My Sister Died on the Mistress' Operating Table

The news that the surgery had failed was so absurd, I almost laughed.

Lucian still hadn’t realized that the one lying in the operating room… was his own sister.

So he hadn’t even performed the surgery himself?

A strange chill spread through me. Helena’s body had been lying in the hospital all day — surely someone should have informed the Lin family by now.

But Lucian still acted as though nothing had happened.

Just as I was trying to piece things together, I heard the click of the front door.

Lucian walked in, Ivy trailing behind him, dressed to perfection and smiling coyly.

“Hehe, Uncle,” she giggled, her tone sickeningly sweet, “you really went and handled your master’s sister’s body without permission. What if she finds out and gets angry?”

“What if she gets angry?” Lucian sneered.

“That woman chased after me for three years like a stray dog. If it weren’t for the fact that her family still had money and could be useful to me, do you think I would have married her?”

He wrapped an arm around Ivy’s tiny waist, voice laced with contempt.

“But I did take a huge risk for you today. How do you plan to thank me?”

And in that moment, everything became clear.

No wonder no one from the Lin family had been notified.

Lucian didn’t want me anywhere near the body — didn’t want me to push for an autopsy, didn’t want me to have proof of what really happened.

He had used his authority at the hospital to secretly take control of his own sister’s corpse.

As a doctor, he should have known this wasn’t just unethical — it was criminal.

“Hehe, I’m yours tonight. Do whatever you want,” Ivy whispered, her cheeks flushed as she leaned closer.

Lucian smiled faintly, scooped her up in his arms, and started toward the bedroom.

But he froze when he saw me standing there — leaning against the doorway, phone in hand, watching them with a half-smile.

“Seraphine? Why are you here?” he stammered.

“This is my house,” I replied evenly. “Why wouldn’t I be here?”

I gestured casually toward the hallway.

“Don’t mind me. Go on. Continue what you were doing.”

His face darkened as he set Ivy down.

“Your sister is dead, and you’re not even at the wake. What kind of sister does that make you?”

I almost laughed in disbelief.

He had the gall to commit adultery in our home and then lecture me about morals.

“Since you’re here,” Lucian said coldly, “I’ll make this easy. Since you refuse to sign, and the hospital can’t reach your family, I’ll sign the death certificate on your behalf.”

He shoved a plastic-wrapped box into my hands.

“These are your sister’s ashes. Saves me the trouble of delivering them later.”

I had expected him to be callous. But the box was battered, and when he thrust it at me, ashes spilled onto the floor.

Something in me snapped.

“Lucian,” I said icily, “you treat your mistress like a treasure — but when it comes to your own sister, you can’t wait to destroy the evidence, can you?”

His expression darkened, his voice rising.

“Stop slandering me! What evidence? Your sister died in a car accident. I’m a doctor, not a god!”

I took a slow, steady breath, bent down, and carefully gathered the ashes from the floor.