So Much for Childfree Love

Valentine's Day. I was stuck on ER duty at Brighton City Hospital.

Theodore Madoff, who was supposed to be working late, strolled in carrying his student—Cecilia Kuntzer.

She had red marks everywhere and that smug little smirk. "Relax, Mrs. Madoff. Just stomach pain. Lucky me, Prof. Madoff rushed me here."

Theo pushed me to treat her.

Turns out? She was pregnant. From rough intercourse.

And the dad? Theo. My husband. The same guy who'd sworn off kids with me for ten years.

Felt like a punch to the gut. But I still saved her baby.

Next day, she uploaded a video—ID in hand, cheesy PowerPoint, accusing me of malpractice. Claimed I killed her kid.

Then Theo asked for a divorce.

Priscilla—his mom—stormed the hospital, shrieking about her dead grandbaby.

She brought a mob. All these "righteous" strangers who stabbed me to death. Right there in the ER.

I died with my eyes wide open.

Then—bam—I woke up. Valentine's Day. Again.

The stab to my chest still felt fresh, like the knife had just been yanked out.

I jolted awake, soaked in cold sweat. Out in the living room, Theo was fixing his tie, slipping into that pricey custom suit I'd just bought him.

"Honey, I've got to work late at the university tonight. I can't make it to dinner."

Those words hit like déjà vu. Valentine's Day. Again. I'd been reborn.

His voice was soft, sweet—like he actually cared.

I looked at his lying face and felt nothing but disgust.

Last time, I fell for the act. Hard.

I married him, even when my parents warned me not to.

He told me I was his one and only, said he wanted a future with just us. I believed him and even had my uterus removed—with him holding my hand.

Then came Valentine's Day. He said he was working late. Liar. He was with Cecilia—his pregnant mistress.

Cecilia was the PhD student he helped land funding for. The one who joined us for dinner like it was nothing. She always greeted me so sweetly. I even told her she was a lovely girl.

Yeah. I basically invited a snake into my house.

At the ER that day, they both showed up covered in red marks. Theo still had lipstick smeared across his mouth.

He kept pushing me. "She's pregnant. You're a doctor. What are you waiting for? Save her!"

Cecilia's luteal rupture? Totally from rough intercourse.

Even with my heart in pieces, I powered through, spending ten hours in surgery just to keep that baby alive.

The next day, Cecilia went full public—real name, ID, the whole thing—blaming me for the miscarriage with a 360-slide PowerPoint.

Theo filed for divorce on the spot. The internet dragged me. I got doxed, harassed, the works.

Priscilla stormed into the hospital, screaming that I was a barren hen who murdered her precious grandchild.

In the chaos, someone drove a knife straight into my heart. I died on the spot.

Less than ten days later,