Mark moved the pot with the wilting azalea off the windowsill, making room for something new.
He moved with that smooth, focused grace that had first drawn me to him. But now every one of his movements stirred a dull, inexplicable anxiety in me.
“Why did you move it?” My voice sounded weaker than I intended.
“It spoils the view, darling,” he didn’t even turn around, wiping the windowsill with a velvet cloth. “We’ll put something more cheerful here. For you.”
For me. Lately, everything in this house had been done “for me.” Those heavy curtains that blocked the sunlight.
The new door locks, the keys to which only he had. His constant presence—dense like cotton wool and just as suffocating.
I slowly rose from the chair, and the room swayed. Dizziness had become my constant companion, obsessive like Mark himself.
“I want to go outside,” I said, clutching the armrest.
He turned around. A flicker of annoyance crossed his face but immediately changed to his usual mask of care. The very one that made my jaw ache.
“Lina, dear, the doctor said you need rest. The air is damp now, the wind will pick up. You don’t want another migraine, do you?”
His arguments were always impeccable. Logical. Undeniable. He painted such a convincing picture of my fragility, my illness, that I almost believed it myself. Almost.
In the evening, he came into the bedroom carrying two cups. One of them gave off a faint, barely perceptible aroma that I had learned to hate—the smell of almonds mixed with something cloyingly sweet and herbal.
“This will help you relax,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed; the springs creaked softly.
I silently watched him—his beautiful, well-groomed hands, his perfect jawline. Once I had drowned in his gaze. Now I searched for a bottom in it—and found none.
He handed me a cup. The porcelain was warm.
“Drink, dear, this tea will help you sleep,” my husband whispered, and I only pretended to drink.
I raised the cup to my lips, feeling the warmth on my skin. I made a quiet swallowing sound I had practiced for hours.
Mark nodded satisfied, his gaze softened. He turned to the window, looking out at the dark garden.
At that moment, holding my breath, I slowly poured the contents of the cup into the ficus pot he had brought last week. The ficus was already turning yellow. Just like that azalea.
I set the empty cup on the bedside table.
“Thank you, my love.”
Mark turned and smiled.
“Sleep well, my treasure.”
I closed my eyes, listening to his footsteps. The door closed quietly. But I didn’t sleep. I lay in the dark, and my mind was clearer than ever.
I knew my husband was not who he claimed to be. And I had to find out who he really was before his “care” killed me completely.
The next day, I played my part even harder. I barely got out of bed, complained about weakness, and asked him to dim the lights.
My apathy seemed to please him. He grew more relaxed, confident in his power.
“Maybe I should call Dr. Aronov?” he asked, sitting next to me. His voice was full of feigned concern.
“No need,” I whispered, turning to the wall. “I just need to rest. Maybe it’s the weather.”
I knew there was no Dr. Aronov.
Once, when I felt really bad, I asked for his number to ask a few questions. Mark hesitated, then said the doctor was away and would contact us himself. He never did.
I needed to get into his office.
It was forbidden territory, the only place in the house he forbade me to enter, citing “important work documents” and “need for concentration.”
That’s where he kept his secrets.
The chance came two days later. I complained that I ran out of a special moisturizing hand cream supposedly prescribed by that mythical doctor.
I described a nonexistent package, adding I had seen it only in one pharmacy on the far side of town.
Mark hesitated. He clearly didn’t want to leave me alone.
“I can go myself, darling. Just tell me the exact address.”
“You won’t find it,” my voice was petulant and weak. “It’s a complicated alley. And I want the one with orchid extract. Please. I think it helps my hands.”
I looked at him pleadingly. The last argument hit the mark: everything that supposedly benefited me was his priority. He sighed, playing the martyr, and finally agreed.
When the front door closed behind him with a click, I counted to a hundred. Then I sat up abruptly in bed. The dizziness didn’t go away, but adrenaline now drowned it out.
His office. The key, as I suspected, lay in the drawer of his bedside table, under a stack of identical gray socks. My hands trembled slightly as I inserted it into the keyhole.
Inside, it smelled of dust and expensive perfume. Perfect order. Not a single extra paper on the desk. I began methodically checking the drawers. Contracts, bills, business correspondence. Nothing unusual.
My attention was drawn to a small dark wooden box on the bookshelf. It was locked with a tiny lock. I looked around for something to open it. A paperclip lay on the desk.
After several minutes of struggle, the lock gave way. Inside, on velvet lining, lay not a jewel. It was a folder with documents. My documents.
More precisely, copies of documents regarding the inheritance left to me by my father. I skimmed through the lines.
In the margins of the documents, next to the numbers, were notes in Mark’s handwriting. Calculations. Dates.
And at the very bottom, on the last page, circled in red, was a phrase from the will: “In the event of Lina Arkadyevna’s death before marriage or in the absence of direct heirs, all property passes to her lawful spouse.” I had forgotten about this.
A cold sweat broke over me. We married a month after my father’s death. So that was it. He knew.
I was about to put the folder back when I suddenly felt something hard under the velvet lining at the bottom of the box.
I caught the fabric with my nail. There, in a recess, lay a small paper packet with a Latin inscription and a glass vial with a thick dark liquid. The packet gave off that same cloying almond scent.
Suddenly, a noise came from below. The front door lock clicked. He was back. Too soon.
Panic burned inside me. My heart pounded against my ribs like a bird against the bars of a cage.
I grabbed the paper packet convulsively, stuffed it into the pocket of my robe, and threw the vial and folder back into the box. I snapped the lid shut, not bothering to lock it.
