Going back home felt like stepping into a grave I hadn't died in yet.
The mansion smelled the same, Edward's cologne, fresh lilies, the vanilla candles he liked burning in the living room. Everything looked untouched, as if the world hadn't shattered just four days ago.
As if my marriage wasn't a lie.
As if my husband wasn't a stranger.
But I wasn't the same woman walking into this house.
I wasn't the trusting, soft, eager-to-please wife he had groomed for years.
I was walking in as an enemy wearing the mask of a wife.
Edward walked toward me slowly, studying my face with an expression I couldn't read, maybe curiosity, maybe suspicion, maybe the kind of cold calculation a wolf gives a sheep that wandered back home willingly.
"You're back," he said, voice unreadable.
"Yes," I whispered, lowering my gaze the way he liked. "I… I shouldn't have left."
That was what he expected.
A submissive apology.
A wife desperate to make peace.
He touched my chin, lifting it.
He didn't kiss me.
He didn't even smile.
He just examined me, coldly, as if he were checking whether a trap had sprung shut the way he planned.
"You look tired," he said. "Come inside."
I followed him with soft steps, careful breathing, and perfect obedience. A performance I had perfected with years of marriage, though I never knew I would one day use it as a weapon.
Inside the bedroom, nothing had changed. Even my robe was folded neatly on the couch. Edward wasn't acting like a man caught in betrayal. He was acting like a man who owned me.
"Don't leave the house without telling me again," he said quietly.
"I won't," I replied.
That was the moment I saw it, the first real crack in the lie.
He wasn't relieved that I returned.
He was prepared for it.
As if he expected me not to fight at all.
As if someone had assured him I would come back.
As if the whole thing… was planned.
A sharp, invisible chill ran through me. I wondered then how long this conspiracy had been brewing. How long he had been smiling at me while sharpening the knife behind my back. How long he had been building the life he wanted, with another woman wearing my name.
That night, I pretended to sleep while he lay beside me. I could feel him watching me in the dark. My skin crawled with every breath he took.
I thought about everything I had discovered.
The secret marriage.
The forged signatures.
The messages.
The woman imitating me.
The betrayal that gutted me so deeply it nearly crippled me.
And now… he watched me like prey.
In the morning, as I brushed my hair at the vanity, I heard the front door open.
Then Edward's voice.
"Doctor Daniel, thank you for coming."
Doctor.
Why was a doctor visiting?
My pulse quickened. I stepped out of the room just as a tall, calm-looking man entered the living room. He smiled politely when he saw me.
"Miranda," he greeted. "Edward told me you've been… very stressed lately."
Edward placed a gentle hand on my waist, the perfect husband act. "She's been having panic attacks. I thought it would be good for Daniel to run a quick check."
I widened my eyes slightly and nodded like an obedient wife. "Thank you."
Inside, I was burning with suspicion.
The doctor's eyes were too calculating.
Too observant.
Too familiar with me in a way he shouldn't be.
As if he weren't just checking my pulse and blood pressure, but studying me.
Memorizing me.
Comparing me to someone else.
"Any dizziness? Headaches?" he asked.
"A little," I answered softly. "But I'm okay."
"Still," he said with a smile that didn't touch his eyes, "I'll prescribe something mild."
He opened his bag, wrote something on a sheet, and handed it to Edward, not me.
"I'll send additional vitamins later," he said.
Additional vitamins?
It didn't feel right.
None of it felt right.
The air in the room felt wrong, thick, heavy, artificial.
Edward's hand on my shoulder felt wrong.
The doctor's practiced smile felt wrong.
A silent alarm inside me began ringing louder than ever.
When the doctor finally left, Edward held the prescription and looked at me with complete authority.
"You'll take these every morning and every night," he said calmly.
"Of course," I replied.
But my heart was racing.
Because this wasn't care.
This felt like control.
Or preparation.
Later that afternoon, after Edward left the house for a meeting, I checked the prescription. The name of the drug didn't look familiar. Something about it unsettled me. My instincts screamed.
I searched the cabinets, the bathroom drawers, my bedside table, half expecting to find more pills, more hidden bottles. There was nothing. Whatever they wanted me to take, this was the beginning.
So I hid the paper in my robe, grabbed the pills, and slipped them into my handbag. My hands trembled slightly, not from fear, but from clarity.
They weren't just betraying me.
They were planning something.
When Edward returned, I smiled sweetly.
"I took them," I lied.
His smile was faint. "Good girl."
Good girl.
The words made my stomach twist.
That night, he watched me again. He didn't touch me. He didn't kiss me. He didn't speak.
He just watched.
As if he were waiting.
As if he were checking for symptoms.
As if he were studying how soon the poison would begin to work.
Later in the night, after making sure he was asleep, I slipped out of bed and went into the bathroom. I turned on the shower to drown out the sound of my breathing.
I stared at myself in the mirror, my own reflection suddenly felt unfamiliar.
Paler.
Frightened.
Hardened.
I whispered to myself, "You can't die here. Not like this."
By evening the next day, once Edward left again, I wrapped the medication in a napkin and sent it to my father's personal doctor with a short voice note:
"Please check what these really are. I need the truth. And don't call me, just message Dad."
For two days, I pretended to take the medication.
Pretended to feel better.
Pretended to trust Edward again.
Pretended to be the fragile wife who knew nothing.
Every smile was a lie.
Every "yes, love" was poison on my tongue.
Every obedient nod was a step closer to surviving.
Edward looked relieved each time I told him I took the pills. His guard lowered little by little.
Which meant one thing:
He needed me medicated.
But on the third night, my father's message came in:
Miranda.
Do NOT take that drug.
It is a slow-acting cardiac toxin.
They're trying to kill you.
My breath left my body.
The walls around me blurred.
My hands went cold.
They wanted me dead.
Dead quietly.
Dead slowly.
Dead without suspicion.
A death they could explain away as a heart attack.
A grief they could perform publicly.
A tragedy that would give Edward everything he wanted.
That was the first moment I realized:
This wasn't just betrayal.
This wasn't just infidelity.
This was a murder plot.
And if I didn't outsmart them, I wouldn't live long enough to expose them.