TEN MINUTES LATER… I SAW MY HUSBAND LAUGHING WITH THE MEN WHO WERE SUPPOSED TO SAVE HIM**
I ran through the hospital corridor with my vision blurry from tears, nearly tripping over my own feet. My heart pounded so violently I could barely breathe, as if my body already sensed that something was terribly, terribly wrong.
Fifteen minutes earlier, my phone rang from an unknown number.
A trembling voice said:
“Mrs. Ward? Your husband—he fell down the stairs at work. Severe head trauma. Come quickly.”
I didn’t ask how the caller knew my name, my number, or the fact that Ethan was my husband.
I simply grabbed my keys and flew out the door.
When I reached the surgical wing, the sharp smell of disinfectant stung my nose. Nurses rushed by, machines beeped, and everything felt too loud—too chaotic.
Then a woman stepped into my path.
Tall, blonde, wearing blue scrubs.
Her eyes—wide, urgent—locked onto mine the moment she saw me.
“Mrs. Ward?” she whispered.
“Yes! Please—where is my husband? Is he alive?”
She looked over my shoulder, then leaned close enough that her shaky breath brushed my ear.
What she said next nearly stopped my heart.
“Quick, ma’am… hide. And trust me.”
I blinked. “Wh–what? Why would I—”
Her grip tightened around my wrist.
“It’s a trap.”
Before I could protest, she pulled me behind a tall rolling cabinet near the corner of the hallway, forcing me into the shadows. Her hands trembled so violently I knew she wasn’t acting.
Footsteps echoed.
Two men in medical coats approached. They wore badges, but something about them looked… off. The fabric was stiff, brand-new, their shoes too polished, their movements too controlled.
Not like doctors.
Like men pretending to be doctors.
The nurse beside me stiffened.
The men passed us and disappeared into the operating theatre.
I dared to peek through the small window on the door.
A surgeon stood over my husband.
Ethan Ward lay on the table, completely still.
But something felt wrong.
His chest rose too calmly.
Too evenly.
Too normally.
A person with a “severe head injury” did not breathe like that.
The doctor wasn’t operating.
He wasn’t touching Ethan at all.
He was waiting.
And he kept glancing at the hallway—almost marking time until I arrived.
Ten minutes crawled by like hours.
My knees trembled from crouching.
My palms were slick with sweat.
The nurse kept whispering, “Not yet… not yet…”
Then suddenly, she nudged me.
“Look.”
I peeked again.
What I saw nearly made me scream.
The man on the operating table—
my husband—was sitting up.
Laughing.
Laughing with the “doctor.”
Laughing with the two fake medical men who now stood beside him like guards.
Ethan lifted his hand and peeled off the oxygen mask himself.
No bandages.
No blood.
Not even a scratch.
He was perfectly fine.
And then—
Then Ethan said something that shattered me.
“She should be here any moment. When she enters, lock the door. We finish everything today.”
The room erupted in laughter.
My heart stopped.
The man I loved.
The man I married.
The man I rushed here to “save”…
…had faked the entire accident.
And the trap—
The one the nurse warned me about—
was meant for me.