On the evening of our wedding anniversary, my husband raised his glass with a solemn air. I mirrored his gesture, but then noticed something unsettling — he slipped a small vial into my drink. A chill crept through my stomach. Deciding not to take any chances, I waited for the right moment and discreetly swapped my glass with that of his sister seated nearby.
Minutes later, we toasted, and almost immediately, his sister clutched her throat, turning pale. Panic erupted; screams filled the room. My husband’s face drained of color, as if he might collapse.
I sat quietly, staring at him, my thoughts racing: “What have you planned, dear?”
Paramedics rushed his sister away. The guests were stunned. I kept calm outwardly, though my heart trembled. When my husband stepped outside to make a call, I followed silently.
“How did this happen?” he whispered anxiously. “She wasn’t supposed to drink that! I definitely switched the glasses!”
My blood ran cold. I hadn’t been mistaken — he truly intended to poison me. This was all meant for me.
I returned to the table, masking my fear, keeping my gaze steady. Only one question echoed inside me: Why? For what purpose? We’d shared years of marriage… I trusted him. Loved him. Or at least, I thought I did.
Later, he approached me with a strained smile. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” I replied, meeting his eyes without wavering. “And you?”
He faltered, a flicker of guilt crossing his face before he looked away. He knew I understood.
From that moment, everything shifted. But the important thing was I was alive. And the truth would surface.
The next day at the hospital, his sister lay weak but conscious. Doctors confirmed severe poisoning — she’d been lucky. A slightly higher dose could have killed her.
I silently thanked fate, and myself.
On the way home, a resolve took hold — I would play his game, but on my terms.
At home, he greeted me casually. “How’s she doing?” he asked, pouring tea.
I smiled faintly. “She’s alive. And I noticed something — the glasses were placed differently.”
He froze, fingers trembling. “What do you mean?”
“For now, nothing. Just an observation.”
I rose from the table. “You should think about what you’ll tell the police if I decide to speak.”
That night, neither of us slept. A cold war began — silent, tense, with every glance a challenge, every word a test.
I gathered evidence: text messages, pharmacy receipts, recordings of his calls. He had no idea I wasn’t a victim. I was hunting.
A week later, he grew restless. Surprisingly, he saw me as the perfect wife again — gentle, compliant, agreeing to his plan to escape town “for some rest.” I smiled, nodded, packed. Behind his back, I hired a private investigator.
I handed over all proof: receipts, recordings, and messages from an unknown number where he wrote: “After the anniversary, it ends.”
I played the part — cooking, listening, nodding — until one evening.
We sat by the fireplace. He poured wine again. “To us,” he said, raising his glass.
“To us,” I echoed, then didn’t drink.
A knock at the door startled him. I stood and opened it.
A police officer and the investigator stepped inside.
“Mr. Orlov, you are under arrest for attempted poisoning.”
He stared at me in horror. “You set me up?”
“No,” I said, stepping closer, eyes locked on his. “You set yourself up. I just survived.”
They took him away. I remained — alive, free, stronger.
Two months passed. Trial proceeded with overwhelming evidence. His lawyer seemed defeated.
Everything felt too neat, too simple.
One evening, a call from the detention center. “He wants to see you. Says he’ll confess — only to you.”
Curiosity won.
Behind glass, gaunt but defiant, he whispered, “You misunderstood. You weren’t the target.”
I froze. “What?”
“It was her — my sister. She knew too much. Demanded too much.”
“You’re lying,” I said softly.
“Check her phone. See who she messaged. Then we’ll talk.”
At dawn, I searched the sister’s tablet. What I found overturned everything.
She played both sides — spying, recording, messaging someone called “M.O.” A message read: “If she doesn’t leave willingly, we arrange an accident. Brother needs a reason.”
I trembled. This wasn’t his scheme alone. It was a conspiracy between them — against me.
His sister recovered, acting innocent, baking pies, offering help. I played along — but now I was serious.
I hunted “M.O.” — tracing contacts, messages. It wasn’t a person, but a shadowy organization solving “problems” for hefty fees.
The truth emerged: my husband wanted his sister gone; she wanted me gone. Someone else pulled the strings — above us all.
I arranged a meeting with “M.O.” — under a false name, with a fabricated story. In a quiet café, a middle-aged man with cold eyes awaited.
“You wanted someone gone?”
“No,” I replied. “I want a partnership.”
He leaned forward. “What kind?”
“Information. Access to those who plotted against me. In exchange, your help. Together, we control the game.”
He sipped coffee. “Revenge?”
“No. Control. The game ends when I decide the moves.”
I entered their world — first as watcher, then player. I learned fast, silently. No longer prey — I was a variable.
“M.O.” preferred allies. He gave me a test — simple but symbolic.
I passed coldly in two days, no bloodshed. I almost enjoyed it — scared by how natural it felt.
My husband awaited trial; his sister called more — sensing loss of power. She never knew I knew everything.
One night, I visited unannounced.
“I know about M.O.,” I said. “And your plan.”
She paled.
“That’s not true…”
“Too late. I’m not here for apologies. Choose.”
Her breath caught.
“Leave. Forever.”
“Or stay, working for me, till the end.”
“If I refuse?”
I walked to the door.
“You’ll learn what it means to lose control.”
I left.
Days later, news: “Suspected gone abroad.” No trace.
I looked in the mirror — old me gone.
Now, power. A shadow among shadows. A hunter feared.
I control fates like chess. One call — ruin or rescue. I’m a legend whispered.
Then, an unmarked envelope arrived. Inside, a photo — me, asleep, someone near. A note: “You’re not the first.”
Everything crumbled. Behind all, someone else watched — above all. “M.O.” vanished; the network collapsed. People disappeared. Only I remained. Needed.
At night, I feel eyes. Silent calls. Mirrors reflecting without me. Not paranoia — a warning.
I won the game — joined a greater one.
Now, nameless, pastless, I wait.
Because someday, they’ll come.
Or maybe already have.