But look at Helen Mirren. Meryl Streep. Don’t even get started on Angela Bassett. They were older than she was and had never been more beautiful.

And yet, here Juliet was, at a posh New York plastic surgeon’s office because she was terrified. She was forty-three, and Arwen was thirty-one, and maybe—gah—looking a little younger would remind the partners and perhaps the world that she was still a young(ish) woman, but really, why would you want a young architect? Wouldn’t you want someone with experience and maturity? They made buildings! Experience was a good thing if you didn’t want things crashing down on your head!

And yet she’d been passed over for the Forty Under Forty. Vanity Fair was doing a profile on Arwen. Vanity fucking Fair. “Women Who Are Changing the World.” After being lead designer on three entire projects.

Three.

So yeah. That’s why Juliet was here. It went against everything she believed in, and here she was. Not a proud moment, but she wasn’t racing for the door, either.

The door opened. “Hello! I’m Dr. Brian. How are you? Juliet . . . Smith! What a pretty name.”

He was about sixty and wore a white doctor’s coat over jeans and a button-down shirt. And he was no supermodel himself. Should she trust a plastic surgeon with a nose that size? Why hadn’t he gotten anything tweaked? Look at those wrinkles! And he was balding. “Hi,” she said.

“What are you thinking of today, Juliet?”

Juliet took a deep breath, noticing that her hands were shaking. “I’d like to look . . . a little younger. Not different, just . . . rejuvenated.” She closed her eyes at the overused word.

“Face? Body? Labia and vagina?”

“Jesus, no.” She paused. “What’s that? The vagina thing?”

He smiled pleasantly. “We can plump up your labia, maybe trim them, since they can get stretched out—”

Her knees locked together. “Trim my labia? Are you kidding?”

“No, not at all. We can get a very nice effect. We can also tighten your vagina. It says on your form you’ve had two children?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Which can stretch you out, obviously. A few well-placed stitches, and—”

“Okay, no. I’m not comfortable talking about this.” Did men do this? Was there any male at DJK who was being told his sac should be a little tighter and higher?

“I just want something quick and easy and very subtle,” Juliet said. “I don’t want to look frozen. I don’t want to look weird or different or carved up . . . I just want to look like me, five or ten years ago. No scalpels.” Her hands were tingling. A panic attack was lurking.