After the final procedure, the nurse carefully helped me to my feet and handed me a mirror.

"Mrs. Faulkner, look—see how immediate the results are?"

The reflection staring back at me was flawless. Skin taut and luminous, every fine line erased, as if I had returned to my twenties.

A satisfied smile curved my lips, and I drove straight to the Faulkner Group headquarters.

Pushing open the door to the CEO's office, I saw Henry bent over some documents, Karen standing close by his side.

At the sound of my entrance, both looked up simultaneously.

For a moment, my smile froze.

Karen's face was even more astonishing than the one in my mirror. Her features were impossibly delicate, almost unreal, and every glance exuded a magnetic, intoxicating charm.

She spotted me, hesitated for a beat, then offered a knowing, almost pitying smile.

"Audrey, you're here," she said.

Henry cast a brief glance at me, his eyes barely lingering on my face before returning to Karen, his tone calm.

"Refine the plan a bit more. We'll need it for the afternoon meeting."

"Understood, Mr. Faulkner."

As Karen turned to leave, she raised an eyebrow at me from just the right angle—only I would see it.

Beneath my skin, the familiar, searing sting returned, like it had been pulled taut.

The door closed behind her, leaving only Henry and me.

Finally, he looked at me. There was no astonishment in his gaze—only irritation.

"What are you doing here?"

I pointed to my face.

"Henry, look… I've gotten younger, haven't I?"

He frowned, staring at me as though I were insane.

"Audrey," he interrupted, his voice cold, "stop harassing Karen."

"I'm not—"

"Not?" His tone sharpened, leaving no room for denial. "You canceled her appointment and stole her procedure slots. If that isn't harassment, what is? Your current mental state is dangerous."

He stepped closer, his towering frame pressing down on me like a storm about to break.

"If you dare cause her any more trouble, don't blame me for forgetting we're still married."

I stumbled out of the Faulkner Group building, collapsing into my car. I buried my face in the steering wheel, my body shaking uncontrollably.

I locked myself at home.

Meanwhile, Karen's social media posts grew more dazzling.

One photo showed her in a full split by the floor-to-ceiling window, captioned: [Preparing for the Sauldi project—sculpting the perfect body line.]

Another showed her lifting dumbbells in the gym, sweat soaking her tank top, effortlessly sexy yet inspiring.

The next morning, I awoke to excruciating pain—not in my skin, but in my bones. Rust seemed to have formed in my joints, dull agony radiating through me.

I tried to sit up, but my waist felt like it had snapped; I could barely summon any strength. Every movement made my joints crackle with a sharp, brittle sound.

I staggered to the full-length mirror, and froze. The reflection showed a twenty-year-old face attached to a fifty-year-old body.

My back refused to straighten. Shoulders slumped. My whole form was bent and frail, sickly in appearance.

This time, I had been reborn. I had foreseen everything. Yet, I could only watch helplessly as myself once again slid toward that bottomless abyss. Despair and rage clenched my throat like two iron hands, suffocating me.

The call from the Faulkner estate came while my hands trembled as I painted my nails. Henry's voice came through the line.

"There's a dinner at the house tonight to celebrate the launch of the Sauldi project. Get ready. All the relatives will be there. Don't embarrass me."

I glanced at my reflection in the mirror and let out a soft, bitter laugh.

Hanging up, I dug through the depths of my closet and pulled out an old dress—a simple, cream-colored dress.

Every step I took in it made my bones crack and creak.

By evening, the Faulkner residence was brilliantly lit.

I hunched over and shuffled into the living room, every eye instantly on me.

My grandmother-in-law frowned first. "Audrey, what are you wearing? Do you even know what kind of occasion this is?"

Before I could answer, Karen appeared in a wine-red mermaid gown, linking her arm through Henry's.

Henry glanced at her, then at me.

"Look at yourself, sloppy, like a servant," he said.

He gestured toward Karen. "Learn from Karen—this is how a woman presents herself."

My body trembled.

At the dinner, I was seated farthest from Henry. I tried to straighten my spine, but my shoulders refused to cooperate.

I picked up my fork to grab a piece of meat, only for my fingers to shake violently.

The fork slipped from my hand and clattered to the floor.

Silence fell across the room.

Henry frowned. "Do you need someone to feed you? How long are you going to keep embarrassing yourself?"

Karen stood, heels clicking. "Don't worry, Audrey, I'll help you."

She bent down to retrieve the fork—but as she did, her hand tilted her wine glass, spilling the entire contents onto my cream dress.

"Oh no!" she cried. "Audrey, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean it!"

She straightened and looked at me, suggesting, "Maybe… I have a spare dress in my car. You could wear it?"

I tried to stand, bracing myself on the table, but my legs refused to obey. I wavered, then collapsed to the floor.

Another startled cry came from Karen.

Henry leapt up, striding over. He stepped past me and caught Karen. "You're okay, right?"

She leaned into his embrace. "I'm fine, Henry. It's just… Audrey…"

He patted her back gently. He didn't look down at me once.

I lay on the floor, listening to his care for Karen and the whispers of the relatives.

"What happened to Audrey?"

"I think she's lost her mind…"

"Next to Karen…"

The voices crashed over me like a tide and receded the same way. The last shred of love I had for Henry, the final illusion of our marriage, shattered that night, reduced to ashes. If I wanted to live, if I wanted revenge, I could rely on no one. I had to be crueler, crazier than them.

I lay on the floor and laughed silently.

That night, I stayed on the cold floor until the guests left. Henry and Karen went upstairs—no one spared me a second glance.

My body ached as if it were falling apart. I clung to the wall and crawled back to my room.

In the mirror, a twenty-year-old face was paired with a fifty-year-old body—absurd, terrifying.

I stretched out my dried, brittle hand and, with yellowed nails, carved deep into my arm. The sharp sting came immediately, and red marks bloomed. I repeated it over and over until my arms were streaked in red and my strength was spent. Then I slept.

The next morning, the sunlight was harsh. My body still ached. I lifted my arm.

The skin was still loose and waxen, but the deep, blood-red scratches were gone—every last one. Smooth and unblemished, as if last night had been a dream. But the residual sting was so real it made my head spin.

A mad thought struck me.

I sprang upright, joints cracking, grabbed my car keys, and sped to the Faulkner Group building.

I didn't go upstairs. I hid in a corner of the first-floor café, waiting for Karen.

At ten a.m., she arrived punctually. Employees fawned over her, and she responded with a practiced smile—slightly stiff.

I fixed my gaze on her hands.

When Karen brushed her hair back while talking, I saw it—clear as day. Under the Cartier bracelet on her pale wrist, fresh red scratches glimmered vividly.

She noticed my stare, immediately lowering her hand and awkwardly tugging at her sleeve.

Too late. The placement, depth, and number of scratches matched exactly what I had carved into my hand last night.

I could no longer contain myself. I dropped my head and laughed, tears streaming down my face.