On our wedding anniversary, my spouse raised his glass with a serious smile. I did the same thing, but shortly before the toast, I saw something that made my skin crawl: he had put something in my drink. My gut urged me to get out of there. I didn’t wait to learn what it was. While everyone else was busy for a while, I gently exchanged my glass with his sister’s.
We all clinked glasses and drank fifteen minutes later. A little while later, she fell. People were scared. People screamed and ran to help. My husband’s face twisted in shock, as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened.
“She wasn’t supposed to drink!” he said with a splutter. I switched the glasses!
That’s when I realized. I was right. That drink was for me. My spouse had planned to kill me.
I didn’t say anything. When I came home, I sat down and could hardly breathe. He came in later and acted like everything was fine.
He asked, “How are you doing?” with a smile that wasn’t real.
I said, “I’m fine,” and my voice was steady. “Who?”
He didn’t know. He knew I knew because of the look in his eyes. He could tell that things were different.
The next day, I went to the hospital to see his sister. Weak and pale, but yet alive. The doctors said it was a really bad case of poisoning. She wouldn’t have made it if she had taken a little more. I thanked fate and my gut sense in my head.
He said hi to me in a casual way when I got home that night. “How is she?”
“I am alive,” I said. “And I remember that the glasses weren’t where they were supposed to be.”
He stopped moving. His hands were shaking.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.” But. Just something to keep in mind, especially if I talk to the police.
That night, he didn’t get any sleep. But I didn’t stop. I began to collect everything, including text message screenshots, phone records, and receipts for drugs. I needed proof.
Days passed. He acted like I was still the “perfect wife” for him. I went along with it, made dinner, smiled, and nodded. But I was making a case inside.
And then I found it. I didn’t know the number that sent the message. “Everything ends after the anniversary,” my husband replied.
One night, while we were seated by the fire, he raised a glass. He said, “To us.”
I murmured, “To us,” but I didn’t touch mine.
Someone came to the doorCH. I got up and opened it. A plainclothes detective and a cop came forward.
“Citizen Orlov, you are being arrested for trying to kill someone.”
He stared me in the eye. “Did you set me up?”
“No,” I answered coldly. “You did that to yourself.” I just got through it.
Things continued on as usual two months later. There was a lot of evidence against him. His lawyer couldn’t do anything. He was in a jail waiting for his trial.
I got a call after that. “He wants to see you.” He says he will only talk to you.
I gave it some thinking. But curiosity triumphed.
When I walked into the room, he leaned in and said, “You’ve got it all wrong.” It wasn’t for you.
I felt ice rush through my blood. “What?”
“It was her. My sister. She knew too much. “She was blackmailing me.”
I told him in a hushed voice, “You’re lying.”
“Look at her phone,” he continued. “Find out who she was talking to.” Then we’ll talk.
I left in a daze and headed home. I found the tablet she used to own. There were saved messages, voice notes, and call logs inside. There were talks with someone who was only known as “M.O.” One message terrified me to death: “We’ll have to plan an accident if she doesn’t leave on her own.”
Once again, my world altered. She wasn’t a nice person. She had been looking. Having fun with. Planning.
Both sides were unfaithful, not just one. But at least I know the truth now. And I had made it.