’t stop her. She had the money. Now it was just a matter of mustering the courage.

She took her phone, stared for a long time at the clinic’s number listed on the website. Her finger hovered over the call button. Her heart was pounding wildly, her throat was dry. She imagined the secretary’s voice, polite and impersonal: «Esteticus clinic, hello!»

She couldn’t do it. Not now. She put the phone down. But the album was open. The wound – reopened. The door to the past – was flung wide open.

She closed the laptop, turned off the light, and lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Next to her, Denis snored, calm and serene in his ignorance. She lay there and felt a treacherous tear roll down her cheek again. Not from pain, but from clarity.

The decision made on the balcony was no longer an impulse. It was an inevitability. An iron necessity. She would do it. Not for Denis. Not for her colleagues. Not to please strangers on the metro. She would do it for that sixteen-year-old girl who was still crying in the school bathroom. To make her finally be quiet. To make her finally leave her alone.

And let this be her biggest secret. Her crusade. Her war for her own reflection.

Chapter 3: The Man Who Loved Her As She Was

The morning after the party was crystal clear. The autumn sun, still summer-bright but devoid of its heat, flooded their spacious living room with light, playing glints off the polished floors and dark wood furniture. Denis always loved this time of day – quiet, promising a new beginning, full of serenity and peace.

He was already up. While Svetlana slept, he had managed to run to the bakery for fresh croissants and had brought back aromatic, steaming coffee in a thermos. Now he was setting out cups on the low table by the sofa, placing still-warm pastries on plates, pouring Sveta’s favorite fig jam into a small bowl. It was their little Sunday ritual. Peaceful, predictable, cozy.

He heard the water start in the bedroom – Svetlana was in the shower. He expected her to come out sleepy, serene, perhaps even a little embarrassed after last night’s tears. He prepared a warm, enveloping smile for her. He wasn’t going to pry. He just wanted to be near. To let her know everything was alright, that he was here, that he loved her, despite any ghosts from the past.

The door opened, and she came out. And his heart, always so steady and calm in her presence, flinched with a sudden, sharp pain. She wasn’t sleepy or serene. She was… collected. Too collected. Her posture was rigid, almost wooden, and in the gaze she barely rested on him, he read a kind of detached resolve. She looked like a soldier preparing for battle.

«Good morning,» her voice was a little hoarse from sleep, but held none of its usual softness.

«Morning, beautiful,» he went to hug her, but she mechanically dodged, pretending to adjust the belt on her silk robe.

«Smells like coffee. Thanks.»

She walked to the sofa, sat down, tucking her legs under her, and took a cup. Her movements were sharp, angular. Denis felt the invisible string of misunderstanding tighten between them again. He sat down next to her, but not too close, giving her space.

«Sleep okay?» he asked, pouring her coffee.

«Fine,» she answered monosyllabically, staring out the window at the linden trees turning gold in the sun.

«Look at that sunshine. Maybe we can go to the park later,» he suggested, trying to steer things back to their usual, peaceful course. «Get some air. Take your mind off things.»

She just nodded, breaking off a tiny piece of croissant but not eating it. The silence stretched, becoming oppressive. Denis felt he had to say something, do something, break down this wall. He remembered last night’s tears, the album, her trembling shoulders.

«Sveta… about yesterday…» he began cautiously. «Don’t you want to talk? It might help.»

She slowly turned her head toward him. In her eyes, he saw not pain, but something else. An impenetrable, cold veil.

«What is there to talk about, Denis? That I was teased in school? It’s banal and stupid. Everyone has their baggage.»

«But it clearly still bothers you,» he insisted gently. «If something hurts, you should talk about it. Especially with the person closest to you.»

She pushed her cup away sharply, almost irritably.

«You’re right. It does hurt. And you know what hurts the most? That it’s still going on. That I, a grown, supposedly intelligent woman, let some stupid, ancient jokes ruin my life. That’s what’s truly humiliating.»

