The Appetizer

"To us," Julian said, raising his glass.

"To us," I whispered.

I lifted the glass. The dark red liquid caught the candlelight, shimmering like spilled blood. I could smell it now, right under my nose. Earthy. Rich. And beneath that, the faint, sweet scent of almonds.

*Vecuronium.*

Mixed with sugar to mask the metallic tang.

I tilted the glass.

And then... I let go.

It wasn't an accident. It was a spasm. A deliberate, jerky release of my fingers.

The glass hit the edge of the plate.

*Clink.*

It tipped.

Red wine flooded the white tablecloth. A dark, expanding stain. It looked like a gunshot wound spreading across a chest.

"Oh god," I gasped, jumping up. "I'm so sorry!"

The wine dripped onto the floor. Onto the rug. The expensive, vintage Persian rug he had spent months sourcing.

Julian stared at the stain.

His face went blank.

For a second, I saw it. The real Julian. The man behind the mask.

His eyes were dead. Flat. Reptilian.

He looked at the stain like it was a personal insult. A flaw in the design.

"You clumsy..."

He stopped himself. He took a breath. He forced the mask back on.

"It's okay," he said. His voice was tight. Strained. "It's just wine. Accidents happen."

*Accidents happen.*

Like gas leaks.

Like fires.

"I'll get a towel," I said, backing away. "I'll get the salt."

"Sit down," he ordered. "I'll get it."

"No, I did it. I'll clean it."

I needed to get to the kitchen. I needed to get to the sink.

I turned and ran.

"Elara!"

He stood up. His chair scraped against the floor. A harsh, violent sound.

I ran into the kitchen.

I grabbed a roll of paper towels.

But I didn't go back to the dining room.

I went to the counter.

The bottle. The open bottle of Pinot.

I needed to dump it. I needed to destroy the evidence.

No.

I needed to *keep* the evidence.

If I poured it out, he would know I knew.

I looked around.

A water bottle. My gym water bottle. Sitting on the drying rack. It was opaque. Stainless steel.

I grabbed it. I poured the remaining wine into it.

My hand shook, spilling a few drops on the counter. I wiped them away with my sleeve.

I screwed the cap on tight.

I shoved it into the back of the pantry, behind the cereal boxes.

Then I grabbed the empty wine bottle.

I filled it with water from the tap. Just a little. To rinse it.

Then I poured the water out.

I put the empty bottle in the recycling bin.

"Elara, what are you doing?"

He was in the doorway.

He was holding the stained tablecloth. He had bunched it up in his fists. His knuckles were white.

"I... I was getting paper towels," I stammered, holding up the roll.

He looked at the counter. At the empty spot where the wine bottle had been.

"Where's the wine?"

"I... I knocked it over too," I lied. "In my panic. It shattered in the sink."

He looked at the sink.

It was empty. No glass.

"There's no glass in the sink, Elara."

I froze.

Stupid. Stupid.

"I... I threw it away," I said. "In the bin."

He walked over to the recycling bin. He looked inside.

The bottle was there. Intact.

He picked it up.

He looked at me.

"It's not shattered," he said softly.

"I... I meant I dropped it in the bin. I thought it shattered."

He held the bottle up to the light.

"It's rinsed," he said. "There are water droplets inside."

He turned to me.

"Why did you rinse the bottle, Elara?"

My mouth went dry.

"I... recycling rules," I whispered. "You always say... rinse the recyclables."

He stared at me.

Silence stretched. Heavy. Suffocating.

Then, he smiled.

"You're right," he said. "I do say that. Good girl."

He dropped the bottle back in the bin. *Clunk.*

"But now we have no wine," he said. "And you need to relax."

He opened the fridge.

"I have something else," he said.

He pulled out a small glass vial.

It wasn't wine.

It was clear liquid.

"A digestive," he said. "Grandmother's recipe. For the nerves."

He poured it into a shot glass.

He held it out to me.

"Drink," he said.

It wasn't a request.

I looked at the liquid.

It smelled of anise. And... something else.

Something sweet.

I knew what it was.

I had smelled it before. In the lab.

*Chloral hydrate.*

A sedative. A knockout drop.

He wasn't trying to paralyze me anymore. He was trying to put me under.

He wanted me unconscious.

"I... I don't want it," I said, backing away.

"Elara," he warned. "Don't be difficult."

He took a step toward me.

"It will help you sleep. You need sleep."

"I'm not tired!"

"You look exhausted," he said. "You look like you're about to snap."

He reached for me.

I dodged. I put the island between us.

"Stay away from me!"

"You're having an episode," he said, shaking his head. "I didn't want to do this."

"Do what?"

"Call Dr. Aris," he said. "Have you committed."

