At our wedding anniversary dinner, James raised his glass in a solemn toast. I followed suit, but then caught a subtle movement — he slipped something into my drink. A cold knot of unease tightened in my stomach. I refused to take the risk.
When everyone was distracted, I quietly swapped my glass with the one belonging to his sister, Emily, who sat beside us.
About ten minutes later, we clinked glasses and drank. Almost immediately, Emily’s face paled, and she clutched her throat. Panic erupted. James went ghostly white, nearly collapsing.
I sat frozen, staring at him. My mind thundered: What have you planned, my love?
Emily was rushed to the hospital. Shock rippled through our guests. I kept a calm exterior, though inside I trembled. When James stepped outside to make a call, I followed silently, like a shadow.
“How did this happen?” he demanded, voice shaking. “No, she shouldn’t have drunk that… I’m sure I switched the glasses!”
My heart dropped. I wasn’t imagining things. He intended to poison me. I was the target.
Steeling myself, I returned inside and took my seat at the table again. I forced my breathing steady, avoided his eyes. Only one question haunted me: Why? Why after all these years together? I had trusted him. Loved him. Thought I loved him.
Later, he approached me with a strained smile.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Fine,” I replied, locking eyes with him. “And you?”
He faltered, his gaze flickering away. He knew I had caught him.
From that moment, everything changed. But I was alive. And the truth would come out.
The next morning, I went to the hospital. Emily lay in a sterile room, pale and weak but awake. The doctor’s words were grim: “It was severe poisoning. She’s lucky. If the dose had been a bit higher…”
I nodded, grateful to fate. And grateful for myself.
On the drive home, I made a decision — I would play this deadly game, but by my own rules.
James greeted me at the door, acting as if nothing had happened.
“How’s she doing?” he asked, pouring tea.
I smiled faintly.
“Alive. And by the way, I noticed the glasses were arranged differently,” I said, eyes steady.
His fingers twitched.
“What are you implying?”
“Nothing yet. Just an observation.”
I stood up.
“You might want to think about what you’ll tell the police if I decide to talk.”
That night neither of us slept. A cold, silent war began in our home — full of half-truths and pretenses. Every glance was a blow; every word a test.
I started gathering proof: messages, pharmacy receipts, recorded calls. I had time. James had no idea I wasn’t a victim. I was a hunter.
A week later, he grew anxious. Unexpectedly, he found himself facing an “ideal wife” — gentle, understanding, agreeable. Especially when he suggested a weekend getaway.
I smiled, nodded, packed my bag. But behind his back, I hired a private investigator.
I handed over everything: pharmacy slips, phone recordings, screenshots of texts from an unknown number where James wrote:
“After the anniversary, it’s over.”
I kept up appearances — cooking, listening, agreeing. Until one evening.
We sat by the fireplace. He poured me wine.
“To us,” he said, offering the glass.
“To us,” I repeated, but didn’t touch it.
At that moment, there was a knock at the door. He jumped. I opened it.
Standing there were a police officer and the private detective.
“Mr. Reynolds, you are under arrest on suspicion of attempted murder.”
He turned to me, horror-stricken.
“You… you set me up?”
“No,” I stepped closer, meeting his eyes. “You set yourself up. I just survived.”
They took him away. I stayed. Alive. Free. Stronger than ever.
Two months passed. The trial proceeded. The evidence was overwhelming. He sat in custody, his lawyer defeated.
It all felt too neat. Too precise.
One evening, I received a call from the detention center.
“He wants to see you. Says he’ll tell you everything — only you.”
Curiosity won.
He looked gaunt but had the same fire in his eyes.
“You got it all wrong,” he said, leaning closer. “You weren’t the real target.”
I froze.
“What?”
“It was for her,” he smirked. “My sister. She knew too much. Asked for too much.”
“You’re lying,” I whispered.
“Check her phone. See who she was talking to. Then we talk.”
I returned home before dawn. Sleepless, I accessed an old tablet that belonged to his sister. What I found turned my world upside down.
She was playing both sides — eavesdropping, recording, messaging someone named ‘M.O.’ One message shocked me:
“If she doesn’t leave willingly, we’ll have to arrange an accident. He needs motivation.”
I reread it again and again, trembling. This wasn’t his trap. It was their shared game. Against me.
Emily was out of the hospital, acting normal. Smiling, baking, offering help. And I played my role — but truly now.
I hunted ‘M.O.’: contacts, numbers, traces. It wasn’t a person, but a whole shadow network handling “problems” for hefty sums.
Turns out, James wanted rid of his sister, and she wanted rid of me. And someone else was pulling their strings. A game beyond my comprehension.
I arranged a meeting with ‘M.O.’ under a false name and story. At a rundown café on the outskirts, a man in his fifties waited — sharp suit, cold eyes, emotionless voice.
“You requested a disappearance?” he asked.
“No,” I answered. “I’m here to propose a partnership.”
He studied me carefully.
“What kind?”
I smiled. “Information. Access to everyone trying to erase me. In exchange — help. We can be useful to each other.”
He sipped his coffee.
“You want revenge?”
“No. I want to control the game. It’s over. Now I decide the moves.”
I entered that world quietly — first as an observer, then an agent. Learning quickly, silently. No longer the weak link. Now a variable they hadn’t counted on.
‘M.O.’ realized it was better to cooperate than fight. He gave me a test assignment — simple, symbolic.
I completed it in two days — no bloodshed, but cold precision. I even enjoyed it. What scared me was how easily it came to me.
Meanwhile, I maintained the mourning wife act. James prepared for trial. Emily called more often — sensing she was losing grip. She had no idea I knew everything.
One night, I showed up unannounced. Sat across from her.
“I know about M.O.,” I said calmly. “And your contract on me.”
Her face drained of color.
“That’s… not true…”
“Too late. I’m not here for apologies. You have a choice.”
She held her breath.
“Option one: disappear. Forever.”
“Option two: stay, but work for me. For the rest of your days.”
“And if I refuse?”
I stood, heading for the door.
“Then you’ll learn how it feels when your glass suddenly isn’t yours anymore.”
I left.
By morning, she was gone. A few days later, word spread: “Likely fled abroad.” No one ever saw her again.
Looking in the mirror, I knew: the old me was dead.
Now, I was power. A shadow among shadows. A predator they tried to kill — and failed.
I felt unstoppable. Almost divine. No one could touch me. The network accepted me — feared me even.
I began moving pieces like chess pawns. One call could destroy or protect. I had other names whispered in the underworld. My past faded into legend.
Then one day, an unmarked envelope arrived. Inside: photos. Me. Taken inside my own home. Asleep on the couch. Someone else there. And a note. Just three words:
“You’re not alone.”
Everything shattered. Behind the network, the manipulations, even ‘M.O.’, stood someone else. Someone watching while we thought we controlled everything. Someone long above it all.
I tried to track down ‘M.O.’ but he vanished. The network unraveled. People disappeared. Like a cleanup. Only I remained. Maybe because I’m needed.
Every night, I feel eyes on me. Silent calls. Reflections that don’t mimic my moves. Not paranoia — a warning.
I won my game… only to find myself in another — older, deadlier.
Now I live differently. Nameless. Pastless.
Waiting.
Because someday, they will come for me.
Or maybe, they already have.