She stood up and walked to the window, her back to him. Denis saw how tense her shoulders were under the thin silk.

«Sveta, darling,» he came up behind her and, this time not letting her evade, hugged her, pressing his lips to her hair, still damp from the shower. «No one cares about any of that. You are beautiful. You are smart, talented, you… you’re perfect just as you are. And for me…» he paused for a second, choosing words that might reach her. "…For me, everything about you is perfect.»

He felt her freeze in his embrace. He turned her to face him, looked into her eyes, full of unshed tears and a strange, incomprehensible anguish. He leaned down and kissed her tenderly, almost reverently. First on the lips, then on the cheeks, on the eyelids, and then his lips moved lower and touched that very spot – the bridge of her nose, the slight, barely noticeable hump that he now understood was the source of all her pain.

«You see,» he whispered, kissing her again and again, «your little quirk. My favorite part.»

And in that very moment, that very second, when his lips touched her skin with such tenderness and adoration, he felt her whole body go rigid, painfully tense. Not with pleasure, but with something else. With rejection. She didn’t relax in his arms, didn’t respond to his caress; instead, she became hard as stone.

She pulled away. Her eyes, filled with anguish just a second before, now looked at him with something like… disappointment. No, not that. With pity. Pity for him because he «just didn’t understand.»

«You don’t understand,» she said quietly, and the words sounded like a verdict. An impassable chasm between them.

«What don’t I understand?» he asked, genuinely surprised, still trying to hold her hands. «I understand that you are the most beautiful woman in the world. To me. Isn’t that enough?»

She slowly, with infinite weariness, shook her head.

«This isn’t about you, Denis. Believe me. It’s not about you at all. It’s about me. You love me, so you’re blind. You don’t see what I see. You don’t feel what I feel, every time I catch my reflection in a store window or on a black phone screen. For you, it’s a ’quirk.» For me, it’s… a brand. A reminder. A constant whisper from the past telling me I’m not right. That I’m unfinished. Defective.»

He looked at her, and his heart broke from helplessness. He saw her pain, he believed in her sincerity, but he couldn’t penetrate to the core of this feeling. For him, her nose was a part of her. A part of the whole he had fallen head over heels in love with. He loved every feature, every freckle, every curve. And the fact that she hated in herself what he so adored was a tormenting mystery to him.

«But, Sveta…» he tried to find words, any words, that could heal this wound. «It’s part of your story. Your face. Without it, it wouldn’t be you anymore.»

She gave a bitter smile.

«Exactly. I want to stop being who I was. I want to finally become myself. The real me. Free.»

She turned back to the window. The sun illuminated her profile, and Denis, with an ache in his soul, looked at that very line that evoked such hatred in her. He saw only beauty. Strength. Character. He saw the woman he loved.

«I don’t know what to say,» he admitted honestly, dropping his hands. «I don’t know how to help you. I can only repeat that I love you. All of you. The you with ribbons in her hair at sixteen, and the you standing here now, talking to me in a language I don’t understand.»

She turned around. In her eyes was no longer pity, but a new, desperate tenderness.

«You are helping. Just… be here. And don’t ask any questions. Okay?»

She came over and hugged him herself, pressed herself against his chest as if seeking protection from herself. He held her, feeling how fragile and defenseless her body was. He kissed the top of her head, whispered words of comfort, but in his soul, he felt anxious and empty. He felt he was losing her. Not physically, but in some other way. That she was going into some dark depth where he was forbidden to go. That her pain was building an invisible but sturdy wall between them.

They finished breakfast almost in silence. Then Svetlana said she had work to do and went to the study. Denis was left alone. He cleared the table, washed the dishes, his movements automatic. His thoughts were far away.

