Chapter 13
CAMILLE’S POINT OF VIEW the
“Hold still, please.”
Dr. Miranda Torres’s gloved fingers touched my chin, turning my face gently to catch the light. Her dark eyes studied every curve and angle with the focus of an artist examining marble before the first chisel strike.
We sat in her private clinic, a discreet facility hidden behind unmarked doors in a luxury Manhattan building. The consultation room looked more like an upscale spa than a medical office, with soft lighting, expensive artwork, and not a single diploma on display. The credentials were understood, not advertised. Dr. Torres didn’t need wall decorations to prove her expertise, her client list of celebrities, politicians, and billionaires spoke for itself. “Forgive my directness,” she said, releasing my face and sitting back, “but you have excellent bone structure. We won’t need to do nearly as much as I initially thought.”
1 glanced at Victoria, who sat in a leather chair in the corner, tablet in hand, seemingly absorbed in emails but missing nothing.
“What exactly will you be doing?” I asked, trying to keep the nervousness from my voice.
Dr. Torres touched a screen on her desk, and a 3D model of my face appeared on the wall display. I stared at the digital version of myself, the me I’d been living with for the past five weeks of Victoria’s transformation program. “We’re not planning a complete overhaul,” Dr. Torres explained, manipulating the image with practiced gestures. “That would be obvious, unnatural, and frankly, unnecessary. Instead, we’ll make strategic enhancements that build on your natural features while altering just enough to create distance from your former appearance.” The image on screen changed subtly as she spoke, small adjustments appearing and then reverting as she demonstrated possibilities.
“Your cheekbones, for instance,” she continued. “Already well–defined, but we can enhance them slightly to create more dramatic shadows.” The digital face shifted, the cheeks becoming more sculpted. “It changes how light hits your face, how others perceive your strength.”
Victoria finally looked up. “Show the jaw adjustment as well.”
Dr. Torres nodded, manipulating the image again. My jawline became slightly more defined, stronger.
“The goal isn’t disguise,” the doctor said, eyes meeting mine directly. “It’s transformation. We’re not erasing you, we’re amplifying your power. People see what they expect to see, and no one looking for a victim will recognize a queen.”
The words hit something deep inside me. No one looking for a victim will recognize a queen. Wasn’t that exactly what Victoria had been teaching me these past weeks? That power came not just from wealth or position, but from how you carried yourself, how others perceived you?
“What about recovery time?” I asked, surprising myself with how clinical my own voice sounded. When had I started accepting this as necessary rather than extreme?
“Two weeks for the Initial healing. Six weeks before you’re camera ready for close–ups. We’ll use minimally Invasive techniques, fillers, fat transfers, thread lifts, and only minor surgical interventions.”
She turned back to the display, continuing her overview. “Sabtle refinement of the nose bridge. Enhancement of the lips, not overfilled, just a slight increase in definition. row lift to open the eyes. And we’ll adjust the hairline.
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Chapter 13
slightly.”
I watched my digital face transform bit by bit. Each change was small, almost imperceptible on its own. Together, they created someone new, someone who looked like me but somehow…more. Stronger. Sharper. A face that commanded attention rather than sought approval.
“When can you begin?” Victoria asked, setting aside her tablet.
Dr. Torres checked her calendar. “I’ve already cleared my schedule for tomorrow morning. Assuming blood work comes back normal today, we can proceed at 7 AM.”
Tomorrow. So soon. My heart rate increased, a flicker of panic rising in my chest. This was happening. Really happening. Not just new clothes or a different hairstyle, but physical changes to my very face.
Victoria must have noticed my reaction. “Do you need more time to consider?” Her tone was neutral, but I recognized the test beneath the question. Was I still committed? Still willing to do whatever necessary to become Camille Kane completely?
I met her gaze steadily.
NO, Tomorrow is fine
Dr. Torres nodded, pleased. “Excellent. My nurse will draw blood now, and I’ll provide detailed pre–operative instructions. No food after midnight, no alcohol for 24 hours before, no aspirin or anti–inflammatories for a week.
