In the late stages of her pregnancy, my wife slipped away into the mountains with her childhood sweetheart, seeking some reckless thrill under the open sky.

Fate, however, had other plans. She suffered a massive hemorrhage, and the two were rushed to the hospital.

As a doctor, I took one glance at her condition and instructed the nurse to prepare for the cremation.

In my previous life, I had risked everything to save her. On that very operating table, she and the child inside her perished together. Her childhood sweetheart, overcome with grief and fury, rallied others to accuse me of seeking personal revenge. Their rage was relentless, and they broke my hands.

"A butcher like you, without medical ethics, deserves nothing less than eternal damnation!" they shouted, their words burning like brands on my soul.

Yet I distinctly remembered—the surgery had been a success. Her vital signs had stabilized.

Clinging to hope, I begged my in-laws to conduct an autopsy, to uncover the truth buried beneath the accusations. Instead, they called the police, who swiftly charged me with performing surgery under the influence of alcohol.

Stripped of my rights, I was thrown into prison, where suffering became my only companion. Years later, upon release, I stumbled across a sight that tore what was left of my heart to shreds—my wife, alive and well, behind the wheel of a luxury car, accompanied by her childhood sweetheart and their child, living off the fortune I had worked tirelessly to build.

Their betrayal didn't end there. Coldly and methodically, they lured me into a trap, casting me into a cement mixer to erase every trace of my existence.

When I next opened my eyes, time had rewound itself. I was back on that fateful day, the one when her hemorrhage began.

"Dr. Kingsley, an emergency case just came in—severe hemorrhage in a pregnant woman. Please head to the operating room immediately."

The voice of the on-call nurse jolted me, sending a chill down my spine.

I turned to glance at the electronic clock in the hospital corridor. It was the exact time my wife, Clara Dwyer, had been rushed to the hospital with severe bleeding in my previous life.

My throat tightened involuntarily. I had been reborn.

The nurse's voice on the phone grew more urgent as I remained silent.

"Dr. Kingsley, please hurry to the operating room. The patient has already been brought in."

…

In my previous life, as soon as I received the nurse's call, I had rushed over without a moment's hesitation. It wasn't until I reached the operating table that I realized the hemorrhaging patient was my own wife, Clara, in the late stages of her pregnancy.

Not long before that, we had spoken on the phone. She had told me she was at home doing her nightly yoga routine. So how had she ended up here, bleeding so profusely?

There was no time to think. Her vitals began to drop rapidly, and signs of shock were setting in.

I had forced myself to suppress the rising tide of panic and confusion, channeling all my focus and skill into pulling her back from the brink of death. Somehow, I had succeeded. I had saved her.

The moment the surgery was over, I sought out the intake nurse to learn what had happened. That was when I discovered another man had been brought to the hospital alongside Clara—her childhood friend, Simon Wheaton.

Suddenly, all my doubts found an explanation.

Moments later, Simon stormed into my office with a group of people. Before I could react, they pinned me to the floor and snapped both my hands.

"You let her die on purpose because of your jealousy! A doctor without ethics like you deserves nothing but hell!" He raged, accusing me of negligence that had led to a double fatality—my wife and her unborn child.

I was stunned. "That's impossible! I saw her vitals stabilize after the surgery!" I had protested, but he wouldn't listen.

He slammed a death certificate onto my desk. "You killed Clara on the operating table out of spite!"

Desperate to prove my innocence, I planned to request an autopsy as her husband. That was when my in-laws, who had always treated me like a son, arrived.

Finally, I had thought, someone would stand by me, help me clear my name.

But my hopes were dashed when my father-in-law, standing right in front of the police, declared, "I can smell the alcohol from here! Officer, he was drunk while operating. Arrest him immediately!"

To my shock, the police found two empty liquor bottles in my desk drawer. They bore only my fingerprints. Worse, alcohol was detected in my bloodstream.

No matter how much I had protested, my words were useless. Stripped of my medical license, I was sentenced to fifteen years in prison for operating under the influence, resulting in the death of two lives.

I had endured every grueling day of my sentence, fueled by the questions that gnawed at me.

When I was finally released, the truth revealed itself in the most brutal way.

There, on the street, was Clara—alive. She held hands with Simon, and a boy who looked just like him stood between them. The three of them looked every bit the picture of a happy family.

The questions that had haunted me for fifteen years fell into place in an instant, clarity piercing through like a blade.

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?"

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.