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