Defamed by an Influencer, Avenged Across Lifetimes

On the day the male influencer patient was discharged, he posted a tearful video accusing my chaste, principled doctor wife of sexually assaulting him.

In the clip, he cowered in a corner of the hospital, trembling, his clothes disheveled. With a terrified cry of "Dr. Shelby," he abruptly cut the footage.

Overnight, my wife became a monster in a white coat—public enemy number one across the internet.

We begged him, again and again, to come forward and clarify the truth. Instead, he posted an injury assessment report and wept about being bullied by his doctor.

My wife had no way to defend herself. She was suspended pending investigation—and in the end, she leapt from the thirtieth floor.

I endured humiliation and waited for the truth to surface. When it finally did, I obtained a reexamination report that proved her innocence.

But by then, no one cared about the truth anymore.

And I, consumed by despair, died of cancer.

When I opened my eyes again, I had returned to the day that patient was first admitted.

This time, I begged my wife to take leave—I wanted to take her away from this doomed fate.

But my gentle wife wrapped her arms around me, her eyes red, and said, "Don't be afraid, honey. This time… I won't run away."

I froze for a moment, a flicker of shock flashing through my eyes.

Sandra Shelby had been reborn too.

"Honey, I regret it so much. In our last life, I was too weak—I made you bear everything alone. This time, I won't give up, no matter what."

I lunged forward and wrapped her in my arms, tears spilling uncontrollably.

In our previous life, Sandra had believed, with naive conviction, that the innocent would remain innocent—that as long as she had done nothing wrong, the hospital and the law would eventually clear her name.

But she had forgotten that in an age where traffic is king, public opinion has never needed the truth.

"Which bed is that male patient in now?" I wiped my tears and asked.

"Bed 16, a private room. Just now, he insisted I examine him alone, said he had pain in his lower abdomen."

As she spoke, a nurse rushed in breathlessly. "Dr. Shelby, the patient in Bed 16 is causing trouble again! He says our nurses aren't professional and is demanding that you examine him personally!"

Sandra let out a cold laugh. "If he wants to put on a show, then we'll make sure he gets a full performance."

With that, she grabbed my hand and pulled me along.

I didn't know what she had planned, but the resolve in her eyes eased my mind.

The moment we reached the door, the scene inside was already over the top.

Two fill lights were set up beside the bed, and a girl who looked like an assistant held a phone mounted on a stabilizer.

On the hospital bed, Corey Pickett looked flushed and healthy—nothing like someone who was ill.

"Hey fam, today I'm getting examined, I'm so nervous! I hope I get a gentle lady doctor!"

The moment I saw Corey's face again, hatred gnawed at me.

In our last life, his delicate, handsome looks had made him a popular online idol, with millions of followers.

Sandra had been his attending physician. Every time she made her rounds, she conducted herself professionally, always accompanied by a nurse.

But who could have guessed that on the day of his discharge, he would script and stage that performance—the one that cost Sandra her life?

When Corey saw her enter, he deliberately lowered his voice, speaking in a sleazy, breathy tone. "Dr. Shelby, you're finally here. It hurts… down there."

Sandra's expression didn't change. "Mr. Pickett, you said it hurts down there. Where exactly?"

He arched his hips on purpose and even reached out, trying to grab her hand and press it lower on his abdomen. "Here… I'm not sure either, just… around here. It hurts in my heart too…"

In an instant, I slapped his hand away and snapped, "If you're here for treatment, then act like it. What's with the grabbing? Do you think my wife is some top donor from your livestream?"

Corey flinched, then immediately put on a pitiful expression. "Dr. Shelby is a professional doctor, and I'm a patient. How can you twist this into something so filthy?"

"Calm down, honey." Sandra lightly scolded me, as if for show.

Then she turned back to Corey, her tone turning stern. "Mr. Pickett, since you insist the pain is unbearable, it seems we'll need a full abdominal CT scan, along with blood biochemistry and infectious disease screening."

Corey was dumbfounded. He had only wanted to film some suggestive content—there was nothing wrong with him. But tens of thousands of viewers were watching his livestream. He was stuck. If he refused, it would only make him look guilty.

"I… I don't think I need a CT scan…" he stammered, panic creeping into his voice.

I immediately raised my voice. "You absolutely do! If you don't, you've got something to hide!"

Gritting his teeth, he shot me a vicious glare, but in the end, he had no choice but to accept the test order.

What he didn't realize was… this was the first trap we had set for him.