New Face, Old Debts

Carlos Rivas had always been the kind of guy who lived loud. Flashy cars, wild parties, beautiful women — and way too many debts. The problem? He owed money to the wrong person: César Fuentes, a former business partner turned big-time underworld figure. When the collectors started showing up more often than the mailman, Carlos realized he was running out of time — and luck.

So, he did what few thought he’d ever do: he ran. Disappeared. Decided to vanish until the storm passed. And who better to help with a quiet exit than his ever-resourceful wife, Lorena? Cool-headed and well-connected, she moved quickly. Fake documents. A safe house. And a plastic surgeon who owed her a favor.

“Just a little facial work, love,” she said sweetly. “Nothing big. Just enough so no one will recognize you.”

Carlos, desperate, agreed.

He went under the knife a man trying to save his skin — and woke up a woman with very little skin left of his old self.

Groggy, disoriented, and very much different, he stumbled to the mirror... and froze. Smooth skin. Long hair. A curvy figure barely hidden beneath a hospital gown. And when he spoke — a soft, melodic voice that didn’t sound like him at all.

“This... this isn’t just my face,” he muttered in shock.

Lorena appeared not long after, holding a tight dress, high heels, and a devilish little smirk.

“Don’t worry, darling. No one’s going to recognize you now.”

Carlos — or rather, Carla — barely had time to process what had happened. Before she knew it, she was dressed up, made up, perfumed, and being escorted to a luxurious penthouse suite, where none other than César Fuentes awaited her... wine glass in hand, eyes sparkling with satisfaction.

“Well, look what the wind blew in. Gift-wrapped, no less.”

There were no threats. No gunfire. Just calm, smug silence and the slow, sweet savoring of revenge.

“I wonder how much this all cost,” César said with a chuckle. “Because honestly... worth every cent. Never thought I’d see you looking so... civilized.”

Carlos wanted to lash out. Scream. Punch someone. But sitting there — in heels, crossing her legs like some high-end escort — even her anger sounded like part of a show she wasn’t directing anymore.

César didn’t need to touch her. He didn’t have to. The victory was enough. Watching his former rival served up like a gourmet dish, humiliated and helpless, was all he really wanted.

And Lorena? Gone. Vanished like smoke. Maybe on a beach somewhere, maybe watching from a distance. But one thing was certain: that night, Carlos learned that the worst kind of revenge isn’t always violent.

Sometimes, it’s a dress.
A mirror.
And a bruised ego in red lipstick.