On our anniversary night, my husband slipped something into my drink. I chose to swap it with his sister’s glass instead.

 

At our anniversary dinner, my husband raised his glass—and I noticed him slip something into mine. My instincts screamed. Quietly, I switched glasses with his sister’s.

Ten minutes later, she collapsed in agony. Chaos followed. My husband went pale, horrified. I just stared. He hadn’t meant for her to drink it.

Outside, I overheard his panicked call: “She wasn’t supposed to drink it. I swapped the glasses!”
He had tried to poison me.

I stayed silent. Collected evidence. Played the perfect wife while building my case. A week later, the police arrested him.

But then he told me: “You weren’t the target. She was.”
I didn’t believe him—until I checked her messages. She’d been plotting with someone called M.O.:
“If she won’t leave, we’ll create an accident. Brother needs motive.”

They were playing me. Both of them.

I tracked down M.O., a man tied to a secretive organization. I offered him something better than money: access. Control. Revenge.

I passed his test. Became part of the network. Powerful. Feared. I gave his sister a choice: disappear, or serve me. She vanished.

Then, weeks later, I got a photo—me sleeping, someone watching. A note:
“You are not the first.”

The real puppeteer is still out there. The game never ended.
Now, I wait.

Because next time… it might be my move.
Or theirs.