The Mystery of My Wife's (Faked) Death

The pale, lifeless figure of Clara lay on the bed before me, her face ashen and still. My chest tightened involuntarily at the sight.

For years, I had treated her like a precious gem, indulging her every whim and desire. Yet, for Simon, she had faked her death and turned her schemes against me without hesitation.

I glanced at the monitor. Numbers told a grim story. Blood oxygen levels, blood pressure—both plummeting. Her pulse, nearly undetectable.

"Have all the necessary resuscitation measures been taken?" I asked the nurse standing nearby.

She nodded, her expression heavy. "Yes, everything we could do has been done. But her vitals keep declining. We're barely able to detect her pulse now."

Feigning professionalism, I went through the motions of another examination. Then, with a practiced sigh of regret, I said, "She was brought in too late. There's nothing more we can do. Notify the family of the time of death."

Leaving the operating room, I didn't return to my office. Instead, I headed to the doctors' lounge. This time, there would be no last-ditch effort on my part, no heroics to save Clara. Her false death had now become real.

But I knew the shadow of the conspiracy that awaited me in the morning hadn't vanished. Tomorrow, the same storm would rage, just as it had in the previous life. Sitting in the lounge, I sifted through every detail from that night, trying to steel myself for the onslaught to come.

As the clock crept toward the moment I expected Simon to storm in with his entourage, I emerged from the lounge, purposefully avoiding my private office.

In my previous life, my isolation had left me defenseless. Not this time. I made my way to the shared medical office, now bustling with doctors and nurses preparing for the shift change. Among them were the same colleagues who had assisted in Clara's surgery last night.

I exchanged polite nods and sat at an empty desk, the soft hum of conversation a reassuring backdrop.

Time ticked by. Then, echoing through the corridor, came the furious bellow I'd been expecting.

"Where is Ben Kingsley? Ben, come out here right now!"

The door burst open, swinging hard against the wall. Simon stood at the threshold, flanked by a crowd of angry faces. His voice rang out, sharp and accusatory. "You! For your own petty revenge, you killed your wife and unborn child. You don't deserve to call yourself a doctor!"

One of his men lunged toward me, ready to grab me as they had done before. But I had positioned myself among my peers. The mob's target was no longer an isolated victim. Medical professionals surrounded me, their collective disdain for violence clear.

"Who are you people?" one doctor snapped. "This is a medical office. If you're here to cause trouble, we'll call the police."

The doctor punctuated his statement by pulling out his phone, fingers poised to dial.

Simon's neck flushed red with anger. "Cause trouble? We're not here to cause trouble! That man—" he jabbed a finger toward me, "—is a monster! He used his position to kill his wife and child! You should be ashamed to protect someone like him! Get out of the way! We'll make him pay for this!"

But the harder he pushed, the more resolute the other doctors became. They shielded me, forming an unspoken wall of solidarity.

I caught a flicker of frustration in Simon's eyes, a subtle crack in his performance. The corner of my mouth lifted in a faint, mocking smile.

"Simon," I said, my tone sharp enough to cut through his tirade. "You're accusing me of abusing my position to harm my wife. Do you have proof?"

His laugh was cold, mirthless. "Proof? Of course, I have proof!"

With a flourish, he produced Clara's death certificate, just as he had in the past.

I took the document from him. The words on the paper were all too familiar: death caused by failure to resuscitate.

Last time, the sight of this paper had thrown me into chaos. I had been so overwhelmed, so insistent on my innocence, that I had failed to scrutinize the evidence itself.

Not this time. I let the paper rest in my hands, studying it carefully. My lips curved into a faint smile as my mind churned, dissecting the details. This time, I wouldn't be caught off guard. The truth was mine to uncover.