Second Cut

In my past life, I gave up my chance to become a top surgeon to support my husband Kyson Mason's career. I willingly stood in his shadow as his devoted wife.

After he achieved fame and success, he draped his arm around a younger colleague and said to me, "You're no longer good enough for me."

Divorced and left with nothing, my skills rusted, and I succumbed to depression, dying alone.

When I opened my eyes again, I found myself back on the day Kyson first urged me to quit my job.

He held my hand, his eyes brimming with affection. "Once I become department head, I'll make sure you live a good life."

I smiled and gently pulled my hand away. "No need, Dr. Mason. Also, let's get divorced."

My scalpel was itching to see the light of day again.

...

Kyson's tender expression froze into shock.

He grabbed my wrist, his grip so tight it felt like he might crush my bones. "Eleanor, what's gotten into you?"

I looked at him calmly, each word deliberate. "I'm not throwing a tantrum, Kyson. I want a divorce."

In my previous life, in this same cramped rented apartment, he used the same honeyed words to paint a vague, glittering future. I willingly gave up my position in the surgical department at Hopkins Hospital and handed over my scalpel.

I became the woman behind him, washing his clothes, cooking his meals, managing his life, and handling every mundane detail so he could focus on his career without distraction.

He succeeded, becoming the youngest head of the cardiac surgery department.

Meanwhile, I wasted away in the grind of daily chores, my youth and talent drained until I lost the courage to even pick up a scalpel.

In the end, he stood with his arm around Lexie Knight, a younger, prettier new hire at the hospital. He used the luxury tie I bought him to wipe cream from her lips.

Then, with an icy stare, he said to me, "Eleanor, look at yourself. You're like a washed-up housewife. How could you possibly be worthy of me?"

I spiraled into depression and died on a rainy day no one cared about.

Now, staring at his familiar face, my heart felt nothing but cold, lifeless calm.

"Why?" Kyson's brows furrowed, his eyes filled with confusion and a hint of irritation at being defied. "Just because I asked you to quit? I was thinking of you! Hospital work is exhausting, and you don't need to push yourself so hard as a woman."

"My career isn't yours to define." I shook off his hand and pulled the divorce papers I had prepared from the nightstand. "I've already signed. I'll pack your things tomorrow and send them to the hospital."

Kyson stared at the neat signature on the papers, his face darkening completely.

He thought I was just throwing a fit, trying to manipulate him into giving in.

He tore the papers to shreds in a sudden burst.

"I won't agree to this!" His voice was a low growl. "Eleanor, don't push me too far!"

I ignored his outburst, turned, and walked into the bedroom, locking the door behind me.

Outside, his furious curses and the sound of him pounding on the door echoed.

I tuned it out and dialed the number for Hopkins Hospital director's office. "Director Thompson, this is Eleanor. I'd like to apply for reinstatement."

The next day, I dragged my suitcase out of the rented apartment that held all the nightmares of my past life.

Kyson hadn't come home all night.

I figured he'd probably gone to his younger colleague Lexie Knight for comfort.

Fine by me.

When I returned to Hopkins Hospital, everything felt different.

The colleagues I once stood shoulder to shoulder with were now mostly attending physicians, while I had to start over from scratch.

Director Thompson, out of respect for my mentor, agreed to reinstate me, but only as a resident physician in Kyson's department.

The whole hospital buzzed with gossip about how the foolish wife who gave up her career for love had now returned in disgrace.

I slipped into my faded white coat and walked into the cardiac surgery office.

Kyson sat in his director's office, staring at me coldly through the glass.

Next to him stood a young woman in a crisp new white coat-Lexie Knight.

When she saw me, her face lit up with perfectly measured surprise and concern. "Eleanor? What are you doing at the hospital? Did Kyson ask you to come?"

The way she called him was warm and familiar.

I ignored her and headed straight to my workstation.

Kyson soon strode out, holding a patient file, which he slammed onto my desk. "Eleanor, if you're so determined to come back and embarrass yourself, at least show some professionalism. Organize this file and have it on my desk by this afternoon."

His voice carried no trace of warmth, as if we were nothing more than boss and subordinate.

The colleagues around me shot glances-some sympathetic, others eager for drama.

I picked up the file and opened it.

The handwriting was a chaotic scrawl, filled with jumbled medical abbreviations, clearly meant to trip me up.

In my past life, after years of neglect, a file like this would have left me flustered and lost.

But now, armed with two decades of cutting-edge surgical knowledge and experience, this was child's play.

I was about to start working when Lexie walked by, "accidentally" carrying a cup of coffee.

The scalding liquid spilled across the file, blurring critical test results beyond recognition.

"Oh no! I'm so sorry, Eleanor!" Her apology sounded frantic, but a flicker of smug satisfaction flashed in her eyes. "It was an accident! Let me clean it up!"

She grabbed a tissue and smeared it across the file, making the mess even worse.

"It's fine." I spoke calmly, pulling the ruined file from Lexie's grasp.

She froze.

The meltdown, the anger, the scene of me running to Kyson to complain-she'd expected all of it, but none came.

I was as still as a lifeless pond.

"Dr. Knight," I said, deliberately emphasizing her title as I glanced at her name tag, "be more careful with your coffee next time."

Without another look at her, I picked up a pen and began transcribing onto a fresh sheet.

Lexie stood there, her face shifting between pale and flushed.

I ignored her, relying on my memories from my past life to recreate the blurred data word for word. Beside it, I marked potential risks and further test recommendations in red ink.

I remembered this patient.

In my previous life, Kyson overlooked these risks, leading to severe complications after surgery that nearly caused a medical disaster.

That afternoon, I handed the completed file to Kyson.

He flipped through it carelessly, his brows lifting slightly at my clear handwriting and thorough notes.

When he reached my red-ink annotations, his face darkened.

"Eleanor, who gave you the nerve to play expert here?" He slammed the file onto the desk. "A resident who's been out of practice for three years-what do you know? I asked you to organize the file, not lecture me!"

His voice was loud, drawing the eyes of everyone in the office.

I met his gaze steadily. "Dr. Mason, I'm just offering my professional opinion as a doctor. The patient has a high risk of aortic dissection. A standard procedure could lead to complications."

"Enough!" Kyson's anger boiled over. "Your professional opinion? You threw that away three years ago! Rewrite this now, and if I see any more of this nonsense, you're out of cardiac surgery!"

I didn't argue.

I knew my words carried little weight now.

Silently, I took the file and turned to leave.

Just then, the office door swung open, and a tall man with a commanding presence stepped in.

He wore a crisp white coat, his name tag reading: Chief of Neurosurgery, Bruce Sutton.

He was a legend in our hospital-the youngest dual Ph.D., a master surgeon known for his precision and cold demeanor.

Bruce's gaze swept the room, landing on the file in my hands, his brows furrowing slightly. "Director Thompson sent me for a consultation. Which patient is it?"