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.

Over the next few days, Corey didn't sit still for a moment. He began dropping suggestive, ambiguous remarks in his videos.

"Even though Dr. Shelby is married, it feels like she's not happy.

"When she made her rounds today, the way she looked at me… was I imagining things?

"That freeloader husband showed up again. I feel so bad for her."

Gradually, a group of clueless netizens started shipping them as a couple.

The comment section turned on me, calling me a useless husband, unworthy of a brilliant doctor like Sandra.

[I think her husband is so petty. Why can't he let her pursue her real happiness?]

[He's hogging such an amazing doctor and doesn't even treat her well. Poor Dr. Shelby.]

[This dynamic is everything—sweet younger guy and aloof, dominant older woman. Who gets it?!]

Reading those comments, I felt a mix of disbelief and disgust. These "shipper fans" were completely unhinged—any sense of right and wrong had long since vanished.

"Let him jump," Sandra said, soothing me. "The higher he jumps, the harder he'll fall."

I hesitated. "What about the day he gets discharged? He'll definitely post that video. How do we stop it?"

That video had been the spark that ignited everything.

Sandra smiled, then opened her laptop. The hospital's security system filled the screen.

"In our last life, I only found out after I died—the camera in that corner of the hospital was broken. That's why he dared to film there. I've already had it fixed. And I upgraded it to high-definition night vision."

I nodded, finally at ease.

On the day of his discharge, Corey deliberately came to Sandra's office, asking for a hug.

She sidestepped him and said coldly, "Mr. Pickett, please show some respect."

A flash of malice flickered in his eyes before he turned and left.

Half an hour later, that all-too-familiar video shot to the top of the trending charts.

"Hey fam… I'm really scared. I always thought doctors were angels in white, but I never imagined…"

In the video, Corey's eyes were red, his voice choked with emotion. His shirt buttons had popped open, and there were several scratch marks across his chest.

Then, faintly, the sound of footsteps seemed to approach.

He looked off-camera in terror, his body shrinking back violently as he instinctively cried out, "Dr. Shelby—"

The video cut off abruptly.

Public opinion exploded. All of Sandra's and my personal information was dug up and exposed.

My phone began vibrating nonstop. Every call I answered was filled with abuse.

"Control your perverted wife!"

"Your whole family deserves to die!"

"You animal! Even going after patients—how desperate are you?!"

The hospital's phone lines were flooded as well. The director urgently summoned Sandra for a meeting, demanding that she be suspended immediately pending investigation.

"Director, I won't accept a suspension," Sandra said calmly. "I will give the hospital—and the public—an explanation."

The director slammed his hand on the desk, furious. "The public outrage is this severe, and you still want to push things further? Are you trying to drag the hospital's name through the mud?"

"What if Corey framed me?" Sandra's gaze was sharp as a blade.

The director froze.

Sandra smiled faintly. "He can livestream—so can we."

At eight that evening, Corey went live, tearfully recounting his story.

"I'm too scared to report this to the police. I'm afraid she'll retaliate. She has power and influence. I'm just a small influencer… Even her husband threatened me, said he'd kill me…"

The livestream chat flooded with messages like "Protect Corey Pickett" and "Sandra Shelby should die."

At that very moment, Sandra started her own livestream.

The title was blunt and direct: [Evidence Regarding Corey Pickett's False Accusations].

Corey's fans rushed over, ready to overwhelm her stream.

On screen, Sandra sat in a crisp white coat, with me and a lawyer beside her.

No theatrics. No self-pity.

Without a word, she played the hospital stairwell surveillance footage—high-definition, no blind spots.

In the video, Corey walked into a corner holding a phone stabilizer. He glanced around first, making sure no one was there. Then, unbelievably, he tore open his own shirt and clawed several deep marks across his chest.

After that, he shouted into the empty air, "Dr. Shelby!"

Once he finished filming, he checked the playback on his phone, even tidied his hair with satisfaction, and left whistling.

The entire internet erupted.

Moments ago, the chat had been filled with insults toward Sandra—now, it was nothing but question marks.

Corey's face turned deathly pale.

"N-no… that's not what happened! The footage must be AI-generated!"

He screamed hysterically. Then, as if recalling something, his expression twisted with malice.

"I originally wanted to spare you some dignity, Dr. Shelby. But since you're using fake footage to frame me, don't blame me for fighting back!"

With that, he played another video in his livestream.

Sandra and I exchanged a glance, confusion reflected in both our eyes.

In our last life, he never had this card to play.

The moment the video started, I felt my blood run cold.

It was still the same dim stairwell, but from a different angle.

Clearly, someone had been hiding in a more concealed corner, secretly filming.

In the footage, Corey leaned against the wall, his clothes disheveled.

A woman in a white coat stepped out of the shadows, her face fully exposed to the camera. She looked exactly like Sandra.

The woman slowly reached out, gently caressing Corey's cheek, her fingers even brushing against his lips.

Corey shrank back, trying to avoid her, but that hand pressed him firmly in place.

And then, the video cut off.

The livestream chat exploded.

[Holy shit! The "queen of players" finally exposed!]

[I knew that surveillance footage looked off! So it was fake evidence!]

[Her face is crystal clear. What's left to deny?]

Corey sobbed until his eyes were swollen. "I didn't want to release this. I was afraid she'd retaliate… but she's gone too far, using fake surveillance to turn the tables on me!"

Sandra and I were completely stunned. How was this possible?

She stared at the woman on the screen—her identical double—her fingers clenched so tightly they turned white.

"That's not me."

Her voice trembled, but her gaze was unwavering.

"You know me. I've never met him in private. And I have a germophobia—I wouldn't even touch a patient without gloves."

Of course, I believed her. But then… who was the woman in that video?

That footage had never existed in our previous life. Could this be the butterfly effect caused by our rebirth?

Who, exactly, was the woman wearing Sandra's face?