He remembered their first meeting. A vernissage of a young sculptor, a colleague of his. She was standing by one of his works, not the most successful in his opinion, saying something to her companion. And he caught a fragment of a phrase: "…lacks courage in the lines, see? He’s afraid of his own idea.» He was struck by the accuracy of her remark. Then they got talking. He looked at her, at her animated, intelligent face, at those radiant eyes, the stubborn chin, that very hump that gave her face extraordinary expressiveness, and thought he had never seen anyone more beautiful. He fell in love immediately, recklessly, forever.

And now that very feature he adored threatened to destroy everything they had. Not the feature itself, but her perception of it. His love, his adoration, had not been enough. His assurances of her perfection were not enough. She needed something else. Something he couldn’t give.

He approached the closed study door. Listened. Not a sound came from within. No clicking of a keyboard. She wasn’t working. She was just sitting in there. Alone. With her demons.

He raised his hand to knock, to go in, to try again to get through to her, to convince, to beg… but let it drop. She had asked him not to ask. She had asked him just to be there. So be it.

He went to his workshop, located in a far room. Here it smelled of wood, wax, creativity. Here was his world. Understandable, simple, yielding to his will. He approached an unfinished sculpture – he was carving the figure of a dancing woman from a single block of walnut. So far, it was only hints of form, the outline of movement. But grace and strength were already discernible.

He picked up a chisel, ran his fingers over the rough, still unworked surface. And with terrible, piercing clarity, he realized who he was trying to sculpt. It was her. Svetlana. In her most intimate, most true manifestation. The way he saw her.

And now he was afraid. Afraid that the woman he saw and loved, and the one who lived inside Svetlana and whom she hated, were different people. And he didn’t know if he could love the one that might emerge from under the surgeon’s scalpel. Not physically, but inwardly. Would something change in her very essence, in her soul, if she forcibly changed her shell?

He gripped the chisel tightly in his hand. The cold metal was calming. He had to believe. Believe in her. In their love. Trust her and her choice, even if he didn’t understand it. Just be there. As she had asked.

But deep down, in the most secret corner of his heart, lived a cold, tenacious fear. The fear that by changing her face, she would forever change something between them. And that his love might not be enough to accept this new, unfamiliar woman. The one who would no longer wear his beloved «quirk.» The one who, it seemed to him, was trying to destroy a part of herself. And with it – a part of his love.

He never touched the wood with the chisel. He just sat in his chair, looked at the unfinished sculpture, and listened to the silence of the apartment, broken into two parts: his quiet, anxious workshop, and her tomblike silence behind the study door. And between these two worlds yawned a chasm that no bridge could yet fill. Not even a bridge made of the strongest love.

Chapter 4: The Breaking Point

The week that followed the party and the night spent over the school album stretched into an endless series of grey, tense days. Svetlana functioned on autopilot. She answered calls, held meetings, edited contracts, but her thoughts were somewhere far away, in a parallel reality where only clinics, surgeons’ websites, and «before and after» galleries existed. She caught herself re-reading the same paragraphs in documents multiple times, unable to grasp the meaning. Her usually impeccable concentration had failed.

Denis felt this tension and tried not to disturb her. He was quieter than water, lower than grass. He cooked her favorite meals, held her hand in silence when they watched movies, asked no questions. His care was a shield he tried to put between her and her demons. But Svetlana felt this care as pressure. Every tender touch, every understanding look was a silent reproach and a reminder: «I love you as you are, why change anything?» His love, so sincere and all-encompassing, had become another stone on her path to the coveted decision, another proof that her pain was invisible and incomprehensible to anyone, even the person closest to her.

And this pain, awakened by the reopening of the old wound, now lived its own life, fed by the smallest events of the day. It seemed the universe itself had turned against her, providing new and new confirmations of her imperfection.

Wednesday morning began with rain. Cold, nasty, drizzly rain, covering the sky with a dirty grey sheet. Of course, there were no taxis, so she had to go down into the metro. The crush in the carriage was hellish. People, irritated by the weather and the need to go somewhere, angry, wet, jostled and hissed at each other.

