---

The Price of Perfection

Nastya placed a plane ticket directly in front of her husband. It landed on his desk with a soft, yet definitive, thud.

“What’s this?” Boris asked, surprised, lifting the expensive paper.

“I’m flying out tomorrow. Departure is at 8 a.m. sharp. You will be driving me to the airport.”

“Wait a minute… Is this a business-class ticket? You bought an insanely expensive ticket… How dare you! Where exactly did you get this kind of money?!” Boris’s voice rose with immediate, possessive outrage.

“I simply asked your secretary to book the ticket for me.” Nastya’s voice was cool, level, and utterly devoid of apology.

“Arina didn’t tell me! I… I’m going to fire her for this breach of protocol!” Boris flushed crimson, less from anger and more from the sheer, physical pain of unnecessary financial expenditure. He had no intention of throwing that kind of money away. He himself flew economy, even on long-haul flights, to save every possible ruble. But his wife and his secretary had conspired behind his back, which meant both had to be immediately punished for their actions. Boris still didn’t know why his wife was flying out, but these lavish expenses definitely weren’t part of his meticulously planned budget.

---

The Origin of the Demand

A few weeks earlier, the drama had begun quietly in their bedroom.

“You have to wear this dress. Actually… no. It’ll just make you look heavier and too matronly.” With the air of a highly discerning connoisseur of women’s fashion—a role he only adopted when his social standing was at stake—Boris dug through his wife’s wardrobe. “Here, try this on. The neckline is much more flattering.”

“I don’t like it,” Nastya objected immediately, not even looking at the fabric.

“Like it, don’t like it… that’s not the point.” Boris tossed the garment onto the bed.

“No. I will decide what to wear. This is my choice.”

“Don’t you understand the situation?! I haven’t seen Nikolai in 10 years! In that time, we’ve both achieved things, established ourselves. I can’t show him a wife who looks her actual age! Then I’ll look like a withered old mushroom next to you. You need to do something about yourself, Nastya.”

“Excuse me?” Nastya widened her eyes, fixing her husband with a stern, dangerous look.

“I’m just asking you to be your best, most beautiful self…” he quickly dialed back the brutality, masking it with concern. “You know—professional makeup, a more modern, form-fitting dress, maybe some heavy shapewear, a corset… Maybe a few gentle beauty injections, some rejuvenating treatments… Details matter at an important business meeting. You understand the optics, don’t you?”

“Uh-huh. I understand completely,” Nastya answered dryly. She knew perfectly well this “important” meeting was nothing more than a tense, highly competitive bout of subtle social and financial bragging between two long-time rivals and former friends.

Anastasia could have taken immediate offense and thrown a massive scene, pointing out his own physical decline, but she was wise. Twenty years of marriage had taught her exactly when to fight and when to silently observe.

In principle, Boris suited her—if not for the constant, grating comments about age and appearance. The saying goes: when gray shows in the beard, the devil gets in the ribs. And while Nastya, as an attractive woman, very much disliked the idea of aging, Boris seemed pathologically obsessed with it, doing everything he could to dodge anything related to the passage of time. He wanted to be forever young—or at least to project the image of youth and vitality. But desire was all Boris had; he didn’t have the willpower for anything else. He didn’t go to the gym, didn’t get any rejuvenating treatments, and certainly didn’t live a healthy lifestyle. Yet, with every passing year, he piled new demands onto his wife. And when it came to “presenting” wives as status symbols, Boris’s sense of tact evaporated entirely, replaced by cold calculation.

After thinking it over, Anastasia decided she wouldn’t throw a tantrum—she would simply do exactly as her husband demanded, but with a slight, strategic amendment.

“Fine. I’ll buy a new dress. And I’ll get professional makeup done. I’ll try my absolute best to be a worthy match for your high standards,” she replied, successfully hiding the irony in her voice.

“Excellent. I knew you were a smart woman who understood priorities.” Boris beamed, completely oblivious.

---

The Corset and the Comparison

The “smart woman” kept her word.

She endured the fittings for a highly structured, corseted dress that was horribly uncomfortable. She purchased ultra-expensive lifting makeup and splurged on a fancy, high-end salon appointment… and she went to the meeting.

Nastya sat in the high-end restaurant like a silent statuette: she could barely breathe due to the restrictive dress, enduring severe discomfort for her husband’s sake. Naturally, she ate almost nothing. She smiled silently, listening to Boris loudly brag about his latest business deals, occasionally chiming in with a flattering word for Nikolai. Meanwhile, Boris wolfed down a rich steak without the slightest thought for how his wife felt at that moment. His gaze kept darting nervously between Kolya and his wife, Svetlana—the very definition of a “well-groomed, young beauty.”

Svetlana, by the way, turned out not just young, but shockingly youthful. A picture-perfect, professional model. Nastya knew that even if she injected every product in the world, at forty-seven she could never look like that. Sveta looked younger than Nastya and Boris’s twenty-year-old daughter.

“How long have you two been married?” Nastya asked Nikolai and Svetlana, breaking the men’s conversation.

