My sister was in a car accident, and the first person I called was my husband — a renowned surgeon.
He promised me he would operate on her himself.
But when we reached the operating room, I watched in disbelief as he handed the scalpel to his intern, Ivy Marchand — a girl who hadn’t even graduated yet — and then walked off to the corner to revise her thesis.
“Teacher,” Ivy’s voice trembled as she froze mid-surgery, “I-I accidentally cut into the patient’s brain while opening the skull. The bleeding won’t stop. What should I do?”
She turned pale, panic-stricken, and fled to him, throwing herself into his arms as tears streamed down her face.
My husband glanced at the flat line flashing on the monitor.
After a long silence, he gently patted her head, his voice unnervingly soft.
“Don’t worry. I’ll handle everything.”
Then he walked out, meeting my horrified gaze with a detached calm.
“The operation failed,” he said lightly. “Prepare for your sister’s funeral.”
I grabbed his arm, my voice shaking.
“It was a simple craniotomy! She was perfectly fine before the operation. How could it fail?”
But he shoved me back, impatience flashing in his eyes.
“I said it failed, so it failed! This is her fate. Stop making a scene.”
He didn’t stop there.
“With such a severe accident, emergency surgery was pointless. If she died early, she’d suffer less. Seraphine, stop being unreasonable!”
With that, he took Ivy by the wrist and led her away.
I stood rooted to the spot, staring at their retreating backs. Ivy even turned to glance at me — her eyes gleaming with triumph.
I laughed bitterly. Did they really think it was my sister lying in that operating room?
——
“Ms. Alden, the dead cannot be brought back to life. Please accept my condolences,” my assistant whispered sympathetically.
“Condolences?” I said coolly. “Why would I mourn?”
She blinked, startled, as if she thought I’d gone mad from grief.
“If you suspect malpractice…” she hesitated, “…should we contact Legal and sue the hospital?”
“There’s no need to sue,” I replied evenly.
“But we should still inform Legal,” she pressed. “At least have them prepare—”
“Yes,” I interrupted, my tone ice-cold. “Have them draft a divorce agreement.”
My eyes followed Lucian and Ivy at the far end of the corridor.
The so-called murderer showed no guilt — she was leaning against him, smiling. And he, my husband, brushed her nose with his fingertip as if nothing had happened.
They flirted openly, basking in each other’s presence, as though the life they’d just ended meant nothing.
I wondered, with a cruel sense of curiosity — would Lucian still be smiling if he learned the truth?
Because the one lying on that operating table wasn’t my sister at all.
Would he still be so tender when it was his own sister’s life that was lost under Ivy’s scalpel?
Just then, a nurse approached and held out the death certificate.
“Please sign here.”
“Since it was Dr. Crowther who killed her,” I said coldly, “let him sign it himself.”
“What does his sister’s death have to do with me? I’m only her sister-in-law — soon to be ex-sister-in-law.”
“Ms. Alden, you need to think carefully,” the nurse warned, frowning. “If you cause a scene, it will harm Dr. Crowther’s reputation.”
I sneered, wrote down the name from the victim’s ID, and filed an official complaint.