Svetlana pressed herself into a corner, trying to take up as little space as possible. She buried herself in her phone, pretending to read something important, just to avoid accidental glances. But she couldn’t avoid it. Right in front of her, on the seat, sat a young guy, about twenty, with headphones. His gaze, absent and uninterested, slid over her, over her face, and suddenly… lingered. Not on her eyes, not on her lips. But right there. On the bridge of her nose. His eyebrows crept up almost imperceptibly, something flickered in his eyes… not quite judgment, no. Rather, a fleeting, instantaneous curiosity. A slight, almost unnoticeable interest of an anatomist in a non-standard detail.

For anyone else, that glance would have meant nothing. The guy was probably just lost in thought, and his eyes focused on something random. But for Svetlana, with her psyche heated to the limit, that glance was a verdict. It was like a laser beam burning through her. She felt like everyone in the carriage was staring at her, at her deformity, whispering, pointing fingers. Her breath caught, her vision darkened. She shrank even more, feeling goosebumps of shame and humiliation running down her back.

At the very next station, she jumped out of the carriage, unable to bear it any longer. She came up to the street and, ignoring the rain, walked, breathing heavily, trying to force back the panic rising in her throat. It’s paranoia, she tried to persuade herself. He just had nowhere else to look. He didn’t mean anything. But she couldn’t convince herself. That random, meaningless glance on the metro etched itself into her memory like a knife wound.

At the office, a mountain of work awaited her. She urgently needed to prepare materials for foreign partners. Her assistant brought her files and, among other things, asked her to sign some documents for the report on the corporate event – that fateful party. And she attached a disk with professional photographs.

The workday came to an end, the tasks were finished. Colleagues gradually dispersed. Svetlana remained alone in her office. The rain drummed against the glass. She sat and looked at that very disk lying on the table. She didn’t want to look at it. But some dark, masochistic force made her insert the disk into the computer.

The photos were beautiful. The photographer’s skillful hands had captured the brightest moments of the evening: laughter, the sparkle of glasses, joyful faces. Here she was with Simona, here with the young author, radiant with happiness. Here was a general view of the hall – successful, beautiful people in a beautiful interior.

And then she found herself. Several large portraits of her. The photographer had caught her in moments of conversation, smiling, thoughtful. She looked at her reflection through the lens of a stranger’s camera – as the whole world saw her. And again – the same thing. She didn’t see a successful woman, her style, her smile. She saw only one thing. That damned curve, which, it seemed to her, screamed from every frame, disfiguring her entire face, making it asymmetrical, ugly, strange.

She opened one of the best photos, in her opinion – where she was looking slightly away, lost in thought. And decided to take a selfie. Not a selfie for social media, no. She wanted to photograph herself now, in the dimly lit office, without makeup, tired, and compare. Compare herself with that happy, confident woman from the photo.

She raised her phone, pointed the camera at her face. The screen became a merciless mirror. She saw pupils dilated with fatigue, traces of tension around her lips, a disobedient strand of hair on her forehead. And again – this. The same thing. Nothing had changed. No success, no love, no amount of money could change the simple fact: her face was what it was. And it caused her unbearable physical pain.

She tossed the phone away in disgust. It fell on the carpet with a dull thud. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to banish the obsessive images. But they didn’t go away. Instead, another face surfaced in her memory. The face of her rival colleague.

Kristina. The one with whom she constantly competed for the most promising authors. Kristina was dazzlingly beautiful. Perfect features, flawless skin, and… yes, that very small, neat, straight nose that Svetlana mentally considered the ideal. Kristina was always confident, always won, always got what she wanted. And Svetlana, in her darkest moments, was sure it wasn’t just Kristina’s professionalism, but her appearance. Her impeccable, cold, doll-like beauty that disarmed clients and bosses from the first second.