“Six months,” Nikolai replied with a deeply satisfied, arrogant smile. “We didn’t have a big wedding—happiness loves silence and privacy.”

“And I feel like I’ve breathed fresh air since marrying Sveta. She inspires me; I feel young, alive, energetic,” Nikolai boasted, aiming the comment directly at Boris.

Boris, sitting next to his aging, uncomfortable wife, had nothing witty to say to that.

“Fresh air is indeed very important,” Nastya said, meeting Nikolai’s gaze with a polite, but knowing, smile. “The main thing is to carefully calculate the dosage and not catch a chill.”

Boris immediately kicked her under the table, his face burning red at her implication, but Nastya ignored the sharp pain. She didn't care about his embarrassment. Her words reached Nikolai, and he quickly, awkwardly changed the subject.

On the way home, Nastya was silent. Only once at home, when she finally freed herself from the treacherous, suffocating corset, did she sit and breathe deeply for a long time, as if released from a physical cage.

Boris paced around her the entire time, gearing up for the inevitable post-mortem. He was convinced his wife had behaved badly and, even worse, next to the exquisite little Svetochka, Nastya looked far too old and worn.

“Listen, Nastya… I’m willing to overlook your little outburst today, but you have to know this: aesthetics are important to men—me included. I want my wife to look eternally young, beautiful, and to fit modern beauty standards. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

“You want a wife exactly like Kolya’s, then?” Nastya asked calmly. “An 18-year-old girl who’s already had silicone implants put in every possible place and pumped her face full of filler like a balloon, barely able to move her expression?”

“Well… I just want you to look significantly better. To be, you know… more modern,” he pressed, completely missing her sarcasm. “Maybe you should seriously think about getting implants too? They just make women look more appealing!”

“What for? I’ve never been a ‘board’!” Nastya shot back, glancing dismissively at her perfectly adequate C-cup.

“Size isn’t the point! With age, everything on you has sagged! It hangs like a cocker spaniel’s ears when you wear something loose. But you can tighten everything. And freshen up your face. I’d even say—you have a duty to. And anyway, your current hair color ages you considerably. Young women choose lighter, ash-blonde shades, not dark ones…” Boris blurted out, channeling some article he’d vaguely read online.

Nastya was silent again, coldly digesting every single, cruel word. She could have screamed at her husband, called him every name in the book, or pointed out that he was no Apollo himself. That he could desperately use some liposuction for his prominent beer belly and maybe a hair transplant on that growing bald spot to look younger.

But she didn’t waste the effort. She simply said:

“Fine. I hear your list of demands.”

---

The Investment

The next day, she dyed her hair ash-blonde. Then she immediately updated her entire wardrobe, buying the very short, form-fitting dresses that Boris and his cohort apparently liked. Yes, they were not comfortable, but even the “spaniel ears” popped neatly into place. Boris’s face spread into a wide, smug, satisfied grin when he saw the results.

“Now that’s much more like it! You can do it, Nastya, when you finally put your mind to it.”

“Of course I can,” she agreed, giving him a cool smile. “Just you wait and see what else I can do…”

“Hold on a minute—you’ve already exceeded the monthly spending limit for clothing and beauty. Time to pay for your own future purchases. Why should only my money go toward fulfilling your desire for beauty?”

“Because you’re the husband with these excessive, relentless demands. I wouldn’t spend my own money on all this expensive frippery. I love myself as I am right now. But for you, I need this fancy, high-maintenance wrapping. And you pay for the packaging.”

Boris fell silent, deflated. His wife had shut him down with a simple, logical point he couldn't refute.

Still, he kept checking Nikolai’s social page obsessively, looking for new photos of his young wife. But there wasn’t the slightest hint of a personal relationship with Sveta there.

Meeting again as a foursome didn’t appeal to Boris now that he'd measured up his wife. He’d rather go to meet Kolya and his little Svetochka alone. Better yet, he’d go without Nikolai at all… Sveta was just too good, too fresh, too captivating. And the way she had looked at him, Boris, as if she were bored with Nikolai… While Boris was deep in his petty, superficial fantasies, Nastya wasn’t wasting precious time.

She found out everything she needed to know and asked Boris’s secretary, Arina, to book her a plane ticket. She told Arina she was flying out for an immediate consultation with a leading plastic surgeon for major “rejuvenation.” She told Arina her husband knew and approved. Without asking questions, Arina booked the ticket. And not just any ticket—one fitting for a “high-maintenance” wife being demanded by her wealthy husband: business class.

When Borya found out about the ticket, he flew into a towering rage. That money was supposed to go toward a new investment, not his wife’s “whims and fancies.” But it was too late.

“The tickets are non-refundable, Borya. And you’re the one who repeatedly insisted your wife needed to become a young girl again. Your wish will soon come true.”

“Fine, if that’s the case, go! For a consultation! No procedures! You have to agree everything with me first, get a full cost breakdown and approval. I don’t want to be embarrassed by some botched job. And my money is already allocated to better things.” Boris already bitterly regretted planting the idea of youth in his wife’s head. It would have been simpler and immensely cheaper just to secretly get himself a young, disposable girlfriend and go to events with her while Nastya sat at home, oblivious and self-loving.

