Reborn to Revenge: Fighting My Devil Husband

The pre-operative room felt like a tomb, all sterile white walls and the sharp smell of disinfectant that made my stomach churn.

I sat on the edge of the examination table, my hospital gown rustling with every nervous movement, the paper beneath me crinkling like autumn leaves.

Nine times. This would be the ninth time.

My hands trembled as I pressed them against my still-flat abdomen, where another life had been growing. Another hope that would be extinguished today.

"Mrs. Ward, we're ready for you," the nurse said softly, her voice professionally gentle but distant. She avoided my eyes, just like the others had learned to do.

I looked past her to where Lucien stood near the window, his tall frame silhouetted against the Florida sunshine streaming through the blinds.

Even in this sterile hospital environment, he looked perfectly composed in his tailored navy suit, not a hair out of place. The man I'd loved since we were children, the man I'd dreamed of building a family with, stood there checking his phone as if this were just another appointment on his calendar.

"Lucien," I whispered, my voice cracking. "Please. I need to understand why. The doctor said—he warned me that if I have another procedure, I might never be able to..." The words caught in my throat like broken glass. "I might never be able to have children."

He finally looked up from his phone, his ice-blue eyes meeting mine with an expression I couldn't read.

There was no warmth there, no trace of the boy who used to bring me wildflowers from his mother's garden.

"Ariadne," he said, his voice carrying that tone of barely contained impatience I'd grown to dread. "We've discussed this. The embryo's implantation is unstable. It poses significant health risks."

"But why does this keep happening?" I pressed, desperation making my voice rise. "Nine times, Lucien. Nine times I've lost our babies. There has to be something we can do differently, some treatment—"

"Treatment?" His laugh was cold, cutting through the antiseptic air like a blade. "The treatment is to stop subjecting your body to these failed pregnancies. Your inability to maintain a stable pregnancy isn't just disappointing, Ariadne. It's dangerous. How is that not your responsibility as a mother?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I stared at him, my mouth opening and closing soundlessly. The man I'd planned to spend my life with, the father of the children I kept losing, was blaming me for our losses. For my body's failures.

"I... I don't understand," I managed to whisper.

"Your maternal instincts, your body's basic function—all of it is defective," he continued, his tone growing more clinical, more detached. "Do you think I enjoy watching you put yourself through this over and over? Do you think I want to see you suffer?"

But there was no suffering in his eyes. No pain, no shared grief. Just cold calculation.

The nurse shifted uncomfortably beside me, her clipboard clutched against her chest.