Chapter 2 - Tuesday Night
For five days I pretended. Pretended to eat. Pretended I knew nothing. Pretended the man across the table wasn't quietly counting down to my last meal.
I threw away every poisoned bite when he wasn't looking. My hair stopped falling out. The stomach pain eased. I could think straight again.
Marcus, meanwhile, got giddier by the day.
Tuesday night, he stirred the tomato soup like it was a special occasion.
"Made your favorite," he said, all warmth. "You've looked so tired lately — thought some comfort food might help."
I watched him ladle it into our bowls. When he thought I wasn't looking, he pulled the vial out again. This time he poured more than I'd ever seen. Enough to finish the job in hours, exactly like he'd promised Priya.
His phone rang. "Work call," he said, already halfway to the living room. "Be right back."
The second he was gone, I moved.
I switched the bowls. My hands shook so badly the porcelain clicked against the table, but I got it done — his bowl in front of his chair now, mine in front of mine.
I sat back down. Folded my napkin. Waited.
He came back glowing. "Sorry about that. Work never stops."
"No," I said, meeting his eyes dead-on. "It really doesn't."
He had no idea what I meant.
We ate. He talked about his day, asked about my meetings downtown, played the perfect husband — but I could see the excitement underneath. He thought he was watching me eat my last meal.
"This is delicious," I said, taking another spoonful from the clean bowl. "You're such a good cook."
He beamed. "Anything for my beautiful wife."
Twenty minutes later, I was at the sink rinsing dishes when I heard a strange sound behind me.
I turned around. His face had gone completely white.
"I don't feel right," he whispered, gripping the table edge.
Then the sweating started — heavy drops rolling down his face, and our kitchen wasn't even warm. His hands shook as he tried to stand.
"Victoria," he gasped. "Something's wrong. I need — I think I need the hospital."
He didn't make it a single step. His legs buckled and he went down hard onto the tile.
That's when the convulsions started. His whole body shaking violently. White foam at his mouth. Eyes wide with terror, trying to say something, only choking sounds coming out.
I stood there watching my husband die from the poison he'd meant for me, and I felt nothing close to sympathy.
This man had spent two months slowly killing me while he built a future with my sister.
His phone lit up on the counter. I picked it up.
A text from Priya. Is it done? Call me when she's gone. I love you.
I looked down at him, still seizing on the floor. His eyes found mine, and for one second I think he understood exactly what had happened. That I'd switched the bowls.
"You were going to kill me," I said quietly, kneeling beside him. "You and Priya were going to take everything I built and just walk off into your happy ending."
He tried to speak. Only blood came out now.
I found another text on his phone — drafted, never sent. It's done. She'll be gone by morning. Can't wait to start our new life together.
He'd even written a fake suicide note on his laptop, staged to look like work stress had driven me to it.
Every detail planned perfectly. Except for the one thing he never saw coming — me figuring it out and turning it back on him.
Now he was dying from his own poison, and I was completely fine.
I called 911 with shaking hands, watching him take his last breaths on our kitchen floor.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"My husband is dying," I said, working hard to sound panicked instead of relieved. "I think he's been poisoned. Please — 1247 North Cleveland Avenue, Lincoln Park."
"Ma'am, is he conscious? Breathing?"
May you like
I looked down. He'd stopped shaking. His eyes were still open. Empty now.
"No. I think he's gone."
