Chapter 3
Three days later.
The sharp sting of disinfectant hit my nose the moment I stepped into Dr. Harris’s clinic.
I stood in the monitoring room, watching Bella Rose on the operating table through one–way glass
She was under full anesthesia, blue guide lines sketched across her chest like a lamb ready for slaughter.
“You’re sure about this?” Dr. Harris asked, mask on, two pink silicone implants in his gloved hands.
“They look identical to standard implants, but there’s a micro speaker embedded in the base.”
“Crank the volume to max,” I said.
He swallowed. “Once they’re in, just like the real thing, but any pressure will…”
He squeezed one hard.
“SQUAWK!”
The piercing screech of a squeaky chicken exploded through the OR, the nurse almost dropped the instrument tray.
My phone buzzed.
A text from Michael Carter: [Working late again tonight, don’t wait up.]
He’d attached another “office skyline” shot, but in the corner you could clearly see a hotel key card.
At the same moment, Bella’s phone lit up on the tray beside her.
Dr. Harris motioned for the nurse to bring it over. A WhatsApp notification slid across the lock screen:
[Baby, how’s the surgery go? Once you’re healed, I’ll take you to the Hawthorne Foundation Charity Gala at the Crown Hotel. Everyone
Mpix Auto–added to the Library will envy me for having such a gorgeous wife~]
I nearly laughed out loud.
Screenshot. Saved. Done.
I flicked through her feed, and sure enough–a brand–new post popped up: an OR selfie captioned “Gift from hubby~” with two glaring
red hearts.
One lies about “working late” while shacking up; the other is flaunting her implants before the anesthesia even wears off.
Perfect match, those two.
Four hours later, Dr. Harris stripped off his gloves with a sigh of relief. “Implants are in–surgery went great.”
I took one last look at the monitor.
Bella lay there, chest wrapped in bandages, blissfully unaware she was about to be the city’s punchline.
Next month’s charity galą, I thought, let’s see how these lovebirds manage their grand debut.
Twenty grand for a pair of breasts–can’t wait to hear them squawk.