The thought of Kristina was the last straw. Envy, bitter and acrid, rose in her throat. Why could she have everything? Talent, recognition, and beauty? Why should she, Svetlana, be lacking something? Why did she have to carry this brand, this mark of an outcast from the most difficult time of her life on her face for years?

She stood up abruptly and walked to the window. Outside, it was already dark; the rain was intensifying, turning into a downpour. The drops lashed against the glass, washing away the dust, distorting the city lights. It seemed to her that her life was similarly distorted, ruined by a single detail. And that this downpour would wash away everything – her success, her confidence, Denis’s love – exposing the bare, unseemly truth about herself.

She felt something tearing inside her. Patience, long, agonizing, stretched over two decades, had snapped. The breaking point had been reached. She no longer had the strength to fight, to convince herself it was nonsense, that there were more important things. She no longer had the strength to hide behind work, behind money, behind the love of a man who «just didn’t understand.»

She was a naked, lonely, and unhappy girl facing the whole world. And this world was ruthlessly rubbing her nose in her flaw. The glance of a stranger on the metro. The photographs. Her own reflection in the selfie. The image of the perfect rival. Everything came together into a single, undeniable picture.

She had to stop it. Immediately. Finally. Once and for all.

Her hands no longer trembled. Her breathing evened out. A strange, icy emptiness settled inside her – the calm that comes after making the hardest, but inevitable decision.

She returned to the desk, picked up her phone. The screen was still spattered with raindrops. She wiped it with her jacket sleeve. Her fingers were cold and damp, but her movements were firm and precise.

She didn’t search for websites, didn’t reread reviews. She already knew where she would call. She went to her contacts and found the number saved that night, after the album. The number for the «Esteticus» clinic.

She dialed it. Her heart wasn’t pounding; her throat wasn’t dry. There was only absolute, indifferent clarity. She listened to the long rings, looking at her reflection in the black monitor screen. She could no longer see herself, only the vague outlines of a silhouette. It was for the best.

«Hello? Esteticus clinic, good evening,» a polite, slightly tired female voice sounded.

Svetlana took a deep breath. Her own voice sounded surprisingly even, calm, and businesslike. The voice of Svetlana Orlova, successful negotiator.

«Good evening. My name is Svetlana Orlova. I would like to make an appointment for a consultation with Dr. Ignatov. Regarding rhinoplasty.»

«One moment, I’ll check his schedule,» clicks of a keyboard were heard. «Dr. Ignatov is booked three weeks in advance. I can offer you…»

«No,» Svetlana interrupted her softly but inflexibly. «Only him. I’m willing to wait. And I’m willing to pay a double fee for urgency if a ’window’ appears.»

Surprise was audible in the secretary’s voice. Such clients were always valued.

«Alright, I’ll put you on the waiting list. For now, let’s set a date. The earliest availability… is the twenty-seventh, at eleven a.m. Does that work?»

The twenty-seventh. In three weeks. An eternity.

«Yes,» Svetlana answered without hesitation. «That works.»

She dictated her details, listened to the instructions for preparing for the consultation, and hung up. It was over. Or it was just beginning.

She sat in the complete silence of her office, and only the drumming of rain against the window broke the silence. The waiting was over. The doubts had evaporated. Now she had a goal. A date in the calendar. A time by which she had to prepare herself mentally and physically.

She gathered her things, turned off the light, and left the office. The elevator smoothly carried her down. She looked at her reflections in the shiny walls of the cab – dozens of Svetlanas, with dozens of identical noses. But now this sight evoked neither pain nor disgust. Only a cold, detached curiosity. Soon all this would disappear. Soon she would look in the mirror and see a different person. The one she had always wanted to see.

She stepped outside. The rain had almost stopped, leaving only a light drizzle. She didn’t call a taxi and walked on the wet, shining asphalt. The city air, washed by the rain, was fresh and clean. She walked and felt an unusual lightness. The burden of choice had been lifted. Now all that remained was to follow the chosen path.