I slipped out of the office and tiptoed to the bedroom. With trembling hands, I put the key back into the drawer under the socks.
I dived into bed and covered myself with the blanket just seconds before I heard his footsteps on the stairs.
“Lina?” His voice was close. “I’m back. Didn’t find your cream, the pharmacy was closed.”
I slowly poked my head out from under the blanket, pretending to be sleepy.
“It’s okay. I think I fell asleep.”
He looked at me carefully. Too carefully. His gaze slid over my face, then to his bedside table.
For a moment, I thought it was over. But he just smiled his fake smile.
“Rest, dear. I’ll bring you your tea tonight.”
The rest of the day I devised a plan. Fear was replaced by cold, ringing rage. He didn’t just want my money. He wanted my life, slowly and painfully draining it out of me day by day.
In the evening, while he was in the shower, I went to the kitchen. My plan was simple and bold. I took two identical cups. Into one, I poured the contents of the paper packet I had stolen from his box. The powder dissolved instantly.
I brewed ordinary chamomile tea and poured it into both cups. I marked the poisoned one by slightly turning the pattern on the handle the other way.
When Mark entered the living room, I sat in the armchair with two cups on the table before me.
“I thought I’d take care of us myself today,” I said with a weak smile. “I feel a little better.”
He froze, surprised by my initiative.
“You’re such a good girl,” he said, but suspicion flickered in his eyes. He slowly approached the table.
I took my cup—the “clean” one.
“Let’s drink. To my speedy recovery.”
He didn’t move, his gaze fixed on the two identical cups. He didn’t know which was poisoned. But he knew I had been in his office. He couldn’t have missed the shifted box or the missing packet.
“Something wrong?” I asked in the most innocent tone.
“No, everything’s fine,” he slowly took the other cup. “Just… unusual.”
He brought the porcelain to his lips but didn’t sip. He waited. Waited for me to take the first sip.
And I did. I sipped from my cup, looking him straight in the eyes. I saw the tension on his face give way to relief, then triumph. He decided I knew nothing. That I had simply chosen to show care.
He smiled and took a big gulp.
“Really tasty tea, darling.”
I silently watched him drink his cup to the bottom. I put mine down on the table after barely sipping.
The first signs appeared after a few minutes. He began to fidget anxiously in the chair; his breathing became uneven.
“I feel unwell,” he mumbled, running a hand over his forehead, now covered with sweat.
“Must be the weather,” I answered calmly, repeating his words.
He looked up at me, and in his eyes, I saw for the first time not feigned concern but primal fear. He understood everything.
“What… what did you do?”
“I just brewed tea, my love,” I stood and went to the phone. “The very one that was supposed to help me sleep. Forever. Only this time, it will help you.”
He tried to stand, but his legs gave way. He collapsed on the carpet, gasping for air.
“You…”
“I know everything, Mark. About the will. About your calculations. About your nonexistent Dr. Aronov.”
I dialed a number—not for an ambulance, but for the police.
“Hello? I want to report an attempted murder. Yes, my husband. He tried to poison me. Please come quickly. I think he’ll want to confess everything.”
I hung up and looked at the man writhing on the floor. All his beauty and gloss had evaporated.
Before me was just a pathetic, frightened criminal.
When the police arrived, I calmly handed over the empty paper packet and pointed to the dying potted plants.
I was physically weak, but my spirit had never been stronger. I survived. And I was free.
The bustle filling the house seemed like something from another life. People in uniform, medics, an investigator with tired eyes.
I watched it all from the outside, as if watching a movie. The nausea and weakness hadn’t gone away but were now merely physical ailments, not symptoms of another’s will.
Mark was carried away on a stretcher. He was alive—I had calculated the dose precisely enough for effect, but not death.
I wanted him to pay for everything by law. To sit in prison and remember every day how his perfect plan collapsed because of a woman he considered a weak and stupid doll.
“Lina Arkadyevna?” The investigator, an elderly man with gray temples, sat opposite me. “We’ll need to take your official testimony. But first, tell me, do you need help? A doctor?”
I shook my head.
“I need fresh air.”
He nodded to his assistant, who threw open the windows. A cool evening breeze rushed in, bringing the scents of wet earth and freedom. I breathed deeply, feeling suffocated for the first time in months.
I spoke at length. Calmly and methodically, laying out the whole story for the investigator.
About his sudden love right after my father’s death. About growing isolation. About the “care” that wilted the flowers. About the fake doctor. About the discovery in his office.
I gave him everything: the box, the folder with documents, my nearly untouched cup. Every word was a nail in the coffin of his legal fate.
When they left, the house emptied. For the first time in a long time, I was completely alone in it. I went through the rooms, throwing open the curtains, letting in the night light. I threw out all his things I could find—his clothes, his books, his perfume.
I approached the ficus into which I had poured the poisoned tea. Its leaves had yellowed and withered. I took it outside and left it by the trash bins as a symbol of the life that ended today.
I felt neither joy nor sorrow. Only immense, all-consuming relief—as if a lead cloak I had worn for so long had finally been lifted.
I brewed myself new tea. Ordinary black tea, without any additives. I sat by the open window and watched the sky lighten in the east. The dizziness passed. Along with it, the fear went away.
I knew many difficulties lay ahead: trials, lawyers, investigations. But none of that mattered.
The main thing was that I belonged to myself again. I watched the birth of a new day, and it was the first day of my new life.