On our wedding anniversary, my husband slipped something into my drink. I chose to swap it with his sister’s glass instead.
That evening, he raised his glass solemnly, and I followed suit—but then I noticed he had secretly poured something into my glass. A chill of dread tightened in my stomach. I didn’t want to take the chance.
When no one was paying attention, I quietly switched my glass with the one belonging to his sister, who was sitting beside me.
About ten minutes later, we clinked glasses and drank—and almost immediately she became sick. There was screaming and chaos. My husband looked shocked, as if he nearly collapsed himself.
My mind screamed: “What are you planning, darling?”
His sister was rushed to the hospital by ambulance. Everyone was stunned.
“How did this happen?” he said frantically. “No, she shouldn’t have drunk that… I definitely swapped the glasses!”
My heart dropped. I hadn’t been wrong—he really intended to harm me. It was all planned.
Quietly, I returned to the table and tried to steady my breathing and control my expression.
Later, he approached me.
“How are you feeling?” he asked with a forced smile.
“Fine,” I replied. “And you?”
He hesitated.
I knew then: from this point, everything would be different. But the most important thing was that I was alive.
The next morning, I visited his sister in the hospital. She lay pale and weak, but awake.
The doctors said, “It was severe poisoning. She was lucky. If the dose had been any higher…”
I silently thanked fate—and myself.
At home, he acted as if nothing had happened.
“How’s she doing?” he asked, pouring tea.
I smiled.
“Alive. And I noticed the glasses were arranged differently,” I said calmly.
He froze, fingers trembling.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing yet. Just an observation.”
“You should think about what you’ll say to the police if I decide to talk.”
That night, neither of us slept.
I began collecting evidence—texts, pharmacy receipts, phone recordings.
A week passed. My husband grew anxious.
Unexpectedly, he saw me as the “perfect wife”—affectionate, understanding, agreeing to everything.
I handed over everything I had gathered: pharmacy receipts, a recorded conversation, and a screenshot of messages from an unknown number where he wrote,
“After the anniversary, everything will end.”
I kept playing my part—cooking, listening, nodding—until one evening.
We sat by the fire.
“To us,” he said, raising his glass.
“To us,” I replied, but I didn’t drink.
At that moment, there was a knock on the door. I stood and opened it.
A police officer and a private detective stood there.
“Citizen Orlov, you’re under arrest for attempted murder.”
He looked at me in horror.
“You set me up?”
“No,” I stepped closer, locking eyes with him. “You set yourself up. I just survived.”
Two months went by.
Life went on as usual. The evidence was stacked against him. He sat in pretrial detention, his lawyer looking defeated.
It all felt too neat. Too perfect.
One evening, I got a call from the detention center.
“He wants to meet you. Says he’ll tell you the truth—only to you.”
I stared at the phone for a long moment. Curiosity won.
“You know,” he whispered when we met, “you got it all wrong. You weren’t the target.”
I froze.
“What?”
“It was for her,” he chuckled. “My sister. She knew too much. Demanded too much.”
“You’re lying,” I said quietly.
“Check her phone. See who she was talking to. We’ll talk later.”
I went home early morning, unable to sleep. I accessed an old tablet that belonged to his sister. What I found turned everything upside down.
She was playing a double game—eavesdropping, recording, chatting with someone under the nickname “M.O.” One of her last messages shocked me:
“If she doesn’t leave on her own, we’ll have to arrange an accident.”
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