I was more than pretty

The last thing I heard was laughter.

Not the warm kind. Not the kind that wraps around your heart like sunlight.

No. This was the laugh of someone who’d won.

Julian’s voice, smooth as aged whiskey, saying, “She never even saw it coming.”

And Serena’s—my best friend—giggling like we were still sharing secrets over wine, not plotting my downfall while I was busy dying.

I lay in the hospital bed, machines beeping like a countdown no one could stop. My body was weak, hollowed out by stress, by grief, by years of pretending I didn’t hear the whispers.

“She’s pretty, but you can tell it’s not real.”

“All that work done on her face… must’ve cost a fortune.”

“I wonder what she looked like before?”

They said I got plastic surgery to be loved.

But they never asked why.

They never saw the girl who was called “ugly” in high school.

The one whose yearbook photo was edited with devil horns and shared in a group chat titled “Before & Horrible.”

The one who wore oversized sweaters in summer just to disappear.

I wasn’t trying to be perfect.

I was trying to survive.

And when I finally became someone people looked at—someone who got offers for modeling gigs, who turned heads at parties, who was called “stunning” without irony—I thought I’d won.

But love didn’t come.

Respect didn’t come.

Only sideways glances and quiet judgments.

“She’s beautiful, but… you know.”

“I bet she doesn’t even recognize her old self.”

And then came Julian.

Charming, polished Julian, with his tailored suits and slow smile, who kissed me on our third date and said, “You’re the most captivating woman I’ve ever met.”

I believed him.

I married him.

I gave him ten years of loyalty, of quiet mornings and late nights, of building a life while he climbed the corporate ladder on my inheritance, my connections, my silence.

And how did he repay me?

By falling for Serena.

My best friend.

The one who never got surgery.

The one everyone called “naturally radiant.”

The one who told me, just weeks before I collapsed, “Don’t worry, Ev. Julian would never leave you for someone fake.”

I believed that too.

Until I found the hotel keycard in his jacket.

Until I saw the photos on his cloud—Serena in my favorite silk robe, lying in our bed.

Until I realized—my death was their beginning.

The divorce papers arrived the same day the doctor told me my heart was failing.

Stress-induced cardiomyopathy, he called it.

I called it heartbreak.

And as I lay there, watching Julian sign the papers without looking at me, I whispered, “One day… you’ll know what you’ve done.”

I didn’t think I’d get the chance to make him.

But then—darkness.

And then…

A gasp.

Light.

And the sound of my own voice, young and full of hope, saying:

“I can’t believe I got into Parsons! Mom, did you hear? I’m going to be a designer!”

I froze.

That was ten years ago.

I turned to the mirror.

Smooth skin. No subtle lifts, no refined nose.

My old face.

My real face.

The one I used to hate.

I touched my cheeks, my jaw, my nose—unchanged.

My phone buzzed.

A text from Serena:

“So excited for coffee tomorrow! We have SO much to talk about 😍”

And beneath it, a news alert draft in my notes app:

“Tech Investor Julian Vale Engaged to Childhood Best Friend in Secret Ceremony”

The article wasn’t live yet.

It was scheduled… for next week.

I stared at the date on my phone.

June 12th.

Ten years ago.

The day before I agreed to get surgery.

The day before everything changed.

I backed away from the mirror, heart pounding.

This wasn’t a dream.

This wasn’t a miracle.

This was a second chance.

And this time…

I wasn’t going to fix my face.

I was going to fix my fate.

Because I wasn’t just the girl who got plastic surgery.

I wasn’t just the wife who was betrayed.

I wasn’t just the woman who died alone.

I was more than pretty.

And this time?

They were going to see every damn bit of me.