ManyWriters

My husband is a perfectionist. To cater to his aesthetic preferences, I've undergone plastic surgery, breast augmentation, and leg lengthening surgery.
By the time my husband complained about my lack of a high forehead, I had already had 19 plastic surgeries.
For my 20th plastic surgery, I went in for forehead augmentation.
After the surgery, I overheard his conversation with the doctor.
"CEO, Miss Winters has already had 20 surgeries. Every part of her body has been altered. Any more surgeries could be life-threatening!"
"But she still doesn't compare to Melody. Natural beauty is still the best."
My husband's cold words extinguished my romantic fantasies.
It turns out it wasn't that I wasn't beautiful enough, but that I didn't look like his true love.
For my 21st surgery, I had all the implants removed.
I changed my name and started my life over.

My Husband Made Me Get Plastic Surgery 19 Times

"Enough, just tell me how much blood you need!"


I yanked my hand away from him, rolled up my sleeve, and sat down at the blood donation station.


Dr. Carlisle was the one drawing my blood. Seeing that I was about to donate, she looked at me in surprise and raised her head as if to say something to Dashiell.


But I stared into Dr. Carlisle's eyes and slowly shook my head.


"Dashiell once donated 1000 milliliters of blood to me, now I'm just returning it to him. You can draw 1000 milliliters directly, that way Dashiell and I will be even."


Dr. Carlisle's voice was so shocked it sounded distorted. Mindful of being in a hospital, she lowered her voice.


"Are you crazy? 1000 milliliters, will you even survive that?"


I remained silent, only urging Dr. Carlisle to draw the blood quickly.


Hearing my words, Dashiell seemed moved. He watched as I rolled up my sleeve.


Seeing that smooth wrist, he strode over, his eyes full of disbelief.


"You removed that scar? Why!"I rub my wrist, where there once was a terrifying, winding scar - a result of taking a knife meant for Dashiell.


Five years ago, street gangs and the mob were still running rampant. Dashiell was targeted by the mob, and at the critical moment, I used my arm to block the knife.


That knife cut deep to the bone, severing my major artery and countless nerves in my hand.


He spent ninety-eight million, two hundred and thirty thousand dollars to gather the best doctors from East and West to perform surgery on me, barely saving my life.


During every night of our newlywed phase, he would lower his head countless times, reverently kissing this scar.


I look into his eyes, enunciating each word.


"Because you said it was ugly, I got surgery to remove the scar."


Hearing my response, he breaks down even more, flailing helplessly like a lost child.


"Impossible! You said it symbolized our love, that you'd never get rid of it!"


But I don't want to engage in pointless arguments anymore. I speak, numb to it all.


"Did you really care? You also said you'd love me forever, but you still changed your heart!"


Dashiell looks at me, terrified, and speaks with a trembling voice.


"With the scar gone, doesn't it look even more alike now? Dashiell, is this stand-in game fun for you?Dashiell rushed over in panic, grabbing my hand and shaking his head repeatedly.


A nurse suddenly ran in hurriedly, interrupting Dashiell's words.


"It's bad, Mr. Harrington. Miss Melody is hemorrhaging severely. She has a rare Rh-negative blood type, and we don't have a matching type in our blood bank."


Upon hearing this, Dashiell instinctively turned his head to look at me.


He had known for a long time that I was Rh-negative. The meaning behind his gaze was unmistakable.


Hearing my response, Dashiell let out a sigh of relief. He said, "Sweetheart, you're so kind," then tried to come over and hug me.


Chapter 3