Chapter 1Selflessly Saving My Romantic Rival

The rising starlet, Monica Reed, was rushed to the hospital after a car crash. The man carrying her, his face etched with panic, was my husband, Ted.

Her uterus was severely damaged. She was at risk of becoming infertile, or worse, bleeding to death on the operating table.

And she was demanding that I, Dr. Evelyn Hayes, perform her surgery. She’d rather die in agony, she claimed, than let anyone else touch her.

In my past life, I knew she and Ted were having an affair, but I still upheld my oath as a doctor and took the case. The surgery was a success. But afterward, she complained of excruciating abdominal pain and launched a smear campaign against me online, accusing me of professional negligence.

I lost my job. I was disowned by my family. In the end, crushed by depression, I slit my wrists.

And she? She built her new life on the ashes of mine, stepping out publicly with my husband.

Reborn, I looked at the woman before me, then gestured to the operating room where another patient was already prepped. “That surgery is just as critical. I’m afraid you’ll have to find another surgeon.”

Her procedure was incredibly high-risk. Now, her only options were to transfer to another hospital or stay here and wait to die.

* * *

“Doctors! Someone, please, help her!” My husband, Ted, burst into the ER, cradling a blood-soaked Monica Reed. He was frantic. To any stranger, he looked like a man terrified of losing his wife.

But I was his wife. Dr. Evelyn Hayes, protégé of the legendary Dr. Albright, the most renowned gynecological surgeon this hospital had ever seen.

My mentor had retired last month, which meant that when it came to this kind of surgery, I was now the top authority here.

Ted had picked me up from work enough times for my colleagues to recognize him. So, the moment they arrived, a sympathetic coworker discreetly sent me a video from the ER entrance.

Her text followed: “She’s holding his hand, calling him ‘honey,’ begging him to save her. You’d better brace yourself, Evelyn.”

Even though I’d lived through this nightmare once before, the kindness in her warning still made my eyes sting. In my last life, when Monica accused me of sabotaging her surgery out of spite, these same colleagues had defended me. But the online mob was too vicious, their troll farms too powerful. Their support was drowned out in a sea of hate.

I quickly typed back, “Thanks for the heads-up.”

Her next message was panicked. “Oh god, it’s bad. Looks like they’re transferring her to your department. If it’s GYN, they’ll assign her to you. They’re getting on the elevator now. You should probably make yourself scarce!”

She was worried I’d snap if I came face-to-face with the two of them—that I’d do something reckless and jeopardize my upcoming promotion.

I frowned, my heart turning to ice. The elevator doors slid open. There she was, Monica Reed, on a gurney, with my distraught husband hovering beside her.

The moment Ted’s eyes met mine, he flinched and looked away, a flicker of guilt crossing his face.

But Monica, lying on the stretcher, suddenly pushed herself up. Ignoring the team of doctors and nurses rushing toward her, her gaze locked onto me. She pointed a trembling, blood-stained finger.

“I’ve heard she’s Dr. Albright’s prodigy,” she announced, her voice weak but imperious. “I want her. I won’t let anyone else operate on me.”