1 The world ended in a roar of shifting earth. I was declared dead—a fatal mistake by my husband's true love—and buried alive. My husband, Alex, chose to carry her, with her minor scratches, to safety. He left me to die alone. The last time this happened, in another life, he found out about her misdiagnosis and forgave her. He married her at my funeral, whispering “I love you” to my memorial portrait before turning to kiss her deeply. This time, when I opened my eyes, it was to the sight of my husband burying me with his own hands. He was ready to abandon my rescue, all to cover up her mistake. Just as he was about to sign the form to cease all efforts, I grabbed his wrist. This time, they would pay. … “No pulse, no respiration. We can’t waste resources. Bury her on-site.” The moment Alex heard those words from Isabelle—his one true love—he didn’t hesitate. As the rescue team captain, his first command was to have me buried. He didn't even check for himself. He just started barking orders at his men. When he saw them moving too slowly, he grabbed a shovel himself. He piled scoop after scoop of heavy, damp earth onto my body, onto my face. He stomped it down with his boots, packing it tight, sealing any path to the air, erasing any chance of survival. Then, when a secondary tremor shook the ground, he saw it. He saw my hand, struggling, breaking through the soil. But he still turned away, scooped the lightly injured Isabelle into his arms, and ran, leaving me to my fate. This time, I clung desperately to the last rescuer to flee. “There’s another survivor!” the man screamed. “She’s alive!” But Alex’s voice boomed back, a cold, hard command. “It’s probably just post-mortem reflexes, air escaping the lungs. She’s not alive. Move out, now! We can’t risk more casualties!” The man hesitated. He wanted to run, but I held on, my grip like iron. With the last of my strength, I rasped, “I’m alive. Please… save me.” But after another roar from Alex, the man wrestled his arm free from my grasp and sprinted towards his captain. “Don’t waste time on the dead!” Alex yelled. “Let’s go! There are others who need us!” The dead. That included me. His wife of six years. He knew I was alive. He saw my hand. But he had no intention of saving me. His entire world was focused on the woman in his arms, the one with nothing more than a scraped leg. In my last life, it was the same once-in-a-century landslide. I was buried in a state of shock, suffocating, while trying to save someone else. His precious Isabelle, a doctor on his team, had pronounced me dead. Alex was about to leave me there, to conserve resources. But someone else found me, felt a faint breath, and rushed me to a hospital. I died on the operating table. Isabelle’s misdiagnosis was exposed. She was fired and had to pay compensation. But at my funeral, Alex married her. He stood before my portrait, telling everyone how much he loved and missed me, then turned and sealed his vows to her with a passionate kiss. In that life, he’d spoken of his regret endlessly. He’d told anyone who would listen that if he had a second chance, he would save me. And here was that second chance. He chose to bury me himself. The earth he’d stomped down was as hard as concrete, pressing the life from my lungs. I was suffocating again, could feel Death’s cold hand reaching for me once more. Suddenly, the ground convulsed. I used the violent tremor to claw my way upward. The air was thick with dust. Through the haze, I could see the rescue team, not far away. I could even see Alex, his brow furrowed with concern as he gently applied antiseptic to Isabelle’s leg. Once he was done, he led his entire team away without a single backward glance. I stretched out a hand, a silent plea for help, but all I saw were the taillights of their truck shrinking in the distance. It was deep into the night when the second search party arrived. They found me, barely breathing, lying amidst the ruins. “Who in God’s name buries a living person?” one of them shouted. “Her nose and mouth are packed with dirt! She’s lucky to be alive. Who’s responsible for this?” “Team One was already through this sector, weren’t they? How could they have missed her?” The team leader was furious. They rushed me to the nearest hospital, their shouts of “Make way! Emergency!” echoing down the chaotic hallways. But our path was blocked. “Captain Wilson, what the hell are you doing?” my rescuer demanded. “We have a critical patient here!” Alex glanced at me, his eyes wide with shock, but his words were cold. “Dr. Ross was scraped by a rebar. It’s more urgent. Tetanus can be fatal. You’ll have to wait.” 2 “This woman has been without food or water for half a day, and she’s suffering from severe hypothermia. If we don’t treat her now, she’s going to die!” my rescuer pleaded. The young nurse who had been talking to me, trying to keep me conscious, was openly weeping. But my husband just gave me a fleeting, indifferent look. “She’ll be fine. She’s my wife. If anything happens, I’ll take responsibility,” he told them. “Dr. Ross’s injury needs to be treated first. She volunteered to come into a disaster zone with us; the least we can do is make sure she’s safe.” After he spoke, every eye in the hallway turned to me. But Alex’s gaze never left Isabelle, who was on a gurney, having her tiny wound stitched up as if she were the one knocking on death’s door. No matter what anyone else said, Alex acted as if he couldn’t hear them. It