His Mistress, Her Freedom

s the third and final surgery, a small adjustment the doctor said would perfect the symmetry

ntioned he loved. For five years, I had molded myself, piece by piece, into the woman I thought he wanted. I had sanded down the sharp edges of my own personality, quieted my pas

am preferred, the ones Sarah always had in her photos. I had spent the afternoon preparing his favorite meal, a recipe I' d coaxed out of his mother

ails, no dust settled into the creases of my skin. These were not the hands of a sculptor. They were the hands of

and rehearsed the evening in my head. He would walk in, tired from work. He would smile when he saw the table. He would kis

ervous smile already on my face. But it wasn't just Liam. I heard the low murmur of his friends

e a rock," Tom said, his voice car

archway. I shouldn't lis

letely different from the laugh he used with me. "A

eholder. The word hung i

d in, a bit of pity in his tone. "It's bee

was a physical blow. It was a tone I had craved for five years, a ton

d, his voice softer now. "She's a

e, laced with a cruelty I had never

e Sarah now. It's pathetic, how hard she tries." He let out another short

mbled into dust. Every surgery, every suppressed opinion, every abandoned dream was not an act of love bu

ng his profile in my notebook instead of taking notes. I' d loved him from a distance, a secret, painful ache in my chest. I knew about Sarah even then, his step-sister, the beautiful musician who was a

But it was all a lie. He wasn't loving me, he was lov

re body. He had not just deceived me, he had used my deepest insecurities against me.

he pristine living room, a stranger in my own home. The lilies suddenly

been my constant companion for a decade died, and in its place, a cold, hard clar

alked on numb legs to my old room, the one Liam had called my "hobby space" and I hadn't entered in years. I

essor David Chen. And there it was, an email from two years ago. An offer for a prestigious sculpting residen

ounded against my ribs, a frantic, desperate rhythm. I could do this. I had to do this. It was the only piece of the real Elea