She stopped at a flower kiosk and bought a large bouquet of white lilies. Denis loved lilies. She wanted to do something nice for him. Not out of guilt, no. But because she had made the decision, and now she could allow herself to be tender with him again. The wall between them was still there, but now Svetlana knew that on the other side of that wall awaited her liberation. And that gave her strength.

She approached their building, saw the light in their apartment windows. Denis was home. He was waiting for her. She paused for a moment, looking at that light, at the coziness they had created together. And for a moment, her heart constricted with doubt. Would her decision destroy this fragile world? Would Denis leave if she changed? But she immediately dismissed the thought. He loved her. He would have to understand. He would have to accept.

She took the elevator up, opened the door. Familiar sounds and smells came from the kitchen – Denis was cooking dinner.

«It’s me!» she called out, trying to make her voice sound normal.

«In the kitchen!» he called back.

She put the flowers in a vase, hung up her coat, and went to the kitchen. Denis stood at the stove, stirring something in a saucepan. He turned and smiled at her. His smile was so warm, so familiar.

«Hi, beautiful. How was your day?»

She went to him, hugged him from behind, and pressed her cheek against his back.

«Okay,» she said, closing her eyes. «Everything’s okay. Better now.»

She wasn’t lying. It was true. She had made the decision. And it had brought her a long-awaited, albeit shaky, calm. The breaking point was behind her. Ahead lay a long path to a new life. And the first step had been taken.

Chapter 5: The First Consultation

The three weeks of waiting passed in a strange, suspended state. Outwardly, Svetlana’s life went on as usual: work, meetings, evenings with Denis. But inside, everything was different. Each day was a countdown to the appointed hour; every morning she woke with the thought: One day closer today. She began staying late at the office, finding reasons to go out alone on weekends – she needed space for her secret, for her internal preparation for what was to come.

She meticulously followed all the clinic’s prescriptions: she got tests done, underwent examinations. Every injection, every blood draw was for her not a medical procedure, but a step toward purification, a sacrifice on the altar of a new life. She studied forums, read stories, watched videos about recovery. She immersed herself in this new world with the fanaticism of a convert, and the more she learned about the risks, the swelling, the pain, and the possible complications, the more strangely calmed she felt. This was the price, and she was willing to pay it. Any price.

Denis felt her distance but attributed it to fatigue after a successful yet draining project. He tried to surround her with even more care, which only intensified her guilt. She lay at night with her eyes open, listening to his even breathing, and mentally asked his forgiveness for what she was about to do. For the secret. For the distrust. For the fact that his love had not been enough.

And then the morning of the twenty-seventh arrived. Consultation day.

She woke before the alarm, in the pre-dawn greyness of the room. Her heart pounded not with fear, but with impatience, as before a long-awaited date. She carefully slipped out of bed so as not to wake Denis and locked herself in the bathroom.

Today, she didn’t put on much makeup – just a light foundation, a bit of mascara. Let the doctor see the raw «material.» She put on a simple but expensive dark blue suit that emphasized severity and businesslike efficiency. She had to make an impression of a serious, considered woman, not a hysterical girl with invented complexes.

«So early?» Denis mumbled sleepily when she, already dressed, peeked into the bedroom to say goodbye.

«Important negotiations,» she lied, kissing him on the cheek. His lips were warm and soft from sleep. «Don’t wait for me for dinner, I might be late.»

«Good luck,» he smiled at her, completely unaware of where and to whom she was actually going.

Leaving the house, she felt like a spy heading out on a secret mission. The air was cold and sharp, but it was invigorating. She walked with a fast, confident step, honed by years of Moscow life. But today, that step had a special purpose.

The «Esteticus» clinic was located on a quiet side street in the center of Moscow, in a restored old mansion. No flashy signs, just a modest bronze plaque by a massive oak door. The door was opened by a silent, elegant doorman in livery.