wasn't until a nurse, trying to start an IV, noticed my pupils beginning to dilate that a doctor was finally called. After a quick examination, the doctor’s voice was grim. “Her core body temperature is below eighty-six degrees. Prolonged, severe hypothermia is fatal. We need to get her into surgery, now!” But the disaster had overwhelmed the system. Every operating room in every hospital was booked solid. There had been one free OR when I first arrived, but Isabelle had been rushed into it for her minor procedure. I had lost my one precious chance. When Alex heard the news, a look of relief washed over his face. He quickly approached the medical staff. “If it’s too difficult, I can sign a waiver to cease rescue efforts,” he said, his voice ringing with false nobility. “I’m her husband. Let’s give the living a better chance.” He sounded so righteous. The others looked at each other, uncertain. Then, Isabelle spoke up. “There’s often little point in reviving a patient who has suffered from hypothermia for so long. The process itself would be torturous for her. Letting go is a mercy.” Coming from a family of renowned doctors, her words carried weight. The staff began to waver. A few moments later, someone returned with the consent form. Alex took it without a moment’s hesitation, ready to sign. At that moment, the injustice of two lifetimes ignited into one last surge of strength. My hand shot out from under the blanket and clamped onto his wrist. I held on with a death grip. He was stunned that he couldn’t break free. As he tried to pry my fingers off one by one, the surgery in the OR next door finished. The young nurse who had been watching over me cried out, “Doctor, we can use this room! She still has a chance!” As they wheeled me away, Alex still hadn’t given up. “If you can’t save her,” he called after them, “you have my permission to let her go!” It was the most monstrous thing you could hear outside an operating room. Every other family member was praying for a miracle. He was praying for my death. I survived two hours of grueling surgery fueled by nothing but pure, unadulterated rage. When I was wheeled out, Alex’s face fell the moment he saw I was alive. He leaned in close, his voice a venomous whisper no one else could hear. “Why didn’t you just die? If you were dead, you wouldn’t be a threat to Isabelle.” Then, his hand slid to my throat, a feathery, terrifying touch, as if he were contemplating finishing the job himself. 3 Once I was settled in a private room, Alex shut the door. While fussing with my blanket, he spoke. “Clara, Isabelle has worked hard to build her reputation. She volunteered for this mission. About the… misdiagnosis… if anyone asks, just say it was another doctor.” He gave me a name. He’d already found a scapegoat. He would move heaven and earth for his precious Isabelle. I could beg him for anything, and he’d tell me it was impossible. But all she had to do was cry, and he would make the impossible happen. A bitter laugh escaped my lips. I looked at the name he had written down for me, then at his phone, which he'd left on the nightstand. His chat history was filled with her name. This whole cover-up was for her. My decade of devotion felt like a cosmic joke. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll do as you say.” A smug, confident look crossed his face. He knew he had me wrapped around his finger. He gave the blanket a cursory tug, not even bothering to cover me properly, and left. For the next few days, he walked right past my room with Isabelle on his arm, taking her to have her dressing changed, never once looking in on me. I signed all my own medical forms. Meanwhile, when Isabelle’s minor wound showed the slightest sign of infection, he nearly came to blows with her doctor, his voice choked with concern. The irony was laughable. After a few days of rest, the rescue efforts in the disaster zone were winding down. As things returned to normal, the media began their interviews. Isabelle, the brilliant heiress from a medical dynasty, was their star. A photo of Alex carrying her as he ran from the disaster zone went viral. Everyone was speculating about their relationship. The headlines all read: A True Couple, Forged in Crisis. Meanwhile, I, his wife of ten years, had no one to even help me to the bathroom. Alex even posted a photo on his social media of him feeding Isabelle and bringing her flowers, without even bothering to block me. I liked the post. Then, using the photo he’d sent me, I found the scapegoat. The young doctor was a new intern. Isabelle had only told him he’d misdiagnosed a patient; she’d left out the part about burying me alive. When I laid out the full story, he understood the gravity of the situation. “Ma’am,” he said, his voice trembling, “they have an interview scheduled for tomorrow. They told me to go and publicly confess that I made the mistake, and to say that Isabelle discovered my error in time and saved a life…” I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. The sheer audacity of their plan was breathtaking. “Should I still go?” he asked. I nodded. “Yes. You absolutely have to go.” The next day, just as the interview was about to start, the intern sent me a text. I immediately called the police. “Hello, I’d like to report a crime,” I said, my voice steady. “Rescue Captain Alex Wilson and Dr. Isabelle Ross of Central Hospital are suspected of attempted murder.”
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