I raced back to bed, my heart pounding. When he entered the room, I feigned a sleepy yawn.
“Here you go, little wife,” he said softly.
Later, when his breathing deepened in sleep, I poured the contents into a small thermos, sealed it, and hid it in the closet.
The next morning, I took it straight to a private clinic and asked for a discreet analysis.
Two days later, the doctor called me in.
His face was grave. “Mrs. Carter,” he said gently, “the liquid contains a strong sedative—unprescribed and potentially dangerous. Prolonged use can cause dependency, memory issues, even cognitive decline. Whoever’s been giving you this isn’t helping you sleep.”
I felt the air leave my lungs. Six years. Six years of trust, affection, and ritual—built on poison.
The Truth Behind the Smile
That night, I didn’t drink the tea.
When Ethan noticed, he frowned. “Why didn’t you finish it?”
“I’m not sleepy tonight,” I replied, watching his face carefully.
The warmth in his voice was gone—replaced by something colder, controlling.
When he left for work the next morning, I checked the kitchen drawer. The amber bottle was still there, half empty, without a label. I sealed it in a plastic bag, called my lawyer, and started moving every piece of my life out of his reach.
Confrontation
A week later, I sat Ethan down in the living room. The sea breeze filtered through the windows as I handed him the lab report.
He read it without flinching.
“I did it for you,” he said finally. “You worry too much. You think too much. I just wanted you to relax—to stop aging yourself with stress.”
He said it as if he were explaining a favor.
Something inside me snapped. “You didn’t want me to relax,” I said quietly. “You wanted control. You wanted a wife who wouldn’t notice what you were taking from her.”
That was the last night he spent under my roof.
Reclaiming My Life
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