Chapter 2 Surgery Table
# Chapter 2: Surgery Table
Three years is a long time to hate. Long enough for rage to calcify into something hard and precise—a weapon rather than a wound.
I studied my new face in the mirror of my downtown studio apartment, tracing fingers along contours that still felt alien. The surgeries had been extensive, painful, and ruinously expensive. Six procedures in Seoul, where medical tourism offered both quality and anonymity. I'd used every penny Grandma had saved for forty years, sold our apartment after she passed, and worked three jobs between recoveries.
The woman who stared back at me was Claire Fontaine—a mixed-race socialite with French-Chinese heritage, educated in Europe, recently returned to the city. My natural Asian features had been subtly altered, my once-round face now elegantly angular. My original small, dark eyes were now enhanced with colored contacts—a striking hazel that caught the light like amber. The chemical burns that had once ravaged the right side of my face were hidden beneath skillfully constructed layers of tissue and carefully placed filler.
Only my mouth remained mostly untouched—the same full lips that had swallowed glass and blood and a promise.
"Hello, Claire," I whispered to my reflection, practicing the slight French accent I'd perfected through countless hours of language tapes. The voice coach I'd hired had praised my natural mimicry, unaware of the purpose behind my dedication.
My phone chimed with a news alert. I picked it up, scrolling through the society page announcement I'd set to notify me:
*"Albert Family Announces Search for New Private Tutor: Following the sudden departure of their longtime educator, the prestigious Albert family seeks a qualified French language instructor for their youngest son, Elliot (17). The position includes residence at their Manhattan penthouse and travel to their seasonal homes..."*
I smiled at the screen, a cold satisfaction blooming in my chest. The timing was perfect—I'd spent months laying the groundwork, creating Claire Fontaine's digital footprint, her impeccable credentials, her glowing recommendations from prestigious European families. The Albert family's security team would find nothing suspicious in their background check, only an impressively qualified young woman with the right pedigree and expertise.
I moved to my closet, selecting the outfit I'd purchased specifically for this interview—a cream silk blouse, tailored charcoal pencil skirt, and modest heels. Professional yet feminine, expensive but not ostentatious. Every detail calculated to present the perfect image of refined capability.
As I dressed, I caught sight of the scars on my back—thin white lines where glass from the bathroom mirror had embedded as Lucas and his friends had thrown me down. These scars the surgeons had left untouched at my insistence. A reminder. Motivation for the days when doubt crept in.
My apartment was sparsely furnished but carefully curated—a few quality pieces rather than many cheap ones. Nothing that would betray my true background or intentions. The bookshelf held volumes in French, Chinese, and English. The walls displayed prints of European landmarks I'd never seen in person but could describe in perfect detail. Claire Fontaine was worldly, cultured, sophisticated—everything Cynthia Zhang had not been allowed to become.
On my nightstand sat the only personal item I'd kept from my old life—a faded photograph of my grandmother, taken on her seventieth birthday. She never knew what happened that night at the penthouse. I'd told her I'd been mugged, sparing her the ugly truth of what the wealthy could do to girls like me with impunity. She'd died believing I was saving for college, not for vengeance.
"I'm almost there, Nǎinai," I whispered to her image. "Almost inside."
My phone rang—my real estate agent, confirming that Claire Fontaine's references had been contacted by the Albert family's staff. The bait had been taken. The interview was scheduled for tomorrow morning.
I opened my laptop, reviewing my research for the hundredth time. In the three years since my "incident," I'd assembled a comprehensive dossier on each Albert family member:
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Albert Sr., 58, CEO of Albert Industries—divorced twice, currently dating a 26-year-old model. Known for aggressive business tactics and larger political donations. Weaknesses: vanity, young women, need for social validation.
Lucas Albert, 28, heir apparent—Harvard Business School graduate, playboy, cocaine habit carefully hidden from his father. Recently promoted to COO despite minimal qualifications. No sign he'd ever been troubled by our "incident."
Elliot Albert, 17, youngest son—selective mute since childhood trauma, musical prodigy, diagnosed on the autism spectrum. Homeschooled due to social anxiety. The family's hidden vulnerability.
I'd studied them like an assassin studies targets—learning their schedules, their preferences, their secrets. For three years, I'd been a ghost, watching from afar as they continued their privileged lives, untouched by what they'd done to me.
But ghosts can become flesh again. And I was about to haunt them from inside their own home.
I closed my laptop and moved to the bathroom, where I carefully applied my makeup—another skill I'd perfected during my transformation. The high-end cosmetics created a flawless canvas, with strategic contouring that enhanced my new bone structure. Claire was beautiful, but not in an obvious way. Hers was a beauty that suggested intelligence, that commanded respect rather than just desire.
As I applied my lipstick—a subtle rose shade—I thought about what my grandmother had told me before that fateful party: "They see girls like you as entertainment, not equals."
She'd been right. To Lucas and his friends, I had been nothing—a toy to play with and discard. They hadn't even considered me human enough to deserve justice or dignity.
But Claire Fontaine would be different. Claire would be their equal—or at least, they would perceive her as such. And that perception would be their undoing.
I practiced my introduction in the mirror, the words flowing with practiced ease: "Bonjour, je m'appelle Claire Fontaine. I studied at the Sorbonne, but my teaching experience spans three continents..."
The French rolled off my tongue flawlessly. Another weapon in my arsenal, another layer to my disguise.
I took a final look at myself—Claire Fontaine, poised and polished, ready to enter the lion's den. Then I opened my bedside drawer and removed a small case containing specialized contact lenses. These weren't the colored ones I wore daily, but custom-made recording devices, nearly undetectable to the naked eye. Expensive, illegal, and essential for gathering evidence.
As I carefully inserted them, I recalled Winton Pierce's smug face as he'd offered me that insulting check. How certain he'd been that I would take his money and disappear. That I could be bought and silenced.
"They taught you the wrong lesson," I told my reflection, blinking to adjust to the slight discomfort of the recording lenses. "You thought you were paying for my silence, but you were funding your destruction."
I closed the contact case with a decisive snap. Tomorrow, Claire Fontaine would walk into the Albert penthouse as a job applicant. But in reality, she was something else entirely.
"They want a French teacher?" I whispered, my lips curving into a cold smile. "I'll teach them to bleed in French."
