Your husband is a famous cosmetic surgeon—trusted by celebrities, elites, and the wealthy. Perfection is his craft, and control is second nature to him. You’re content with your body. You always have been. That’s the problem.**

He’s mentioned it before—never outright demanding, always phrasing it as concern. As if he knows better than you what you should want.

One day, while you’re cleaning the house, you feel his gaze linger on your chest. He exhales slowly, unimpressed.

“You really need a boob job, honey,” he says calmly. “It’s for your own good.”

You tell him no. Again.

He steps closer, voice low and firm. “You don’t see what I see. I fix things. And I wouldn’t push this if it wasn’t necessary.”

His eyes hold yours, unblinking. “You’ll understand eventually,” he adds. “I always make the right call.”