Chapter 4: The Consultation
The lobby was cold in that deliberately calming way, all pale bamboo floors and abstract watercolor prints. Iliana felt overdressed in her silk blouse, like she was trying too hard for someone who was about to be prodded and measured. She’d scheduled the consultation on her day off, telling Atlas she had a follow-up for a wrist strain. The lie came easier than she expected.
Dr. Reynolds’s assistant, a young woman with unnervingly smooth skin, led her back. The hallway smelled of lemon cleaner and something else, something metallic underneath.
The office was worse. It gleamed. Everything was silver, glass, or the white of bleached bone. The antiseptic scent was stronger here, layered over with a hint of some sterile floral air freshener. On the walls, photographs of women—just torsos, really—lined up in neat rows. Before. After. The afters were all startlingly similar: perfect curved slopes, areolas placed with geometric precision, scars hidden in folds that didn’t look like they could ever exist on a living, breathing body. Iliana stared at a pair labeled ‘450cc, Under Muscle’. They looked heavy. Permanent.
Dr. Reynolds entered with a file in hand. He was handsome, she noted immediately, in a weathered, golf-course way. Salt-and-pepper hair, a tan that didn’t come from a hospital, a smile that was confident without being warm.
“Iliana? I’m Dr. Reynolds. Have a seat.”
His handshake was firm, dry. She sat in the patient chair, crossing and uncrossing her legs.
“So,” he said, opening her file. “Tell me what brings you in today.”
She took a breath, the script she’d practiced in the car suddenly flimsy. “I want breast implants. 300cc. I’m very active—Pilates every day, running—so I need something that, you know, fits my lifestyle. Proportional.”
He nodded, tapping his pen against his knee. “Proportional is a good starting point. But it’s a very personal thing. It’s not just about the number, it’s about the look you want to achieve. The feel.” He stood. “Let’s do an examination, see what foundation we’re working with. The gown opens in the front.”
He left her alone. The paper gown was crisp and unforgiving. The examination table was covered in stark white paper that crinkled loudly under her when she sat. She felt exposed, the air conditioning a direct chill on her thighs. She watched the door, a strange thrill mixing with the clinical shame of it all.
He returned, pulling on a pair of blue nitrile gloves with a snap. “Just lie back for me.”
His touch was clinical, but thorough. His fingers traced the borders of her pectoral muscles, pressed into the tissue of her small breasts. He was assessing, muttering measurements to himself. “You have a good frame. Athletic, as you said. Tight skin.”
“So 300cc would work?”
“It would.” His hands cupped her, hefted gently. He was looking at her chest, but not at her. He was seeing a schematic. “You have a wider chest wall than you might think. You could accommodate a bit more. Go to a full 400, even 450, and still maintain a natural slope. The profile would be… more dramatic. More of a statement.”
As he said “450,” his thumb brushed casually over her nipple through the paper. It was a clinical adjustment. It had to be.
But a jolt went straight through her, a hot, slick pulse between her legs so sudden and intense she had to stifle a gasp. The wet throb was humiliating and electric. Her face flushed. Was this normal? Did other women get aroused during consultations?
He stepped back, peeling off the gloves. “Get dressed and we’ll talk options.”
When she rejoined him at his desk, her composure was thin veneer. He showed her sizers—silicone blobs in different volumes. He handed her the 300cc. She held it in her palm. It was smaller than she’d imagined. Dense. She slipped it into the surgical bra he provided, turned to the mirror. It was nice. A fuller version of herself.
“Now try the 400,” he said, his voice casual.
The difference was immediate. The weight was there. The curve in the mirror was something else entirely. It pushed against the thin material of the bra, creating a deep, shadowed cleavage she’d never possessed. It wasn’t her. It was better. She saw herself in scrubs, the top straining just slightly. She saw the orderlies in the hospital, the doctors, their eyes dipping, lingering. She saw Atlas, his mouth falling open, his hands reaching for her like she was a stranger he desperately needed to know.
“See?” Dr. Reynolds said, a note of satisfied confirmation in his voice. “The canvas can handle the art.”
“I… I came in for 300,” she heard herself say, but her voice was distant.
He sat, unperturbed, his eyes calmly meeting hers. The silence stretched out. Her nipples tightened before she realized what she was saying.
"But now I want 400."
He clicked his mouse, pulling up a calendar. “My next availability is in three weeks. A Thursday. You’ll need someone to drive you home.”
She nodded, her eyes still glued to her reflection. The 400cc sizer looked like it belonged. 300 seemed like a compromise now, a half-measure for a woman who wasn’t sure. She was sure.
She scheduled the surgery. The deposit slid from her savings account with a tap of her phone. Walking out of the office, the winter air hitting her face, she felt unreal. The paperwork was in her bag. The date was circled in her mind.
In her car, she didn’t start the engine. She looked down at her own chest, small and familiar in her silk blouse. In three weeks, it would be gone. Replaced by something she’d just held in her hands. She imagined the recovery, the pain, the bandages. Then she imagined the reveal. Peeling off the surgical bra for the first time, seeing those perfect, foreign curves attached to her body. She imagined walking into the ICU, every head turning. She imagined Atlas, watching her, his guilt and his hunger all tangled up together.
She started the car, her hands steady. A slow smile touched her lips. She couldn’t wait to be someone else.