My Wife The Murderer

My in-laws were in a horrific car accident. They were rushing them into surgery.

I raced to the hospital like a man possessed, but the real shock wasn't the sirens or the blood; it was seeing my wife, Savannah.

My brilliant, celebrated surgeon wife stood at the observation window, arms casually folded, coaching her star intern, Troy.

She was letting an intern perform my parents life-or-death surgery!

I lunged toward her, demanding an explanation. She merely shrugged, her voice a flat line. "Troy needs to grow. People like your small-town parents should be honored to serve as his practice run."

Troys hand slipped. The monitor screamed. The aorta was nicked.

They didn't make it.

When I sought justice, she cornered me in her office and slapped a divorce agreement onto the desk.

"Ethan, I'm through with you. And Im through with your poor, pathetic parents."

"Drop the complaint right now. Don't ruin Troy's future."

"Otherwise, you won't get a single cent."

I looked at her facebeautiful, yet twisted with such pure, raw disgustand felt a strange urge to laugh.

Slowly, deliberately, I asked her the question.

"Savannah, if it were your own parents lying on that table, treated like guinea pigs for your student, would you still say that?"

She didn't know the truth.

To try and talk her out of a divorce, the two people who had driven five hundred miles overnight, only to be struck by a drunk driver and rushed into the ICU, were not my parents.

They were hers.

1

By the time I frantically reached the Emergency Room, the corridor was already a maelstrom of fear and noise.

Yet, I spotted Savannah instantly.

She wasn't in scrubs. She had her white coat draped loosely over her shoulders, hands jammed into her pockets, her expression utterly detached as two blood-soaked bodies were wheeled toward the operating theater.

"Savannah!"

I ran to her, grabbing her arm, my voice trembling uncontrollably.

"How are Mom and Dad?"

Her brow furrowed. She recoiled and sharply pulled her arm away, as if Id contaminated her.

"Multiple rib fractures, punctured lungs suspected, severe cranial bleeding. It's bad."

Her tone was as flat and emotionless as a weather report.

"Ive already arranged it. Troy is leading the procedure. I'll observe."

Troy was her hand-picked intern, her star apprentice, the one she constantly spoke about grooming as her successor.

My mind went blank. I couldn't process the words.

"You're letting Troy operate?"

"Savannah, have you lost your mind?!"

"These are two lives, not a goddamn training opportunity for your student!"

"Ethan, stop shouting!"

Savannah's face instantly went cold, her eyes fixed on me with that familiar look of high-minded arrogance and contempt.

"Troy has been with me for three years. He can handle a minor trauma case like this."

"What do you know about surgery, House Husband?"

Her words stole my breath. My whole body seized up, and a dull ache started to throb in my chest.

Yes, I was a stay-at-home husband now.

But she had conveniently forgotten something.

Seven years ago, I had stood beside her, a fellow surgical resident.

My hands were steadier, my talent perhaps even greater than hers; I was the one our mentor had singled out.

Yet, for love, I had deliberately put down the scalpel and picked up the kitchen knife instead.

The light above the Operating Room door flickered red. That harsh glow stung my eyes.

My throat constricted, choking off the air, making it impossible to breathe.

I rushed to the observation window, staring desperately into the room.

Troy was visibly nervous, his forehead slick with sweat, the hand holding the scalpel shaking ever so slightly.

Savannah stood just behind him. She offered an occasional instruction but mostly remained motionless, arms crossed, the picture of a disinterested bystander.

I watched Troy's hand slip. He failed to accurately navigate around a major artery.

In a flash, the heart rate on the monitor became a flat line.

The piercing, relentless shriek of the alarm broke the silence, shredding my eardrums.

Two agonizing hours later, the OR light went dark.

Troy walked out, utterly distraught, his face a ghostly white.

"Ethan... I'm so sorry... I couldn't save them..."

Savannah followed him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. Her voice was gentle, filled with reassurance.

"It's alright, Troy. It wasn't your fault. Their injuries were too severe."

"It was just one mistake, sweetheart. Don't dwell on it. Every doctor has to go through this."

