The Mystery of My Wife's (Faked) Death

The surge of anger that had erupted within me burned away any restraint. Without thinking, I stormed forward to confront the woman who had single-handedly ruined my life. But instead, I found myself overpowered—pushed into a cement pool by Clara and Simon.

The suffocating sensation of cement flooding my nasal passages felt disturbingly vivid, even now. I gasped for air as if I were still fighting to breathe.

But not this time. This time, I would not let history repeat itself.

…

"Dr. Kingsley? Are you still there?" The anxious voice of the nurse on the phone shattered my reverie.

"No, I can't. I have a patient waiting for an examination," I replied briskly. "Check with the other on-call doctors."

I ended the call without hesitation.

In the last life, the police had discovered empty liquor bottles in my office drawer. I yanked the drawer open now—empty. So, someone must have planted those bottles during my surgery.

Who could it have been? My father-in-law? Or perhaps Simon?

I switched on my computer, quickly activating the camera's recording function. Satisfied it was operational, I powered off the screen.

This time, I would find out who was pulling the strings.

Just then, the office door flew open.

Simon stormed in, his expression a mask of indignation. "Ben, Clara is fighting for her life in the operating room, and here you are—daydreaming!" he barked.

"The nurse called you to assist in the surgery. Why didn't you go? That's your child she's carrying!"

His words were like knives thrown with precision, but I kept my composure. Inside, I scoffed, yet outwardly, I feigned surprise.

"The woman with the hemorrhage is Clara?" I asked, disbelief thick in my voice. "That's impossible. We just spoke on the phone—she said she was at home doing yoga."

Simon's face tensed. "Why would I lie? Go to the operating room, and you'll see for yourself! Stop wasting time! If you don't go now, it'll be too late to save her!"

As he reached out to grab my arm, I stepped back swiftly, avoiding his touch. My eyes narrowed as I studied him, my tone carrying a note of skepticism. "Are you serious?"

"Of course I'm serious! Do you think I'd joke about something like this?" he snapped, his frustration boiling over.

My voice turned cold, cutting through his indignation like ice. "If that's the case, then why did you, a friend, hear the news before me, her husband? Were you two together last night?"

His face froze for a moment, panic flashing across his eyes before he quickly masked it with righteous fury. "How can you think about something like that at a time like this? Clara is your wife! Have you no heart? Aren't you supposed to be a doctor?"

His raised voice drew the attention of other doctors and nurses, who began gathering by my office door.

A young nurse approached me, her voice low but urgent. "Dr. Kingsley, the patient in the operating room does share your wife's name. Maybe you should check on her just in case."

Although she spoke softly, Simon overheard her. "See? Now you believe me? What are you waiting for? Go save her!"

Despite his frantic demeanor, I didn't miss the fleeting look of disdain and satisfaction in his eyes.

He was desperate for me to rush to the operating room. But was it really out of concern for Clara?

Without a word, I glanced at the recording computer camera, ensuring it captured every moment, then nodded. "Fine. I'll go."

Deliberately, I took my time. I moved slowly as I changed into the sterile surgical gown, only entering the operating room once I was fully prepared.

Inside, the medical team's anxiety was unmistakable. One of the doctors, visibly overwhelmed, turned to me with an almost desperate plea. "Dr. Kingsley, the patient is hemorrhaging badly. Please take a look—do you think there's still hope?"