I looked at the paper again. The numbers. The chemical names. The cold, clinical proof that the man I had loved and trusted had been killing me one drop at a time.

I didn’t cry.

I didn’t scream.

I simply folded the report neatly, placed it in my purse, and stood up.

“Thank you, doctor,” I said, my voice surprisingly steady. “I will take care of it.”

She looked worried. “Please don’t confront him alone. This man is dangerous.”

I smiled — a small, calm smile that didn’t reach my eyes.

“I won’t confront him yet.”

That night, I went home as if nothing had happened.

Diego was already in the kitchen when I arrived. He smiled that gentle, boyish smile that had once made my heart flutter.

“You’re late, my little wife,” he said, pouring warm water into the familiar glass. “I was starting to worry.”

I watched him add the honey and chamomile.

Then I watched him open the drawer and take out the small amber vial.

One drop.

Two drops.

Three drops.

He stirred it slowly, humming softly under his breath — the same peaceful melody he used during yoga classes.

When he turned around with the glass, I was already sitting at the table, pretending to check my phone.

“Here you go, my love,” he said, placing the glass in front of me with the same tender care he had shown for six years. “Drink it all. You look tired.”

I looked up at him.

For the first time, I really looked.

At the young, handsome face. At the soft hands that had never done real hard work. At the eyes that had once seemed kind but now looked calculating.

I took the glass.

Raised it to my lips.

And poured every drop into the potted plant beside the table while he turned to wash the spoon.

He didn’t notice.

He never noticed.

That night, while Diego slept soundly beside me, I lay awake staring at the ceiling.