Inside, it smelled of expensive perfume, fresh flowers, and sterile cleanliness. The silence was absolute, broken only by the quiet chime of the elevator. The interior was minimalist: light wood, white marble, floor-to-ceiling windows looking out onto the snow-dusted crowns of century-old linden trees. It looked less like a medical facility and more like a luxury hotel boutique or a gallery of modern art. Even the air seemed filtered and paid for.

An administrator – an impeccable woman in a perfectly fitting white coat over a business dress – approached her immediately. The smile on her face was as polished and sterile as everything around her.

«Svetlana Orlova? Welcome. Please, come to the waiting area. The doctor will be with you shortly.»

She was led to a small, cozy lounge with ivory-colored sofas and a low table holding fresh magazines and a carafe of water with lemon slices. Svetlana sat down but didn’t drink or flip through the magazines. She sat with a straight back, her cold fingers clasped on her knees, and waited.

A few minutes later, the same administrator returned.

«Dr. Ignatov is ready to see you now. Please follow me.»

Svetlana’s heart gave a momentary lurch, but she immediately pulled herself together. She walked along the silent corridor, on soft carpet, past closed doors behind which miracles of transformation were presumably taking place.

The door to the doctor’s office was open. The administrator ushered her in and quietly withdrew, closing the door.

The office was spacious and bright. A huge window, with soft snow falling outside, filled the room with a cold northern light. Shelves with medical literature, diplomas in strict frames, a computer desk. And in the center – a massive table, resembling a jeweler’s workbench, behind which he sat.

Dr. Arseny Vladimirovich Ignatov.

He looked up at her. In the internet photos, he had seemed cold and arrogant. In person, his face was more detached, focused on his inner world. He was around fifty; his own face – with correct, sharp features – was an impeccable example of his work. He didn’t smile, just gave a slight nod, gesturing for her to sit in the chair opposite.

«Svetlana Orlova?» His voice was even, velvety, devoid of any emotional note. A voice that could cut glass.

«Yes,» her own voice sounded slightly hoarse, and she cleared her throat again. «Hello, Doctor.»

He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. His gaze, that same penetrating and cold one, swept over her face not as the face of a living person, but as a map on which he needed to find landmarks.

«So, what brings you to me? „What are your wishes?“» he asked, dispensing with formalities.

Svetlana felt everything inside her clench. She had rehearsed the answer to this question in front of the mirror dozens of times. But now all the memorized phrases seemed stupid and contrived.

«I… I want to change the shape of my nose,» she exhaled, feeling her face burn. «Remove the hump. Make it… straighter. Neater.»

Dr. Ignatov silently stood up and approached her. He picked up a thin metal spatula from the table.

«May I?» He didn’t wait for an answer; his fingers were already touching her face.

His touch was impersonal, precise, like a mechanic inspecting an engine. He gently turned her head, studying her profile, full face, three-quarter view. He measured the proportions with his eyes, the distance between her eyes, the width of the bridge, the length of the tip. He was so close she could see the finest wrinkles around his eyes and smell a faint scent of antiseptic and expensive cologne.

«Hmm,» he uttered something unintelligible, stepping back and sitting down at the desk again. «Anatomically, there are no complex obstacles. The cartilage is pliable, the bone is thin. Technically, the task is feasible.»

He said it as if they were discussing watch repair, not the replacement of her face. His impassivity was depressing. She had expected some acknowledgment of her pain, an understanding that this wasn’t a whim but a deeply suffered decision. But he saw only anatomy.

«I… I’ve been thinking about this for years,» she began, feeling she had to explain herself, justify her presence here. «It’s… it’s tormented me my whole life. Even in school…»

He raised a hand, gently but firmly stopping her.

«I don’t need your history, Svetlana Vladimirovna,» he said, and for the first time, a faint, almost imperceptible weariness sounded in his voice. «My job is to correct what you don’t like, from the point of view of aesthetics and harmony. Your psychological reasons are not my area of expertise. I am not a psychotherapist. I am a surgeon.»

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