The Day I Proposed and Walked Away

After eight years together, I took a hit for my surgeon boyfriend.

Milton Woodard vowed I could ask for anything.

Everyone assumed I'd seize the chance to propose, locking him down for good.

Instead, I looked him in the eye and said, "Let's break up."

Then I walked away without a backward glance.

Milton smirked, betting with his buddies that I'd come crawling back in under three days, calling me a desperate lapdog chasing his attention.

He was dead wrong because I'd been reborn.

In my last life, I proposed to him and won.

Overwhelmed by the news, his first love threw herself off a rooftop and killed herself.

Milton unleashed his grief-fueled rage on me.

On our wedding night, he slashed my face and locked me in a dank, claustrophobic basement.

When I got pregnant, he force-fed me supplements until the baby grew too big for me to deliver.

I hemorrhaged, torn apart, and died in agony on the birthing table.

Now, reborn on the day I saved his life, I was done playing his fool.

...

The sharp sting in my arm snapped me back to reality.

I was in the hospital's surgical office, a nurse gently wrapping the final loop of gauze around my forearm.

She told me to keep it dry for a few days.

Across the room, sprawled in an office chair, Milton Woodard scoffed. "It's just a scratch, and now you're acting like some delicate princess?"

I didn't respond, my jaw tight.

The other doctors in the room exchanged awkward glances. They'd all witnessed the chaos.

A burly ex-con, fresh out of prison, had stormed in, brandishing a foot-long knife. That blade was meant for Milton's heart, but I'd thrown myself in its path, taking the hit.

The gash on my arm, raw and gaping, had required over 20 stitches to close.

My silence seemed to rile Milton up. His face darkened, his eyes glinting with frost. "Don't be so dramatic. I said you could have anything for saving me. What's with the attitude?"

Milton and I had been childhood sweethearts, inseparable since grade school. But somewhere along the way, his tone shifted to this condescending one, like he was a king addressing a peasant.

All his warmth and tenderness were reserved for his first love, Cheryl Harper, the orphaned girl he'd sponsored during a flood relief effort years ago.

My gaze flicked to the pink bunny hair tie on his wrist. Swallowing the bitter ache in my chest, I forced a smile and met his eyes. "Anything, huh?"

He froze, his glance darting to the hair tie. A flash of unease crossed his face before he masked it with a scowl.

Grinding his teeth, he nodded grudgingly. "Yeah. Anything."

The room buzzed with his colleagues' teasing. A school buddy grinned. "Guess you're tying the knot, Dr. Woodard."

Others chimed in, chuckling. "Eight years is long enough. When is the wedding?"

"I've got my gift ready."

Their laughter filled the air, but I was about to drop my bombshell.

A young nurse burst in, breathless. "It's bad. Miss Harper is threatening to jump off the roof."

...

Here it came again.

If my math was right, this was Cheryl's 108th suicide stunt, just like in my last life.

Milton bolted out and rushed to the rooftop.

There, Cheryl stood precariously near the edge, with tearful eyes and a pale face.

She wore Milton's white shirt, its hem skimming her slender thighs.

Memory hit me like a slap. During the attack, she'd been there, cowering behind Milton as I took the blade meant for him.

She'd emerged from his private lounge, draped in that same shirt. It was a gift given to Milton by me.

"Claire saved your life," Cheryl sobbed, tears streaming. "You promised her anything she wanted. She's crazy about you. She'll propose, and you'll say yes, won't you? I'm sorry, but I can't live a life without you. I'd rather die."

Her voice broke, each word a calculated dart.

Milton's face crumpled, and his deep voice dripped with concern. "Come down, Cheryl. Let me explain."

Cheryl was his everything. Her love for pink meant the Dior bag he'd bought for my birthday ended up as her reward for passing her finals.

Her fear of thunder had him racing to her side in the middle of the night, leaving me alone in our bed.

Once, at my grandfather's funeral, there were no flights available. He grew anxious when Cheryl called him crying.

Milton snapped at me. "Can't he pick a better day to die?"

He'd promised me eternal, unconditional devotion when we were teens. But by 26, when he met 18-year-old Cheryl, that devotion had a new address.

In my last life, jealousy consumed me, leading to my ruin.

This time, I was done with him for good.