She rose from her chair, signaling the consultation was ending. “One more thing, Ms. Kane,” she added, using my new name with practiced ease. This transformation is as much psychological as physical. The woman you’ll see in the mirror afterward will look different, yes, but how you carry her, how you embody her, that’s what truly changes how the world sees you.”
After blood draws and paperwork, James drove us back to Victoria’s mansion in silence. I stared out the window at passing Manhattan streets, trying to memorize my own face in the reflection. By this time tomorrow, it would be altered in ways I couldn’t fully grasp yet.
“You’re quiet,” Victoria observed as we pulled into the private drive.
“Just thinking”
“Having doubts?”
I turned to look at her directly. “Would you stop the procedures if I said yes?”
A hint of a smile touched her lips. “No. But your answer tells me I won’t need to force the issue.”
As always, she saw through me with unsettling clarity. I wasn’t having doubts, not really. Just trying to process the finality of what was happening. Every step until now had been theoretically reversible Different clothes could be changed. Hair could grow back. Even my new name existed only on paper.
But altering my face, that was permanent. A physical manifestation of my commitment to this new life, this new identity.
“Dr. Torres is the best,” Victoria said as we entered the house. “She’s discreet, skilled, and understands our objectives completely. She’s also the only surgeon who has ever worked on my face.”
This surprised ine, Victoria looked naturally elegant, her age visible but beautifully managed. I’d never suspected
cosmetic intervention.
“You’ve had work done?” I asked before I could stop mysel
She raised one perfect eyebrow. “Of course. Beauty is a weapon, Camille, Only fools refuse to sharpen their blades
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Chapter 13
due to misplaced principles ”
That night, I stood before my bathroom mirror longer than usual, studying the face that would change tomorrow. I traced my cheekbones, the line of my jaw, the curve of my lips. Features inherited from parents who had chosen Rose over me again and again. Features Stefan had once clalined to love before discarding me for my sister.
Would changing my outside help heal what was broken inside?
Sleep came fitfully, filled with dreams of faceless women and mirrors that showed strangers. I woke before my alarm, stomach tight with a mix of anxiety and anticipation.
James drove me to the clinic in pre–dawn darkness. Victoria didn’t accompany us this time, a board meeting required her attention. But her absence felt deliberate, another test to see if I would proceed without her oversight. Dr. Torres greeted me in surgical scrubs, her manner calm and confident. “All your labs look excellent. We’re right on schedule.”
The next few hours passed in a haze of medications and murmured voices. I remembered the cool feel of antiseptic on my skin, the gentle pressure of Dr. Torres’s hands marking surgical guidelines, the strange floating sensation as anesthesia pulled me under.
Then nothing.
I woke to dimmed lights and the soft beep of monitoring equipment. My face felt tight, pressure bandages wrapped around my head. A private nurse appeared immediately, offering ice chips for my dry throat. “Everything went perfectly,” she assured me in hushed tones. “Dr. Torres will be in shortly to check on you.” Time blurred. Dr. Torres appeared, checked vital signs, examined something beneath the bandages I couldn’t “Excellent initial results,” she said, sounding pleased. “We’ll keep you overnight for monitoring, then move you to the recovery suite tomorrow.”
The recovery suite turned out to be a luxury apartment attached to the clinic, staffed with private nurses and equipped with everything needed for healing in complete comfort and secrecy. Victoria had arranged for my things to be brought from the mansion–clothes, toiletries, even books I’d been reading.
t see.
For five days, I existed in a twilight state of medications, gentle care, and gradually reducing bandages. Dr. Torres visited twice daily, monitoring my healing with meticulous attention Special diets arrived on silver trays. Nurses applied cooling masks and healing serums. Private physical therapists performed gentle facial massage to reduce swelling
I still hadn’t seen myself.
The mirrors had been covered when I arrived at the recovery suite, standard protocol, Dr. Torres explained, to prevent psychological shock during the most swollen phase of recovery.
On the sixth day, Dr. Torres arrived for her morning check with Victoria in tow. Something in their expressions told me today was significant.
“The initial healing has progressed exceptionally well,” Dr. Torres said, examining my face with clinical precision. “The swelling has reduced enough for a first look Are you ready?”
My heart pounded as I nodded.