She didn't spare me a glance. All her sympathy, all her careful soothing, was reserved for the intern who had just destroyed my parents' lives.

I stood there, my hands and feet freezing cold. All sound around me faded into a distant hum.

2

The deaths of my in-laws were officially categorized as "Death due to failed resuscitation."

Savannah used every connection she had within the hospital to suppress the incident.

The reports filed with the oversight committees were seamless and airtight.

Troys surgical error was perfectly obscured by the severity of my in-laws' existing injuries.

I locked myself in the guest room for three days, refusing to eat or drink.

On the fourth day, I finally emerged. I needed a conclusion.

Savannah was sitting on the living room sofa, leisurely flipping through a medical journal while wearing a sheet mask. She showed no sign of grief.

On the coffee table lay a divorce agreement, already signed by her.

She didn't even lift her eyelids when I entered.

"Finally came to your senses?"

"If you have, sign it. The house is yours, the car is yours, plus a five million settlement..."

"Just don't bother me again."

Her tone was that of someone swatting away a persistent, bothersome beggar.

I ignored the agreement. Instead, I tossed a thick file onto the table in front of her.

"Im filing a lawsuit against Troy and the hospital for gross medical negligence."

Every word tore from my throat with a metallic, blood-raw edge. My voice was hoarse, but my resolve was absolute.

My in-laws would not die in vain. Troy would pay the price.

At that, Savannah finally looked up from her magazine.

She glanced at the file's title, then looked at me as if I were a particularly poor joke.

"Ethan, have you gone completely insane?"

She ripped the sheet mask off her face and casually flung the wet, cold thing onto the legal documents. She sprang to her feet, looming over me.

"I told you, their death has nothing to do with Troy. They were too far gone to begin with!"

"Why can't you just listen?"

"I saw it with my own eyes," I said calmly, meeting her gaze. I was no longer the docile, eager-to-please husband she knew.

"He lacerated the aorta. He missed the critical window."

"He needs to face consequences."

"And what good is your testimony? Do you have proof?" Savannah sneered, crossing her arms.

"That entire OR team is my team. Who do you think is going to testify for you?"

"Im warning you, Ethan. Don't be an idiot. Put this trash away!"

Savannah snatched the file off the table and hurled it at my face.

The sharp corner of the folder sliced my cheek, leaving a thin, burning red line.

"I don't need a witness," I said, ignoring the sting. "Ill subpoena the OR surveillance footage."

"The cameras were broken," she replied without hesitation.

In that moment, staring into her icy eyes, the last flickering candle of hope in my heart was extinguished.

I looked at the woman I had loved for ten years and felt an utter, chilling foreignness.

Her face was a mask of cold calculation and indifference. To protect her golden boy, she was willing to twist the truth and sacrifice human lives.

"Savannah..."

I looked at her, slowly articulating each word.

"Those were two lives. They were our parents."

"So what?"

Her impatience was clear, her voice laced with extreme contempt.

"They were just useless small-town trash. Its an honor for them to add a line to Troys resume!"

Trash!

Honor!

Those two words struck me like a pair of bullets, piercing my skull.

I was cold all over, from my head to my toes.

In her eyes, my parents were nothing more than sacrificial dogs.

I forced a smile.

I slowly bent down, picked up the divorce agreement, and reached for the pen.

A look of smug victory flashed across Savannahs face.

"Thats more like it."

"Ethan, you cant win against me. Take the money and quietly go back to whatever hole you crawled out of..."

3

Hearing Savannah's voice, my heart gave a painful, involuntary lurch. I paused the pen just above the signature line.

"I can sign. But I have one condition."

"Spit it out."

She folded her arms, radiating an air of complete superiority.

"I want you to personally go to the funeral home and prepare their bodies for burial."

I lifted my head, meeting her eyes, my chest heavy with complex emotions.

"Lets call it... the last thing you do for us, as my wife. See them off."

Savannah's eyebrows knitted tightly together, her face a map of undisguised aversion and disgust.

"Are you insane? I'm not going to that morbid, stinking, filthy place!"

