On our wedding anniversary, as we sat around the dinner table, my husband raised his glass with a solemn smile. I lifted mine too—but just before the toast, I noticed something that sent a chill down my spine. He had slipped something into my drink.
My instincts screamed. I didn’t wait to find out what it was. While everyone was momentarily distracted, I quietly switched my glass with his sister’s.
Ten minutes later, we clinked glasses and took sips. Moments after, she collapsed.
Chaos erupted—shouting, panic, people rushing to help. My husband’s face contorted in shock, his voice trembling.
“She wasn’t supposed to drink it! I switched the glasses!”
And in that instant, I knew. I had been right all along. That drink was meant for me.
I didn’t say a word. Later that evening, back home, I sat in silence, struggling to breathe. He came in like nothing had happened.
“How are you feeling?” he asked with a tight, artificial smile.
“I’m fine,” I said calmly. “You?”
He hesitated. There was a flicker of fear in his eyes. He knew I knew. And everything had changed.
The next morning, I visited his sister in the hospital. She was pale, weak, but alive. Doctors said it was a serious case of poisoning. A slightly higher dose, and she wouldn’t have made it. I silently thanked my instincts—and luck.
That night, when I returned home, he greeted me casually.
“How is she?”
“She’s alive,” I replied. “And I noticed something—the glasses weren’t where they started.”
He froze. His hands trembled.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. For now. Just something to keep in mind… in case I talk to the police.”
He didn’t sleep that night. But I didn’t rest either. I started collecting everything—phone records, pharmacy receipts, screenshots of his texts. I needed proof.
Over the next few days, he pretended everything was normal. He acted like I was still the “perfect wife.” I smiled, cooked, played along. But inside, I was building a case.
Then I found it: a message from an unknown number.
“Everything ends after the anniversary.”
One evening, as we sat by the fire, he raised his glass again.
“To us,” he said.
“To us,” I echoed—without touching mine.
There was a knock at the door. I stood to answer it.
A detective and a plainclothes officer stepped inside.
“Citizen Orlov,” the detective said, “you are under arrest for attempted murder.”
His eyes widened in disbelief. “You set me up?”
“No,” I said coldly. “You did that to yourself. I just survived it.”
Two months passed. Life began to move forward. The evidence against him was overwhelming—his lawyer had nothing to fight with. He remained in custody, awaiting trial.
Then I got a call.
“He wants to see you,” the officer said. “He says he’ll only talk to you.”
I hesitated—but curiosity won.
When I entered the visitation room, he leaned in across the table.
“You’ve got it wrong,” he said. “It wasn’t meant for you.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. “What are you talking about?”
“It was her. My sister. She knew too much. She was blackmailing me.”
“You’re lying,” I whispered.
“Check her phone,” he said quietly. “See who she was talking to. Then we’ll talk.”
I left in a haze and went home. I found her old tablet. Buried inside were messages, voice recordings, and call logs. Conversations with someone saved only as “M.O.” One message froze me:
“If she doesn’t leave on her own, we’ll need to arrange an accident.”
My world flipped again. She wasn’t innocent. She had been spying, manipulating—plotting.
It hadn’t been betrayal from just one side. It was both.
But now, at least, I knew the truth.
And most importantly—I had survived it.