Chapter 1

As I was pushed off the rooftop by my fiancé's crazy admirer, there was only one thought in my mind.

'Don't hurt my belly.'

Jonathan and I had a baby, just three months old, and I was planning to surprise him with the news tomorrow, on our wedding anniversary.

But in the end, I still died, taking our baby with me.

My soul hovered above, watching as the white sheet was drawn beneath the police tape, and then I saw Jonathan in his black trench coat, cutting through the crowd toward me.

His face was icy and unreadable as he brushed past the officers blocking his way, saying nothing—just staring at my body, now hidden under that sheet.

Everyone expected him to fall apart.

But instead, he just said calmly to his colleague, "The victim is my wife. To keep things fair and avoid any suspicion, I'll handle the autopsy myself."

Then he turned away, leaving me with nothing but the cold, unyielding line of his back.

The world's top forensic expert was about to perform an autopsy on his own wife, all to show the world his "absolute impartiality." What a sensational story.

I watched as he entered the autopsy room, changed into a white surgical gown, put on his mask and gloves, and picked up the scalpel—the very blade that had revealed the truth for so many victims.

Then, step by step, he walked toward me, lying there on the cold mortuary slab.

The icy gleam of the scalpel flashed in his eyes—the same eyes that had once gazed at me with such tenderness. Now, all that remained was pure, unfeeling logic.

*****

The autopsy room was bathed in a sterile white light—so cold it sucked the warmth from everything, turning the stainless steel instrument trays into gleaming, icy mirrors.

My soul drifted in that stark white glow, just a tiny, insignificant mote of dust.

I watched Jonathan.

My husband, Jonathan.

He was bent over, carefully adjusting the angle of the surgical light. Those same hands—with their sharp, defined knuckles, the ones that had once tangled in my hair—were now gloved in blue, moving with steady precision, not a single tremor.

It was as if the person lying on that slab wasn't the woman he'd shared a bed with for three years, but just another John Doe tagged 0713.

"Captain Rivers, are you sure you want to do this yourself?"

It was Frank, his deputy and our friend.

Frank's voice was thick with reluctance and pain. He glanced at Jonathan, then at me, still covered by the sheet on the slab, his throat working as he tried to swallow.

"The reporters outside are losing their minds. They're saying you're just doing this for show, trying to hide something"

Jonathan didn't look up. He picked up a scalpel and passed it through the flame of the alcohol lamp to sterilize it, his voice low and clear behind the mask.

"Let them talk."

He paused, then lined up the sterilized tools neatly on the tray, the crisp clink of metal ringing out in the room.

"I only trust the evidence. No one knows Emily's body better than I do, and only I can uncover the real cause of her death and give her the justice she deserves. Anyone's subjective opinions would only contaminate the truth."

What a perfect excuse.

Classic Jonathan.

All logic, all fairness.

That was the creed carved into his bones—and the wall between us that would never come down.

I just smiled bitterly, without a sound.

Yeah, he only trusted evidence.

Back then, no matter how I tried to tell him that those late-night, flirty texts from Vivian weren't just some innocent intern crushing on her mentor, he always said I was being irrational—that my feelings were clouding his logic.

He wanted me to bring him proof.

But honestly, when it comes to a woman's jealousy and possessiveness toward another woman, do you really need proof?

It's just instinct—wired deep inside us.

Now that I was dead.

Now, this is how he searched for the 'evidence' he wanted.

With his scalpel, on my cold corpse.

Frank let out a sigh and gave up trying to persuade him.

He knew no one could change the mind of Jonathan, the so-called 'God of Forensics.'

In the room, the only sounds were the nervous breathing of the interns who'd come to watch, and the cold, metallic clink of the instruments.

Jonathan was finally ready.

He approached the autopsy table, reached out, and took hold of the corner of the white sheet.

My heart—if a soul even has one—clenched tight.

'Don't' Emily thought.

'Don't uncover me.'

'Let me keep my last shred of dignity.'

'Please, Jonathan.'

But he couldn't hear me.

His fingers were steady and strong, not even a flicker of hesitation.

Whoosh!

The sheet was yanked off in one swift motion.

My battered corpse was laid out, fully exposed under that harsh, clinical light—nothing left to shield me from the world.

Because I'd fallen from such a height, my body was twisted in a grotesque, unnatural way—limbs broken, my face and body covered in bruises and dried blood.

My hair clung messily to my face, and the white dress I'd chosen for our anniversary was now smeared with red and purple stains, torn to rags.

The most shocking thing was the massive wound on my forehead—skin split open, the bone almost visible beneath the blood.

That was left when Vivian shoved me down the staircase, and my head smashed against the concrete steps.

"Ugh"

One of the young interns couldn't take it—he covered his mouth and bolted out of the room.

The rest turned pale and averted their eyes.

Only Jonathan.

He stood there, his eyes sweeping over me with clinical precision, from the top of my head all the way down to my toes.

His eyes held no love, no pain, not a shred of personal feeling.

Only cold scrutiny, analysis, and a relentless search for answers.

It was like he was inspecting a broken machine, not his wife.

"Victim: Emily, female, 28 years old. Height: 5'6", weight: 112 pounds."

He switched on the recorder and started his clinical, by-the-book narration.

His voice was dead calm, like water that never moves.

"Beginning preliminary external examination."

He picked up the forceps and gently separated the blood-soaked hair from my forehead, revealing the savage wound beneath.

"There's a laceration on the forehead, about 7 centimeters long. The wound is irregular, with blunt edges, and there are strands of tissue inside—classic signs of blunt force trauma or an impact. Most likely, this happened when her head hit something during the fall."

As he spoke, he swabbed a sample from the edge of the wound and sealed it in an evidence bag.

"There may be a skull fracture. We'll have to open the skull to be sure."

'Open the skull'

Those two words pierced my soul like twin ice picks.

I remembered one time watching a documentary about his work, and when the bloody scene of a craniotomy came up, I got so scared I dove straight into his arms.

He just laughed, messed up my hair, and said, "Don't be scared, silly. This is how we let the dead speak. You'll never have to see something like this, I swear."

He went back on his word.

Now, not only did he make me witness it, but he was going to do it himself—cut open my skull with his own hands.

My soul shuddered in the air, a coldness deeper than death itself closing in on me from every direction.

'Jonathan, did you ever truly love me?' Emily wondered, her soul trembling with doubt.