On our wedding anniversary, my husband put something in my glass, I decided to replace it with his sisters glass

On the evening of our wedding anniversary, we gathered around the dinner table, laughter softening the edges of time. My husband lifted his glass in a quiet toast, his smile almost reverent. I mirrored the gesture—but as the rim neared my lips, I caught a flicker of movement. He’d slipped something into my drink.

My skin prickled. Instinct surged. Without drawing attention, I swapped my glass with his sister’s.

Ten minutes. A clink of glasses. A chorus of “cheers.” Then, the collapse.

Gasps pierced the room. Chairs scraped back. His sister crumpled, unconscious.

Chaos bloomed. My husband’s face contorted. “She wasn’t supposed to drink that!” he blurted. “I switched the glasses!”

There it was. A confession, buried in panic. That poison was meant for me.

I didn’t speak. I went home. The air in the house felt colder than the night outside. He entered later as if nothing had ruptured.

“How are you?” he asked, masking dread with charm.

“I’m fine,” I said. And I was—for the first time in weeks, truly awake.

The next morning, I visited her in the hospital. Alive, but barely. Doctors called it a close brush with death. I called it fate, and a sharpened gut instinct.

That evening, he asked about her.

“She’ll recover,” I said. “I noticed the glasses weren’t where they started.”

His pulse faltered. “What do you mean?”

“Something to keep in mind—if I speak to the authorities.”

He didn’t sleep. I didn’t stop.

🗂️ Building Truth

I began gathering: receipts, call logs, texts. I didn’t confront. I collected.

He clung to the illusion of normalcy. Dinners. Jokes. But I was assembling the truth.

Then, I found it. A message from an unknown sender. His words:
“Everything ends after the anniversary.”

That night, we sat by the fire. He offered a toast again:
“To us.”

I replied, eyes steady:
“To us.”

A knock echoed down the hall. I opened the door to two officers.

“Citizen Orlov,” one said, “you’re under arrest for attempted murder.”

His eyes searched mine. “You set me up?”

I shook my head. “You did that yourself. I just didn’t let it happen.”

🕰️ Two Months Later

He remained in detention, trial pending. Evidence spoke louder than lawyers. The mask he wore had crumbled.

Then came the call.

“He wants to see you. Says he’ll only talk to you.”

I went. Not for closure. For truth.

In that room, he leaned forward. “It wasn’t meant for you,” he said. “It was her. My sister. She was blackmailing me.”

“You’re lying,” I whispered.

“Check her phone.”

I did. On her tablet, buried beneath games and recipes, were messages. Voice memos. Calls with someone named M.O.

One message:
“If she doesn’t leave on her own, we’ll arrange an accident.”

The floor shifted beneath me. She hadn’t been innocent. She’d been orchestrating behind the curtain.

Betrayal had come from both ends of the table.

But I survived it.

And now, I knew exactly what I was surviving.