"It's my only condition."

I pushed the blank agreement back toward her.

"You agree, and I sign immediately. This divorce is finalized."

"You don't agree, and we go to court. And even if I can't convict you, I will make enough noise to ensure you and your precious student..." "Are completely ruined."

My voice was calm, but Savannah knew I wasn't bluffing.

She glared at me, her chest heaving, her lips trembling with suppressed rage.

After a long silence, she let out a slow, strained breath and bit out two words through clenched teeth.

"Fine. I'll go."

"But once it's done, you sign and get lost!"

Savannah believed this was nothing more than my final, meaningless act of spite.

She was wrong.

This wasn't the end.

Everything was just beginning.

The air in the funeral home hung thick with a sickly sweet mix of antiseptic and burnt incense.

The moment Savannah stepped inside, she clapped a hand over her nose, her face contorted with revulsion.

She was dressed in an expensive Chanel suit and ten-centimeter heels, profoundly out of place.

"Ethan, what the hell is this supposed to achieve?"

She hissed, her voice low and furious.

"Dragging me to this awful place? Does it make you feel better?"

I ignored her and walked directly toward the viewing room.

A worker slid open two sterile metal drawers, pulling out two white-shrouded bodies.

"Dr. Chen, you're a physician. You can handle this, right?"

I turned back to her, gesturing with my hand.

"Get started. Mom and Dad are waiting for you."

Savannah's face was chalk white, but she gritted her teeth and reluctantly approached the table.

She snapped on a pair of plastic gloves and roughly pulled back the first sheet.

When the face, horribly mangled by the crash, was exposed, she couldn't help a small, gagging sound. She quickly averted her eyes.

"Hurry up," I urged.

Fighting back the nausea, she grabbed a wet cloth and haphazardly wiped the face, treating the dead like a filthy kitchen counter.

She repeated the perfunctory gesture for the second body, never once bothering to truly look at either face.

"Done," she announced, peeling off the gloves.

She backed away as if fleeing a plague.

"My part of the deal is complete. The divorce agreement"

"Not so fast," I interrupted, pointing to a cardboard box nearby.

"Their personal effects. You should inventory those too."

Savannah's patience was clearly exhausted, but she managed to suppress her fury long enough to open the box.

Inside was a collection of blood-soaked, torn clothing, a cracked old flip phone, and a severely scuffed leather wallet.

She pawed through the items with the disdain of handling trash.

Then, her hand froze.

Why did this stuff look so familiar?

4

From the pile of tattered clothing, she picked up a half-finished sweater.

It was a men's sweater, grey, and an old-fashioned style, but the stitches were tiny and intricate, showing the effort and care of the knitter.

"This sweater..." she mumbled, a flicker of confusion in her eyes.

"My mother was knitting it," I said calmly.

"She said it was getting colder and she worried I'd be cold. Shame she didn't get to finish it."

Savannah's fingers tightened on the yarn, but she said nothing.

She then picked up the worn leather wallet and opened it.

Tucked into the plastic window was a faded, sepia-toned black and white photo.

It showed a young couple, both beaming, holding a newborn baby.

She didn't recognize the couple.

But the baby... the baby felt unsettlingly familiar.

"Who is...?"

"A picture of me when I was a baby," I said flatly.

Savannahs brow furrowed deeper. She looked like she wanted to ask something, but in the end, she merely tossed the wallet back into the box.

"Fine. Ive seen everything."

She stood up, brushing imaginary dust off her suit.

"Ethan, our transaction is finished. We are done."

With that, she didn't look back, click-clacking on her heels as she fled the place that had suffocated her.

I watched her go, then slowly knelt down. I gently gathered the unfinished sweater and the black and white photo, tucking them away safely.

Savannah... did you truly not recognize anything?

Could you really not recognize the sweater your own mother spent half her life knitting for you? Could you not recognize your fathers twenty-year-old wallet?

Did you not recognize the eyes of the baby in the photographthe eyes you see every morning in the mirror?

First, search for and download the MotoNovel app from Google. Then, open the app and use the code "303081" to read the entire book.