The Surgery He Ordered

My name is Melissa. I've been with Roland Wendell for eighteen years. From the moment I can remember, my life has been bound to his. Roland Wendell is the heir to the Wendell Group—cold and unyielding by nature, celibate for years, always shrouded in an aura that keeps strangers at bay. I'm his personal assistant—years ago, when my parents died unexpectedly, Old Mrs. Wendell, ever kind, took me into the Wendell Family and allowed me to stay close to Roland Wendell, who is two years older than me. For eighteen years, I learned to take care of his daily needs, handle the trivial matters of his work, and hide my own emotions. I thought that such devotion might earn me something different. Until that day, when he sat on the leather sofa in his study, a cigar pinched between his fingers but unlit, calmly making that outrageous demand. "Melissa," he looked up at me, his eyes utterly cold, "go and get breast augmentation surgery." I stood frozen, as if my blood had instantly turned to ice. I know he has a secret preference—something about women's breasts. Once, while tidying his study, I accidentally found an art book hidden deep on the shelf. It was filled with drawings of women in various poses, but the focus was always on their breasts. I hurriedly shut the book, pretending I hadn't seen anything, yet a vague, bitter ache stirred quietly in my heart. I never imagined he would take this preference and impose it on me so bluntly and cruelly. "Why?" My voice trembled slightly. Roland Wendell put down his cigar, leaned forward slightly, and fixed his gaze on my chest. That look made me feel utterly uneasy. "I need a wife who meets my standards." He said, "If you do it, I will marry you." Marry you. Those two words, like a spell, drilled into my ears. Eighteen years of companionship, eighteen years of feelings—I instantly lost the ability to think. I knew this request was excessive, even an insult to me. But I wanted so badly to stay by his side, to become his wife, to give this delicate affection a home. After a long silence, I heard my own dry voice: "Alright." Roland Wendell's face showed no trace of emotion, as if he had long been certain I would agree. "I've already arranged the hospital and the doctor; you'll go tomorrow." He handed me a business card, on which the name "Patricia Stephenson" was printed, with the title Deputy Chief Physician of Plastic Surgery. I took the card; my fingertips turned cold. That night, I couldn't sleep a wink. Lying in bed, I kept asking myself over and over: was it worth it? But the moment I thought about marrying Roland Wendell, about staying by his side with full legitimacy, all hesitation vanished into thin air. The next day, the driver brought me to the designated hospital. Patricia Stephenson was already waiting for me outside the operating room. She wore a white coat, her makeup flawless, her figure tall and striking—especially her chest, so impressive it strained the fabric of her coat. "You must be Melissa, right?" She appraised me from head to toe, a faint, barely perceptible hint of contempt in her eyes. I nodded slightly, remaining silent. "Mr. Wendell gave strict instructions to follow his specifications." Patricia smiled, a sly edge of mockery in her expression. "Don't worry, I'll make sure you're 'satisfied'." The nurse came over to take me for the preoperative check-up, then administered the anesthesia. Before losing consciousness, the last thing I thought of was Roland Wendell's cold, hard face. I don't know how much time passed before I was suddenly jolted awake by a sharp, intense pain. My chest felt as if it had been crushed under a heavy weight; every breath sent a piercing ache through me. "Awake?" Patricia Stephenson's voice sounded in my ear. I struggled to open my eyes and saw her leaning against the wall, arms crossed, a teasing look in her eyes as she stared at me. "The surgery was very successful." She said, "But I have to tell you a little secret." A cold chill ran through me, a bad feeling settling deep inside. Patricia Stephenson stepped closer, leaned down, and lowered her voice: "You really think Mr. Wendell used good materials on you? It's nothing but the cheapest, lowest-quality resin." Cheap resin? My entire body tensed, and the pain suddenly felt less sharp, almost dull. "You're lying!" I struggled to sit up, but the pain in my chest forced me back onto the bed, tears streaming uncontrollably down my face. "Whether I'm lying or not, you'll find out soon enough." Patricia Stephenson sat up straight, deliberately pushing out her chest. "Look at mine—completely natural, far better than your cheap implants." "Mr. Wendell actually prefers the natural. Tell me, is it really worth degrading yourself just to marry him?" Her words stabbed into my heart like sharp knives. I bit my lip hard, trying not to cry out loud.