Nastya left. At the clinic, she underwent a comprehensive exam and immediately chose the most expensive, transformative procedures: a full face and neck lift, lasers, deep injections, and intensive skincare. She also booked the most opulent private room, with full sea view, a gourmet buffet, and weeks of intense rehab and massage.

She lay in a room that looked more like a hotel suite than a clinic, completely at peace, thinking she’d done the only sensible thing.

Boris called her on the fifth day, already frantic.

“Where in God’s name are you?! You should have been back already! Every extra day in that hotel is costing me like a week’s vacation at a luxury resort!”

“Me? I’m getting younger, Borya. Just exactly like you asked.”

“Are you out of your mind?! I specifically said don’t do anything without my final approval!”

“And you approved everything necessary. You are the one who pushed me relentlessly to take this extreme step. And you know what? I’m pleased. The doctor is good, experienced, and I feel fantastic. I’ll look exactly how you want me to. It’s time for you to do your part and settle the final, substantial bill.”

Boris was aghast. His secretary had already received the staggering invoice from the clinic and had paid it the same day.

“Why did you pay it?!” he gasped at Arina, too tired to even scold. He’d let his control slip.

“Sir, you told me you’d cover everything. You waved me off when I approached you with the estimate.”

“When?!”

“When you were rushing past, Sir. You just nodded and dismissed me.”

Boris strained his memory. Arina, as always, had brought the bills at the absolute worst moment… and he’d been watching a social media video of Svetlana at the time. She was showing off how to train glutes properly at the gym. Naturally, he hadn’t listened to a word Arina said—he just nodded to get her to leave.

“This is absolute insanity! You are a thief!” he texted his wife, finally realizing he’d been cynically, professionally played.

“Agreed. But you went insane first with your ridiculous, selfish demands,” Nastya wrote back instantly.

“I’ll cancel the payment. You have your own savings—pay for it yourself. It was your final decision to go through with this!”

“I’ll spend my savings on something else that I value,” Nastya replied curtly. “I’m not a show dog, Boris. I am a person. Since you don’t value the real woman you have, I became the expensive status symbol you want. And you will pay for it. With interest.”

---

The New Life

Nastya returned to their hometown three weeks later. Boris met her at the airport, intending to deliver a blistering, budget-conscious lecture. He completely forgot his scolding speech the moment he saw her.

“You… you look absolutely incredible, though I still spent way too much on it,” he mumbled, his jaw slack with grudging admiration.

“Yes,” she nodded, her new face calm and flawless. “I know.”

He moved to hug her, a final, familiar gesture of ownership, but she smoothly stepped aside, breaking the routine.

“No, Borya. You are far too old for me now. A woman who looks like this isn't for a man like you. You should find someone who truly matches your status—an old lady with a beer belly and a growing bald spot, perhaps.” Nastya paused, letting her words sink in. “As for me, I think I’ll get married again. To someone much younger, with better manners.”

“Who would possibly want you?! You ungrateful gold-digger!” Boris gasped, genuinely shocked. He never thought his wife, Nastya, would act so “ugly”—use him and then discard him so coldly.

“At the very least, I want me,” she replied, her eyes glittering with a new, self-possessed confidence. “And the rest of the world isn’t a relevant authority to me.”

Nastya ordered a taxi via her own app and left the terminal with her head held high, looking not at her past, but her future.

And Boris… He watched her go, completely bewildered, and thought bitterly that women are ungrateful, money-grubbing little bugs who exist only to squeeze money and life out of their husbands.

His cynical thoughts were soon confirmed when he checked Nikolai’s social page. Sveta’s page quickly filled with photos—with a new man. And later—with another. And another… She looked lovely and sweet with all of them. Boris decided to call Nikolai, seeking commiseration.

“Yeah?” Nikolai answered.

“Hey… I just saw your wife, Sveta… with someone else entirely.”

“Oh, that’s old news. I dumped her weeks ago,” Nikolai lied unconvincingly. “Decided I wanted a more mature, intellectual woman. What am I supposed to talk about with a nineteen-year-old? It was excruciatingly boring!”

In time, Boris learned the full, humiliating truth: Sveta hadn’t been his wife at all. She was simply an escort. It turned out that for a certain, high fee, she could accompany any man to important meetings or events. She even offered the same services to Boris—with a generous discount, for friends.

“So Nikolai didn’t bring a wife at all, just some girl he paid to show off… What an utter fraud! And I thought the guy had gotten lucky!” Boris shook his head, cursing himself for letting his buddy and his paid companion utterly fog his brain with superficial envy.

In this whole humiliating situation, only Nastya came out on top. She’d managed to get completely rejuvenated at his expense, reclaim her self-worth, and find the peace she deserved.

In fact, women are beautiful at any age, provided they possess confidence. And as for a demanding, controlling husband? If he doesn’t appreciate the real person he has—well then, to the garden with him! He clearly needed to be pruned from her life.