During our anniversary dinner, my husband lifted his glass with an oddly serious look. I mirrored the gesture, but something caught my eye—a subtle flick of his fingers as he dropped something into my drink. A cold unease settled over me. I wasn’t about to take chances.
Quietly, I swapped my glass with the one in front of his sister when no one was paying attention.
Ten minutes later, we toasted. She took a sip—and suddenly doubled over, clutching her stomach and screaming in agony. The room erupted in chaos. My husband turned pale, horrified.
I watched him, my heart thudding. What were you planning, my love?
She was rushed to the hospital. When he stepped outside to make a call, I followed silently.
“I don’t understand,” he whispered. “She wasn’t supposed to drink it. I’m sure I switched the glasses!”
I hadn’t imagined it—he had tried to poison me.
Why? I kept asking myself. After all our years together, why now?
That night, he approached me, acting as though nothing had happened. But everything had changed. I was alive. And now I knew.
The next morning, I visited his sister. She was conscious, but weak. The doctor said she was lucky to survive.
On the drive home, I made a choice—I wouldn’t run. I’d stay and play the game on my own terms.
At home, he greeted me casually. “How is she?”
“She’s alive,” I replied, then added, “I remembered how the glasses were set.”
He froze. “What are you saying?”
“For now? Nothing,” I said. “Just thinking.”
Then I got up. “You might want to consider what to say—if the police come.”
We didn’t sleep that night. A silent war had begun.
I started gathering evidence: pharmacy slips, suspicious messages, hidden recordings. He didn’t suspect a thing. He still thought I was his prey. But I had become the predator.
A week later, I returned to being the perfect wife. I even agreed when he suggested a short trip “to unwind.” I smiled, packed, and hired a private detective.
I handed over everything—proof of poison, messages, and one disturbing text from an unknown number: “After the anniversary, it’s all over.”
I kept pretending. Until one evening, as he poured me a drink, a knock came.
A police officer and my investigator stepped in.
“Mr. Orlov, you’re under arrest for attempted murder.”
He stared at me, stunned. “You… set me up?”
“No,” I said calmly. “You did that yourself. I just didn’t die.”
He was taken away. I stayed—free, alive, stronger.
Two months passed. His trial began. The evidence was overwhelming. It seemed over.
Then I got a call from the detention center.
Behind the glass, hollow-eyed and cold, he said, “You weren’t the target.”
“What?”
“It was her. My sister. She knew too much. Wanted too much.”
“You’re lying.”
“Check her device. See for yourself.”
At home, I searched her old tablet. And what I found shattered me.
She’d been recording conversations, sending texts to someone labeled “M.O.” One read: “If she doesn’t leave on her own, we’ll arrange something. Brother needs a motive.”
They’d plotted together. Against me. But why?
She recovered quickly and came home acting like nothing happened—smiling, baking. I played along.
I needed to know who “M.O.” was. I used a fake name and arranged a meeting.
In a quiet café, a suited man in his fifties waited. “You asked about a disappearance?” he said.
“No. I want in. I have names.”
He eyed me. “Revenge?”
“No. Control.”
He gave me a task. Simple. I finished it in two days. No blood. Just precision. It scared me how easily I adapted.
Back home, I played the grieving wife. His sister called more often. She sensed her grip slipping.
One night, I went to see her.
“I know about M.O.,” I said. “And your plan.”
She listened silently.
“Option one: disappear. For good. Option two: stay—and work for me.”
“And if I refuse?”
I stood. “Then you’ll know how it feels when the wrong glass ends up in front of you.”
By morning, she was gone. Rumors said she moved abroad. No one saw her again.
When I looked in the mirror, I no longer recognized myself.
I was no longer a wife.
I was powerful.
Until one day, an envelope arrived. No sender. Inside: a photo of me sleeping.
And a note: “You are not the first.”
Suddenly, I understood—someone else had always been watching.
And maybe… they still were.
