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.

The nurse’s face darkened, her tone laced with anger.

“Fine. If you refuse to sign, I’ll have Dr. Crowther come down and deal with you personally!”

I almost laughed.

When Lucian Crowther first joined the company, I donated a million to his department just so he could have a better working environment and an easier start. Everyone in the hospital — from the director to the nurses — knew how much I doted on him.

And maybe that’s why they all thought they could threaten me with his name.

But now? My love for Lucian was dead and buried.

Threatening me with him was laughable.

That night, I was just about to send the divorce agreement, freshly drafted by the legal department, when I saw Ivy’s IG Stories.

Candlelit dinner. Red wine. Steak. Heart-shaped hand signs.

And then, the one that made my blood run cold — Lucian’s back in the Medical Affairs Office, deleting surveillance footage.

Her caption read:

“Today I made a huge mistake on the operating table. If you hadn’t taken the blame for me, I might never graduate. I can’t repay you, so I can only give you my body ️”

I let out a short, cold laugh and hit “like.”

Screenshot. Saved.

Another piece of evidence for my collection.

Then I casually sent him the divorce agreement.

“Look over it. If you’re fine with it, come back and sign.”

Less than a minute later, my phone rang.

“Seraphine, what do you mean by this?” His voice was sharp, almost angry.

I bit back the chill crawling up my spine and prepared to talk about the divorce.

But he didn’t let me speak.

“Stop framing me! Ivy’s posts have nothing to do with your sister’s death. If you dare come to the hospital, stir up trouble, and ruin her graduation — or worse, jeopardize my position — we’re done! We’ll divorce!”

He hung up on me.

I sat there holding my phone, stunned.

My heart had already gone cold, but it still managed to ache. For one foolish moment, I thought he’d called because he saw the divorce agreement.

But no — he hadn’t even looked at it.

He only called to protect his mistress.

Suppressing my fury, I typed out a message.

“Lucian, I suggest you find out exactly whose sister was on that operating table today before you start barking at me.”

But when I hit send, a red exclamation point appeared.

Blocked.

I laughed aloud, bitter and incredulous.

Fine. If he didn’t care about his own sister, why should I?

That very afternoon, while entertaining an important client at work, I got the call — Helena had been in a car accident.

Without hesitation, I dropped everything and rushed to the hospital.

But when I arrived, the ward was empty — no one from the Lin family was with her.

I called Lucian.

He sounded irritated.

“I’m on leave. Find another doctor.”

When I insisted, he finally agreed to come — dragging along Ivy, of course.

Helena had a cerebral hemorrhage and dangerously high intracranial pressure. She needed emergency decompression.

Lucian swore he would do the surgery himself.

I believed him.

Back then, I thought it was just a simple craniotomy — nothing could possibly go wrong.

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.