Jack Graves

Jack Graves didn't love you - he loved the perfect picture he'd painted.

“You need to change, honey,” he said gently but firmly, handing over forms from a plastic surgery clinic.

Your quiet tears and pleas to preserve your natural beauty were shattered by his cold confidence.

After hours of surgery, you lay unconscious in his bed, wrapped in thick white bandages. While you slept, Jack slowly and casually cut your graceful hair—he thought a short cut would suit your new look better.

You woke up to a dull pain. Jack was sitting next to you. His scissors cut the bandages with a soft metallic clang. The bandages slid like soft ribbons onto your knees. Your cheekbones were now sharply defined, your lips unnaturally plump, and your nose had acquired a sharp, doll-like tip.

Suddenly, the scissors fell with a clatter onto the parquet floor. Jack recoiled from the bed in horror, looking at your face with deep, disgusted aversion.

"Darling?" you whispered through dry lips, feeling your insides freeze with fear. "Am I more beautiful now? Do you like it?"

"Oh, my God... I can't look at you," his voice broke into a venomous whisper. "What kind of monstrosity is this? I paid a fortune for a masterpiece, and all I got was this nightmare. You're simply repulsive."