After ten or so minutes, we shattered glasses and took a sip. And she became sick almost instantly. Panic, screams. My husband was taken aback, as though he had nearly fallen himself.

“What are you planning, darling?” was the question running through my mind.

An ambulance came to take my sister away. Everyone was taken aback.

With excitement, he asked, “How did this happen?” “No, she shouldn’t have consumed alcohol. Without a doubt, I changed the glass!

My heart fell. So I wasn’t wrong. He was determined to ruin me. This was all set up for me.

I went back to the house in silence and sat down at the table once more. I made an effort to control my breathing and my eyes.

He approached me later.

He smiled artificially and asked, “How are you feeling?”

“All right,” I said. “And you?”

He paused.

And I was aware that everything would change right away. What matters most, though, is that I am still alive.

I got to the hospital early the following morning. In the ward, his sister lay, weak and pale but conscious.

“It was serious poisoning,” the doctors declared. She was fortunate. Had the dosage been slightly greater…

I gave fate a grateful nod. to myself as well.

He greeted me at home as though nothing had happened:

He inquired, “How is she?”

I grinned.

“Alive. And I recall that the glasses were in a different position,” I continued.

He stopped. His fingers shook.

What does this mean to you?

Nothing as of yet. Just a quick note.

And you consider what you’ll say to the police if I choose to speak with them.

He didn’t sleep that night.

I began looking for proof. Phone logs, pharmacy receipts, and correspondence.

A week went by. My husband started to feel anxious.

Surprisingly, he thought of me as the “perfect wife”—loving, understanding, and willing to do anything.

I gave him everything I had gathered, including pharmacy receipts, a conversation recording, and a screen grab of the correspondence from an unidentified number in which my husband wrote:

“Everything will come to an end after the anniversary.”

I had a part. I nodded, listened to him, and prepared dinners. Until one night.

We were seated close to the hearth.

“To us,” he said.

“To us,” I said again without touching the glass.

Just then, someone knocked on the door. I got to my feet and opened it.

At the threshold were a private investigator and a police officer.

— You are being held on suspicion of attempted murder, Citizen Orlov.

You Did you set me up?

“No,” I said, drawing nearer and meeting his eyes directly. “You put yourself in a bad position. I just made it through.

It was two months later.

Life continued on its normal course. Every piece of evidence pointed against him. His attorney appeared disheartened as he sat in a pretrial detention facility.

Everything seemed too typical. Too tidy.

The pre-trial detention facility called me one evening.

He’s interested in meeting you. He claims that he will only be honest with you.

I spent a long time staring at the phone. However, curiosity prevailed.

“You got it all wrong,” he said, leaning in closer. The target wasn’t you.

I went cold.

What?

“It was all for her,” he said with a laugh. For my sister. She had too much knowledge. and made excessive demands.

“You’re telling lies,” I whispered.

Examine her phone. Look who she spoke with. Later, we will discuss.

Early in the morning, I went back home. I stayed up until the sun came up. I opened one of his sister’s old tablets. Everything I knew was turned upside down by what I saw inside.

Yes, she was playing two games at once. listening in. recording. conversing with someone who goes by the handle “M.O.” She was devastated by one of her final messages:

“We’ll have to set up an accident if she doesn’t go on her own.”