I overheard my husband speaking on the phone: “She hasnt got long left.” After that, I stopped taking the pills he gave me.
The study door was ajarjust a crack, but enough for his voice, usually soft and comforting like a warm blanket, to reach me in a dry, businesslike tone.
“Yes, everythings on track. The doctors say she hasnt got long left.”
I froze in the hallway, clutching a glass of water. In my other hand were two capsulesthe ones my husband, Jonathan Whitmore, brought me twice a day. “Your vitamins, darling. To keep your strength up. To help you recover.”
In six months of marriage, Id grown used to this “care.” Used to the weakness, the fog in my head, the way the vast world had shrunk to the walls of our London flat. Id almost believed I was seriously, hopelessly ill.
But that phrase, tossed into the phone, held not a shred of sympathy. Only cold calculation, sharp as steel.
I turned slowly, legs unsteady, and crept back to the bedroom. My hands trembled. At the window, I unclenched my fist and let the capsules fall into the thick lilac bushes below. I wouldnt take another of his pills.
The next morning, he entered with a tray. The same smile, the same “concerned” gaze. But now I saw only the maskand the predator beneath.
“Good morning, my sleeping beauty. Time for your medicine.”
I swallowed thickly. “Ive already taken them,” I lied, forcing steadiness into my voice. “I woke early and found them on the nightstand.”
He frowned, just for a second. Glanced at the glass, the table. “Good girl. Taking care of yourself. Thats a positive sign.”
All day, I pretended to be as listless as ever. But it was hard. My body, deprived of its usual dose of poison, rebelled. Chills wracked me; my head spun. Instead of fog, sharp bursts of clarity stabbed throughlike withdrawal.
The next day, I “took” the pills before he arrivedditching them in the lilacs. Jonathan was visibly displeased. “Victoria, lets agree: youll wait for me. Timing matters with these.”
He grew watchful. Lingered by my bed, staring into my eyes as if searching for secrets.
“You look pale today. Your hands are cold. Perhaps we should increase the dose?”
“No,” I whispered. “Im feeling a bit better.”
It was a dangerous game. Nights became torture. I lay awake, feigning sleep, listening to his every breath. Each sigh iced my heart. One night, he slipped out.
I waited for the creak of his study door before following, steadying myself against the wall to fight the dizziness.
He was on the phone again, voice hushed. “Shes suspicious. Refuses food, says shes not hungry. Shes too… clear-eyed now. Her gaze has changed.”
I pressed against the wall. My heartbeat roared loud enough for him to hear.
“We need to hurry. Ive spoken to the solicitor. Mr. Thompson understands. I told him you, as her doctor, advised setting up power of attorney while shes still lucid. Her signature, and its done. Margarets estate becomes mine.”
Margaret. My mother. Shed died a year ago, leaving everything to me. The inheritance my husband already counted as his.
I made it back to bed just before he returned. He leaned over me, and I caught the sharp, chemical scent on his handsthe smell of my “vitamins.”
The next morning, I dragged myself to the old dressing room. In the back of the wardrobe stood my collectionvintage perfume bottles. My one passion before him.
I lifted a heavy crystal flacon. Even sealed, the scent of my past life lingered.
“What are you doing?” His voice behind me made me jump. “You shouldnt be up.”
I turned slowly. “I wanted to remember what I smelled like before hospitals and medicine.”
He sneered. “Dust collectors. Speaking of, I found an excellent antiques dealer. Hell pay well for these. We need the money for your treatment.”
His fingers brushed the bottle in my hand. Then I understood. It wasnt just my money he wanted. He was erasing memy identity, my past.
I lowered my eyes, hiding the hate. Nodded slowly. “Alright. Sell them if you must.”
His grip loosened. He hadnt expected surrender.
“Clever girl. I only want whats best for you.”
But I knew my move now. His arrogance would be his undoing.
Two days later, the solicitor arrivedMr. Thompson, a balding man with a briefcase that reeked of mothballs and legality. Jonathan hovered.
“Victorias very weak, Mr. Thompson, but she understands the importance of this. Its just power of attorney, while shes… unwell.”
The solicitor coughed and handed me the papers. I took the pen. My hand, once feeble, now burned with strengthbut I forced it to shake.
I leaned over, began signingthen jerked as if seized by a spasm. A thick ink blot ruined the line.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. “My handit wont obey.”
Jonathans face hardened. “No matter. We can reprint them.”
Mr. Thompson frowned. “I have another appointment. In this state… are you certain your wife is competent?”
First blow to his plan.
“Of course she is!” Jonathan snapped. “Its just muscle weakness!”
When the solicitor left, Jonathans mask fell. He gripped my shoulder. “Was that deliberate?”
“I felt faint,” I whispered, genuine tears wellingtears of fury. “I cant control my body.”
He released me, but his eyes turned calculating. He no longer trusted me.
That night, I didnt sleep. I waited. When the house fell silent, I rose. His study was my target. He kept the safe key on him, but I knew where the spare was hidden.
I found it. Inside: medical records, bank statements, empty vials, a syringe. And a prescription pad from a Dr. Langleya psychiatrist Id never met.
I photographed everything with an old phone hidden in a shoebox. My trump cards.
The next day, Jonathan played the doting husband, bringing breakfast and “vitamins.”
“Take them, darling. You need strength. The solicitor returns tomorrow.”
While he was distracted, I pocketed a pill. I needed it analyzed.
All day, I searched for a way out. Then I rememberedUncle Thomas. My fathers old friend, a barrister. His number was in an old address book.
But how to call? My gaze fell on the rubbish bins. A reckless plan formed.
I took an empty perfume bottle, tucked in a note with Thomass number and a plea for help, added the pill and my mothers broochsentimental and valuable. It had to catch attention.
That night, I crept to the kitchen and hurled the bottle into the bin. Now, to wait.
Morning brought the rubbish lorry. Jonathan watched from the window as I pretended indifference. The truck roared; my heart stopped. Then silence.
“Get up,” he said coldly. “The solicitor arrives in an hour. And this time, Victoria, your hand wont slip. Ill make sure of it.”
Mr. Thompson came at eleven. Jonathan glared as I took the pen. I hesitated, then gasped.
“Theres… a face,” I whispered, recoiling. “In the words. Watching mehorrible!”
I hyperventilated, feigning panic.
“Victoria, enough!” Jonathan hissed.
But Mr. Thompson stood. “I wont be part of this! Jonathan, your wife doesnt need a solicitorshe needs a psychiatric evaluation. This is unconscionable.”
He left. Another reprieve.
Jonathans silence burned. “Think youre clever? Fine. You want to be mad? You will be.”
He shoved me into the bedroom and locked the door. The trap snapped shut.
Time crawled. Then the phone rang. I heard Jonathan answer, his voice sharp.
“Who is this? What do you mean, Is the Nightingale ready to fly?”
He slammed the receiver down. Burst into the room.
“Who is Thomas? Whats this code about?”
“Nightingale.” Our old signal. My message had reached Uncle Thomas.
I stood slowly. “I dont know what you mean. Perhaps youre overworked, Jonathan.”
He raised a handbut the front door shuddered under heavy blows. Police officers burst in, Uncle Thomas behind them.
Jonathan froze. “What is this?”
“Rescuing someone,” Thomas said firmly. “Victoria, are you alright?”
I nodded. “Hes been drugging me. Keeping me prisoner.”
“This is a misunderstanding! My wife isnt well!”
“Well see,” Thomas said, holding up the pill. “Lab tests show its a potent antipsych
