Fatal Oversight

My husband is a man of great prestige, a distinguished professor of medicine. When our tour bus flipped, his first instinct was to shield the young female student sitting in the row ahead of us. I was left behind, critically injured, clinging to life. When I finally woke up, he was tending to me while correcting his favorite student’s research paper. "Don't overthink it, Riley. I just appreciate her talent." He didn't even look up. "Abigail just published three international papers; she has a brilliant future ahead of her. She was the one who performed your surgery. It was flawless." Mentioning his star pupil, his eyes—usually cold and detached—warmed with pride. He had no idea. Because just a moment ago, the System had told me: his "brilliant" student had left a fatal, rotting surgical sponge inside my abdomen. 1 The System warned me about the sponge while Ross was peeling an apple for me. "Thank god we caught it early," the System sighed. "If you have a re-operation now, you’ll survive. It’ll just be a bit painful." "If you don't want to go through another surgery, you could also choose to reload your save to before the accident." I didn't answer immediately. I watched silently as the silver fruit knife danced between his elegant, long fingers. I wasn't allowed to eat yet, and my cravings were driving me mad. Ross would peel apple after apple from the basket, holding them up for me to smell, endlessly patient. The hospital had assigned me a private nurse, but Ross had refused her. "Who else could tolerate your temper besides me?" He smiled, placing a piece of apple under my nose. The sweet, crisp scent drifted into my lungs. I felt a dull ache deep in my gut. I frowned. "Did the surgeon who operated on me not perform a post-op check?" For safety, that should have been standard procedure. Ross’s long, thick lashes paused. "I had that step skipped." I blinked. "Why?" He looked at me, his eyes filled with a sudden, sharp pity. "Post-op checks prolong the anesthesia. You’re weak; the faster the surgery ends, the better." "Besides, your surgery was performed by Abigail. She’s meticulous. She wouldn't make a low-level mistake like that." 2 Right. Abigail. Ross’s favorite doctoral candidate. She had immense talent and stellar grades. For the past few years, no matter what surgery Ross performed, he dragged her along. They were a fixture together, often joked about in the department as the "Power Duo." Abigail had assisted in several major operations, and they had all gone smoothly. But I still found it laughable. "Ross, for a life-or-death major surgery, you dared to let a student handle it alone?" I knew that as the hospital's most authoritative surgeon and a national professor, he had the power to do that, even if it bent the rules. "What if she messed up? What if I died? Did you think about that at all?" He chuckled, as if I’d said something absurd. "How could I ever let you die?" He flicked my nose gently. "Do you think I’ve spent all these years in clinical research just to watch you fade away? I want us to grow old together." "I told you, Abigail is a one-in-a-million surgical genius. The fact remains, she didn't disappoint me. She performed your surgery perfectly." His tone was absolute, laced with a faint, maddening arrogance. True. That surgery had made Abigail famous overnight. She had pulled me back from the gates of hell in record time. The news had even reported on it, praising Abigail as the "Rising Star of Surgery." Ross was hailed as the visionary mentor, and his reputation reached even higher heights. After hesitating, I gripped his hand. "Please, just perform a check yourself. Just call it a follow-up exam." "Don't be ridiculous." Ross stood up, and the warmth in his eyes hardened into frost. "Surgeries aren't just something you do for fun." He softened his tone a moment later. "Do you trust me so little? Why would I ever want you to suffer through another operation?" I stared at him. "But Abigail..." He cut me off firmly. "She is my student. I won't allow anyone to question her skill. The surgery she performed is flawless." I looked at him quietly. Is that right? A second later, the icy System voice chimed in my head: Detected: Host’s impending death. Do you wish to reload now? I shook my head. "Why not?" the System asked, confused. "Are you just giving up because of him?" "I'm not that stupid." I asked coldly, "If I die, I still have a three-day window to reload, right?" "That’s correct." I laughed softly. "Then schedule the reload for after I die." 3 It was funny. I actually considered reloading to before the accident. The reason was simple: the day before the accident, I had found out I was three weeks pregnant. That night, Ross had been in the operating theater until dawn. I had called him, bursting with joy, but Abigail had answered. "Professor Ross is teaching me a surgery; he’s asleep in the breakroom." I froze. "Wake him up. I have something important to tell him..." Abigail cut me off without a shred of hesitation. "He said before he went to sleep that no one is allowed to disturb him, unless it’s about my work." Her tone was indignant. "He’s been working all day. Even if you’re his wife, shouldn't you be a bit more considerate?" I was stunned, then let out a cold laugh. "That’s not your place to say." Before she could react, I hung up. I’d always had trouble conceiving. But Ross loved children, always rambling on about wanting a daughter. So, this child was a miracle. When the crash happened, my