On the evening of our wedding anniversary, my husband solemnly raised his glass.
I mirrored him, but then noticed—he had quietly poured something into mine.
A cold, uneasy feeling clenched my stomach. I didn’t want to take the risk.

When everyone was distracted, I discreetly swapped my glass with his sister’s, who was sitting beside me.

About ten minutes later, we clinked glasses and drank.
Almost instantly, she grew pale and collapsed. Screams. Panic.
My husband appeared stunned, as if the shock had struck him too.

My mind raced: “What were you planning, darling?”

His sister was taken away by ambulance. Everyone was in shock.

“How did this happen?” he cried. “No, she shouldn’t have been drinking… I definitely switched the glass!”

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My heart stopped. So I hadn’t been wrong—he really had wanted to destr0y me.
Everything had been meant for me.

Quietly, I returned home and took my place at the table again.
I forced myself to breathe normally, keeping my eyes steady.

Later, he approached me.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, forcing a smile.

“Fine,” I said calmly. “And you?”

He hesitated.

And I knew—nothing would ever be the same again.
But the most important thing was that I was alive.

The next morning, I went to the hospital.
His sister lay in the ward, pale and weak, but conscious.

The doctors said, “It was severe poisoning. She was lucky. If the dose had been a little higher…”

I silently thanked fate—and myself.

At home, he greeted me as if nothing had happened.

“How is she?” he asked.

I smiled faintly.

“Alive. And I remember that the glasses were placed differently,” I said.

He froze. His fingers trembled.

– “What do you mean by that?”

– “Nothing yet. Just an observation.”

– “And think carefully about what you’ll tell the police… if I decide to talk to them.”

That night, he didn’t sleep.

I began gathering evidence—messages, pharmacy receipts, phone records.

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A week went by. My husband grew tense.
Ironically, he started seeing me as the “perfect wife”—gentle, patient, obedient.

Then, I laid everything out: the receipts, the recorded call, and the screenshot of a message from an unknown number where he had written,
“After the anniversary, everything will end.”

I continued playing my role—cooking, smiling, listening—until one evening.

We sat by the fireplace.

“To us,” he said.

“To us,” I echoed—and didn’t touch my glass.

At that moment, a knock sounded at the door.
I stood and opened it.

A policeman and a private detective stood there.

— “Citizen Orlov, you are under arrest on suspicion of attempted murder.”

– “You… you set me up?”

“No,” I said, stepping closer. “You set yourself up. I just survived.”

Two months passed.

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Life went on as usual.
All the evidence pointed to him.
He sat in pretrial detention, his lawyer defeated and hopeless.

Everything seemed too neat. Too calm.

One evening, I received a call from the detention center.

– “He wants to see you,” the voice said. “He claims he’ll tell you the truth—but only to you.”

I stared at the phone for a long time.
In the end, curiosity won.

“You know,” he said, leaning closer, “you got it all wrong. You weren’t the target.”

I froze.

– “What?”

“It was for her,” he laughed. “For my sister. She knew too much. She wanted too much.”

“You’re lying,” I whispered.

– “Check her phone. See who she was talking to. Then we’ll talk.”

I came home before dawn, unable to sleep.
I opened his sister’s old tablet—and what I found turned my world upside down.

She had indeed been playing both sides—spying, recording, chatting with someone called “M.O.”
One of her last messages made my blood run cold:

“If she doesn’t leave on her own, we’ll have to arrange an accident. My brother needs a reason.”

I reread it again and again, shaken to the core.

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His sister had already left the hospital, acting as if nothing had happened—smiling, baking pies, offering help.

I started investigating “M.O.”—contacts, numbers, old messages.
It wasn’t a person. It was an organization.
A shadow network that “solved problems” for money—big money.

It turned out my husband wanted to remove his sister…
And she wanted to remove me.

I decided to meet “M.O.” under a false name, with a fabricated story.

“Did you order the disappearance?” he asked.

“No,” I said calmly. “I came to offer cooperation.”

He studied me carefully.

– “What kind of cooperation?”

I smiled.

— “Information. Access to everyone who tried to get rid of me. In exchange—help. We can both benefit.”

He took a sip of coffee.

– “Do you want revenge?”

– “No. I want control. The game is over. Now I decide who moves next.”

I entered their world quietly.
“M.O.” realized it was wiser to work with me than against me.

One night, I went to her house unexpectedly.
I sat across from her.

“I know about M.O.,” I said evenly. “And about your plan for me.”

She went pale.

– “That’s… that’s not true…”

– “Too late. I didn’t come for apologies. I came to give you a choice.”

I stood and walked to the door.

– “Then you’ll understand what it feels like when the glass suddenly isn’t yours.”

And I left.

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The next morning, she was gone.

And when I looked in the mirror, I realized—the old me no longer existed.

Now, I was a force.

Power pulsed through me—almost divine.
The network accepted me… even feared me.
I began to control destinies like chess pieces.
I could destroy or protect with a single call.
People spoke of me under new names.
My past became legend.

But one day, I received an envelope—no sender, no address.
Inside was a single photograph of me.
And a note.
Just three words:

“You’re not the first.”

In that instant, everything collapsed.
I understood—behind all this power, all this manipulation, even behind “M.O.” — there was someone else.

I tried to find him, but he was gone.
The network was unraveling.
People vanished.

Every night, I feel eyes watching.
Silent phone calls. No voice. Just breathing.
It’s not paranoia—it’s a warning.

I won my game…
But became part of another—older, darker, unstoppable.

Now I live differently.
Without a name.
Without a past.

And I’m waiting.