He pulled his phone out of his pocket.

"If I make this call, Elara, they'll come. They'll take you away. 72-hour hold. Maybe longer."

He tapped the screen.

"Is that what you want? To be locked up?"

I stared at him.

He was bluffing.

He couldn't call Aris. Not now. Not when the plan was in motion.

If they took me away... I would be safe. I would be in a hospital.

He *couldn't* kill me if I was in a psych ward.

"Call him," I said.

Julian froze.

He hadn't expected that.

"What?"

"Call him," I repeated, my voice stronger. "Call 911. Tell them I'm crazy. Tell them to come get me."

I took a step toward him.

"Do it, Julian."

He stared at me. His thumb hovered over the screen.

He couldn't do it.

If the police came... they would see the stove. They would smell the gas. They would find the receipt.

He was trapped in his own narrative.

He lowered the phone.

"You're calling my bluff," he whispered.

"I'm rewriting the scene," I said.

He looked at the phone. Then at me.

He put the phone on the counter.

He picked up the shot glass.

He drank it.

In one gulp.

I stared at him.

"What are you doing?"

He wiped his mouth.

"It's just anise, Elara," he said. "Just schnapps."

He smiled. A wolfish grin.

"I was testing you. To see how paranoid you really are."

He laughed.

"And you passed. Flying colors. You think I'm trying to poison you."

He shook his head.

"My poor, broken wife."

He walked around the island.

"Since you won't drink... and you won't eat... maybe we should skip to the entertainment."

He walked to the living room.

"Come here," he called. "I want to show you something."

I didn't move.

"Elara," he said. His voice was hard again. "Come here."

I walked slowly into the living room.

He was standing by the fireplace.

He picked up the remote.

He turned on the TV.

It was a smart TV. Connected to the network.

He navigated to the 'Gallery' app.

"I made a slideshow," he said. "For our anniversary."

He pressed play.

Photos appeared on the screen.

Our wedding. Our honeymoon. The day we moved in.

Smiling faces. Perfect lighting. The curated life.

But then... the photos changed.

A photo of me sleeping.

A photo of me crying in the bathroom.

A photo of me staring out the window, looking lost.

A photo of my pill bottles lined up on the counter.

He had been documenting my 'decline'. Building the case.

"Look at you," he said softly. "Look how sad you were."

"I wasn't sad," I said. "I was medicated."

"You were fading," he said. "I watched you fade."

The slideshow continued.

A photo of the kitchen. The vintage stove.

A photo of the receipt. The one in his pocket.

Wait.

Why would he photograph the receipt?

And then I saw the timestamp on the photo.

*Today. 6:45 PM.*

He took a photo of the receipt *after* he bought the accelerant.

Why?

To prove he bought it?

No.

To prove *I* bought it.

I looked closely at the screen.

The receipt in the photo... it wasn't on his desk.

It was in *my* purse.

He had planted it. Taken a photo. Then put it in his pocket.

If the police found my phone... or his cloud backup...

They would see the photo.

*Evidence found in victim's possession.*

He wasn't just killing me. He was framing me for my own murder.

"Suicide," I whispered.

"Assisted suicide," he corrected. "By a loving husband who just couldn't save her."

He turned off the TV.

The room went dark.

"It's time, Elara."

He walked toward me.

"Time for what?"

"Time to sleep."

He reached for me.

I backed away. I hit the wall.

"You drank the sedative," I said. "You said it was schnapps."

"I lied," he said.

He swayed slightly.

"It *was* a sedative. But I have a high tolerance."

He blinked. His eyelids looked heavy.

"And I only need... ten minutes."

He lunged.

He was slower this time. Sluggish.

But he was still heavy.

He pinned me against the wall. His breath smelled of anise and rot.

"Ten minutes," he slurred. "To set the stage."

He reached for my throat.

I didn't fight. Not yet.

I waited.

His grip tightened.

But his eyes... they were losing focus.

The chloral hydrate was hitting him. Fast.

He leaned his weight on me.

"Just... sleep," he mumbled.

His head drooped. It rested on my shoulder.

He was passing out.

Standing up.

I held my breath.

I felt his weight increase. His knees buckled.

I sidestepped.

He fell.

He hit the floor hard. Face down.

He didn't move.

I stood over him, panting.

He had drugged himself. To prove a point? To mock me?

Or because he thought he was invincible?

It didn't matter.

He was out.

I had ten minutes. Maybe less.

I looked at his body.

I needed the keys.

I needed the phone.

I knelt down. I reached into his pocket.

The receipt crinkled.

I pulled it out.

And then... his hand shot out.

He grabbed my wrist.

His eyes opened.

They weren't glassy. They weren't sleepy.

They were clear.

"Gotcha," he whispered.