It’s patient.

It’s silent.

And when it finally strikes, the person who thought they were poisoning you realizes too late that they were the one drinking poison all along.

Three months after that night in the kitchen, I had everything I needed.

The evidence was ironclad.

The police report was ready.

The divorce papers were prepared.

And the look on Diego’s face when I finally told him the truth?

That would be the moment I had been waiting for.

But first, I had one more thing to do.

One final night of warm water with honey.

One final performance.

Because tomorrow, everything would change.

And this time, I would be the one smiling.

Part 3

The next night, I did everything exactly as I had done for the past six years.

I took a long, warm shower. I put on my soft cotton nightgown.

I brushed my hair slowly in front of the mirror while Diego watched me from the bed with that familiar, tender expression he had perfected so well.

When I came out, he was already in the kitchen.

I heard the soft clink of the spoon against the glass.

I heard the drawer open.

I heard the three tiny drops fall — one… two… three.

Then the honey. Then the chamomile. Then the gentle stirring.

He brought the glass to me with the same loving smile.

“Here you go, my little wife,” he whispered, kissing my forehead. “Drink it all so you can sleep well. If you don’t rest, neither do I.”

I took the glass from his hands.

For a moment, I looked at him — really looked.

At the young, handsome face that had once made my heart race.

At the soft hands that had never known real hardship.

At the eyes that had lied to me every single night for six years.

I raised the glass to my lips.

And I drank every last drop.