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.

I quickly spotted something suspicious. Pointing at the issuing institution on the death certificate, I said calmly, "Simon, the patient passed away in our hospital. The death certificate should have been issued by us. Even if you distrust this hospital, you'd at least need to consult another top-tier hospital or a certified medical institution. What exactly do you mean by bringing a death certificate from some random clinic?"

"And besides," I added, my tone unwavering, "the doctor in charge of last night's resuscitation wasn't me."

Before my words had fully landed, one of the doctors involved in last night's emergency stepped forward, snatching the certificate to examine it.

With just a glance, he bristled with indignation. "Death due to delayed resuscitation? Absolute nonsense!" he exclaimed. "When the patient arrived last night, she was already at death's door. How is this our fault? This is nothing but an attempt to slander the hospital!"

Simon's face remained unflustered, as though he had foreseen this. Avoiding the issue of the certificate entirely, he redirected the accusation.

Pointing a trembling finger at me, he bellowed, "Of course she died due to delayed resuscitation! The nurse called Dr. Kingsley last night, and he outright refused to intervene! I even went to his office, pleading with him to save her. He wouldn't budge! The nurses here can back me up on that!"

His voice rose to a crescendo as he turned to the gathered staff. "A mother and child—both gone! Can any of you vouch that Ben didn't deliberately avoid saving them?"

The room fell into an uneasy silence. The gravity of the situation—the loss of life—hung heavy in the air, and no one dared to voice their support for me.

Sensing victory, Simon smirked, a flicker of triumph in his eyes.

"Seize him!" he barked to his entourage. "This devil doesn't deserve to walk free. We demand justice for Clara and her child!"

I remained calm. "Hold on. Everything you've just said doesn't constitute evidence against me."

Fixing him with a steady gaze, I continued, "The police will be here any moment now. When they arrive, I'll exercise my rights as her husband to request an autopsy. Also, Simon, I'd like to know—who gave you permission to remove my wife's body without authorization last night?"

Before Simon could stammer a response, a voice, raspy with age but firm, cut through the crowd. "I did."

Everyone turned as my father-in-law and mother-in-law were escorted in by the police. The old man shrugged off the officer's support, stormed toward me, and slapped me across the face with all his strength.

The sharp crack echoed in the room, and the sting was immediate. I could feel the imprint of his hand burning into my cheek.

"Ben!" he roared, his voice trembling with rage. "We treated you like family, and this is how you repay us?"

His chest heaved as he continued his tirade. "You refused to save them because you were drunk! We tolerated your drinking habits for so long, but to think you'd let Clara and her unborn child die because of it!"

Turning to the police, he donned an air of righteous despair. "Officers, I want to report my son-in-law for practicing medicine under the influence. Check his office drawers—you'll find the bottles there."

It was a script I had heard before, word for word, from my previous life. As his accusations rang out, I pressed my tongue against the inside of my cheek where the slap had landed, my fists instinctively clenching and then relaxing.

So this is the man I treated like a father all along.

Aside from Simon and his supporters, all eyes turned to me—shock written across their faces.

The police officers moved quickly. From my desk drawer, they retrieved an empty bottle of liquor.

The moment the bottle emerged, the room's atmosphere shifted. The disbelief in their eyes gave way to disdain and anger.

The doctors who had been standing up for me moments ago now backed away, putting distance between themselves and my scandal-tainted figure.

Simon, triumphant, couldn't resist sneering. "Ben, the evidence is right here. What's your defense now?"

I allowed myself a faint, sardonic laugh. Looking him straight in the eye, I raised my hand and pointed first at my father-in-law, then at Simon.

"Officers," I said, my voice steady but sharp, "I'd like to report these two for framing me."