first instinct was to protect my stomach. But it was too late. The baby had been torn away along with my broken flesh. Ross still didn't know the child had ever existed. Two weeks post-op, I finally saw my stitched-up stomach. A jagged, brownish scar ran across my pale skin, sewn together with sloppy, uneven stitches. It looked like a withered branch—hideous and haunting. I looked down, my eyes stinging. Ross walked over, covering me up with a practiced, casual air, stroking my hair. "Don't cry. To me, no one is more beautiful than you." He teased me deliberately. "When we have our kids later, you’ll have a scar anyway. You wouldn't skip out on having our children just to stay pretty, would you?" I pushed him away. "Abigail stitched my stomach like this. As a patient, don't I have the right to file a complaint?" Ross’s face darkened. He knew his student’s skill. Under normal circumstances, Abigail would never stitch a wound so poorly. Unless she did it on purpose. "Great things are not accomplished by dwelling on small details," Ross said coldly after a pause. "An occasional lapse in judgment from a genius like Abigail is... expected." "Abigail is the most talented student I’ve taken in years. I cannot watch her potential be destroyed." He leaned down and kissed my forehead, his tone dripping with fake warmth. "Be a good girl. Just let it go." 4 Ross started trying to win me back. He’d bring a different kind of porridge every day, feeding me from a thermos. I’d take a few bites in front of him, and the moment he wasn't looking, I’d dump it out in disgust. One day, he caught me in the act. He shook his head, sighing, and wiped my stained fingers. "You've been dumping it out for days. Still not over it?" So, he had known all along. I pulled my hand away, expressionless. "If you have time, go guide your genius student. The nurse can take care of me." "You’re just saying things to hurt me." Ross sighed, sounding incredibly weary. "You’re my wife. How could I let a stranger take care of you?" His voice was so tender, it felt like drowning. For a fleeting second, I felt like I was back at the beginning of our marriage. When I first joined his university as a lecturer, some of the rowdier students had tripped me, causing a severe sprain. When Ross heard, he stormed into the faculty office and beat those students to a pulp. Several ended up in the hospital, and he faced a disciplinary board. In the hospital room, Ross was bruised and swollen. I had been heartbroken, scolding him for being reckless. He just laughed, a carefree, stupid grin. "You’re my wife. Who else is going to protect you if I don't?" ... Back in the present, I whispered to him, "This is the final check-up before I’m discharged. Please, stay with me." Ross smirked, nuzzling my cheek. "That's more like it." As I was being pushed into the imaging room, he held my hand tightly. But a second later, his phone rang. He answered, his voice dropping. "The lab door is locked? It's so late. You’re in there alone?" Soft, muffled sobs drifted from the other end. He let go of my hand and strode toward the exit. "Don't be afraid. I’m coming right over." His shadow vanished around the corner, decisive and cold. He never once looked back. I lowered my eyes and shook my head at the nurse. "It's fine. Continue." This was the last chance to find the sponge. He hadn't treasured it. I asked the System, "What is my time of death?" After a moment, the System provided a crisp answer: "Three weeks from now." Perfect. It would be our seventh wedding anniversary. I’d have a surprise waiting for him then. 5 The day before my discharge, Abigail came to visit. She was dressed to kill, wearing a gorgeous dress that suggested Ross had been incredibly generous with her—yearly scholarships and project funding. Over the years, he’d essentially turned her into a high-fashion princess. Abigail placed a bouquet on my bedside table. "The Professor and I picked this out together. I hope you like it." The scent hit me instantly, and I began to cough violently. The rotting sponge rubbed against my insides, making my very soul ache. She had chosen a bouquet of blooming Eustoma. And Ross knew I was allergic to Eustoma. Noticing my glare, he spoke calmly, explaining, "I warned her, but she loves Eustoma. She insisted on buying it, so I let her have her way." "She’s just a kid who likes fancy flowers. The sentiment is what matters." He whispered in my ear, "I’ll throw them out once she leaves." Abigail broke into a smile, tears in her eyes. "The Professor always spoils me." Ross sighed with fake annoyance, his gaze brimming with indulgence. "What can I do? I’m stuck with a silly student like you." I choked on my breath, reaching out to push the vase further away. I accidentally knocked it over. Abigail’s eyes reddened; she knelt to pick up the flowers. A second later, she stumbled, her knees landing squarely on the jagged ceramic shards. Ross rushed over, scooping her up and carrying her to an empty hospital bed. He turned to look at me, his expression devoid of emotion, filled with terrifying rage. "Even if you don't like Abigail, you don't have to humiliate her like that." "She’s just a student. Would it kill you to show a little restraint?" I covered my stomach, choking, and managed to whisper, "It hurts..." Ross cut me off coldly. "Stop acting. You’ve been recovered for ages." When he said it, he seemed to realize he’d slipped up, biting his lip uncomfortably. "What I meant was... your body isn't as weak as you think..."