That evening, as the wedding anniversary celebration hummed around us, my husband lifted his glass with a solemn grace. I mirrored his gesture—but then, a subtle movement caught my eye. Quietly, almost imperceptibly, he slipped something into my drink.
A cold knot twisted deep in my stomach. Instinct screamed: don’t drink.
As laughter and chatter distracted the room, I swapped my glass with his sister’s, seated just beside me. Ten minutes later, we raised our glasses in a toast. The moment the liquid touched her lips, everything shattered—she doubled over, pale and gasping. Screams erupted, panic rippled through the crowd.
My husband’s face drained of color, as if he’d seen death itself.
I sat perfectly still, locking eyes with him. The question burned inside me: What have you planned, my love?
They rushed his sister away in an ambulance. Shock blanketed the room like a heavy fog. I kept my exterior calm, but inside I was trembling—every nerve on edge. When he stepped outside to make a call, I slipped after him silently, a shadow trailing his steps.
“How did this happen?” he muttered, panic cracking his voice. “No, she wasn’t supposed to drink… I swapped the glasses, I swear.”
My heart froze. I wasn’t imagining it. He meant to poison me.
Back inside, I took my seat again, breathing carefully, forcing my gaze steady. Years of trust, love, shattered in an instant. Why? For what?
Later, he approached, wearing a smile too strained to be real.
“How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” I said, eyes locked on his. “And you?”
He faltered, eyes darting away. He knew. I knew.
From that moment, everything changed—but I was alive. And the truth would come out.
The next morning at the hospital, his sister lay weak but conscious. The doctors spoke softly—serious poisoning, lucky to survive. I nodded silently, gratitude and resolve flooding through me.
On the way home, a decision crystallized: if this was a game, I would play—on my terms.
He greeted me as if nothing happened.
“How’s she doing?” he asked, pouring tea.
I smiled coldly.
“Alive. And I noticed the glasses were placed differently.”
His fingers trembled.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing yet. Just an observation.” I rose.
“Think about what you’ll say to the police if I decide to speak.”
That night, the house was a battleground of silence—every glance a weapon, every word a test.
I started gathering evidence: secret messages, pharmacy receipts, recorded calls. He had no idea I wasn’t the victim—I was the hunter.
A week later, he grew uneasy, and suddenly, I was the perfect wife again—agreeing to everything, even his invitation to escape the city. I smiled, packed a bag, but behind his back, I hired a private detective.
I handed over everything: receipts, recordings, a chilling text from an unknown number—“After the anniversary, it’s all over.”
I played my part—until the night by the fireplace, when he poured wine and said, “To us.”
I raised my glass but didn’t drink.
The knock at the door froze him. I opened it to a police officer and the detective.
“Mr. Orlov, you’re under arrest for attempted murder.”
He stared at me, horror-stricken.
“You framed me?”
“No,” I said, stepping closer, eyes unwavering. “You framed yourself. I just survived.”
They took him away. I stayed—alive, free, stronger than ever.
Months passed. The trial unfolded with all the evidence stacked against him. It seemed too neat—too easy.
Then came a call from the detention center.
“He wants to see you. Says he’ll tell you everything.”
Curiosity overpowered caution.
He sat behind glass, gaunt but with that familiar spark.
“You got it wrong,” he whispered. “You weren’t the target. It was her.”
“My sister?”
He smirked. “She knew too much. Demanded too much. Check her phone. Then we talk.”
That night, I unlocked her secrets. A double life, coded messages to someone called “M.O.,” plans to make me disappear—so her brother would have a motive.
It wasn’t his trap. It was their game—against me.
She recovered quickly, smiling, baking pies, acting innocent. But now, I was playing for real.
I hunted “M.O.”—a shadowy network dealing in disappearances and dirty work for big money.
My husband wanted his sister gone. His sister wanted me gone. And behind them both? A puppeteer pulling strings from the shadows.
I arranged a meeting with “M.O.”—a cold man in a café, eyes like steel.
“You ordered a disappearance?” he asked.
“No. I’m here to propose a partnership.”
He sipped coffee.
“Revenge?”
“No. Control. The game is over. Now, I decide.”
I became a ghost in that underworld—first an observer, then a player. Calculating, ruthless. The perfect hunter.
His sister sensed her grip slipping. She called more, unaware I knew everything.
One night, I confronted her.
“I know about M.O. and your plan.”
She paled.
“That’s not true…”
“Choice,” I said. “Disappear. Forever. Or work for me, until your last breath.”
She chose silence.
By morning, she was gone—vanished abroad, or so the news said.
I looked in the mirror and saw a stranger.
Power surged through me—silent, deadly. The network feared me now.
I moved pieces on the board like a grandmaster—one call could save or destroy.
Then came the envelope. No sender. Inside, a photo of me sleeping, someone looming nearby. A note:
“You are not the first.”
Everything shattered again.
Behind “M.O.,” behind the network, stood someone else—someone watching from above.
“M.O.” disappeared. The network crumbled. People vanished. Only I remained. Maybe because I’m needed.
Now, I live without a name, without a past.
And I wait.
Because one day, they will come for me.
Or maybe… they already have.
