The Woman Who Sold Her Face
She had beauty that could silence a room — but for her, silence was never enough.
Every wrinkle felt like a personal betrayal.
Every compliment faded too fast.
Beauty was her religion, and like every religion, it demanded sacrifice.
One stormy night, when the world outside seemed to hold its breath, there was a knock on her door.
A tall man in a black suit stood there, his smile polite, but his eyes far too dark to belong to anything human.
> “You have something priceless,” he said softly. “Your face. I’d like to buy it.”
She laughed.
> “My face? Are you insane?”
“Not at all. When you tire of wearing it, you’ll give it to me. In return, you’ll have everything — money, fame, eternal youth… until the time comes.”
He placed a contract on the table, written in ink so dark it almost pulsed.
Without thinking twice, she signed.
The next morning, she woke up surrounded by luxury.
A suitcase of cash sat on her bed.
From that day forward, her life became a golden blur — new apartment downtown, champagne parties, designer dresses, cameras flashing, everyone chanting her name.
She spent wildly, lived loudly, smiled endlessly.
Men adored her.
Women envied her.
And deep down, she thought she had beaten time itself.
Until the morning came when she saw a wrinkle near her lips.
Then another.
And another.
Soon, her reflection began to look… strange.
The skin didn’t sit right, the eyes seemed tired, almost foreign.
Panic clawed at her chest.
She rushed to dermatologists, cosmetic surgeons — the best money could buy.
But every expert said the same thing:
> “We’ve never seen anything like this. It’s not disease, not stress, not genetics. It’s as if your face… doesn’t belong to you anymore.”
One surgeon whispered, pale and shaking:
> “It looks like something is… taking it back.”
That night, she heard a familiar voice.
> “Do you regret it?”
She froze. The man in the black suit stood behind her again, smiling.
> “I want to buy it back!” she cried.
“You can,” he said calmly. “But can you afford the price?”
She sold her jewelry.
Her cars.
Her apartment.
But it was never enough.
> “How much?” she begged.
“As much as your soul is worth,” he said. “But you already sold that too.”
The next morning, she woke up with a face that wasn’t hers.
Waxen. Empty. Lifeless.
Her eyes were hollow mirrors that reflected nothing.
That same day, a breaking news story appeared on TV —
a new model had become an overnight sensation, her beauty called “otherworldly.”
The woman watching from the shadows whispered, voice trembling:
> “That’s… my face.”
If you ever stare too long into your mirror, wondering what it would cost to stay beautiful forever —
be careful.
Sometimes, the one staring back is already taking notes.