The phone trembled in my hands as I dialed the number. My heart pounded so hard it felt ready to burst from my chest. “Hello, Emily, I did what you said! I put that powder in her coffee. I’m waiting for it to kick in so I can leave. But bloody hell, what was that? You can’t just put that in someone’s coffee! Lucy turned pale, she got sick, like she’d just drunk poison! How was I supposed to know this would happen? I’m not a doctor!” My voice cracked, my mind spinning with panic and guilt. How had I even gotten to this point?
It all started a couple of weeks ago, when my life seemed to be falling apart. Lucy and I had been married for seven years, and for the last two, our marriage had been cracking at the seams. Endless fights, misunderstandings, her constant nagging—I couldn’t take it anymore. Lucy had changed: the cheerful, caring girl I’d fallen for had become someone perpetually dissatisfied. I tried talking to her, but every conversation ended in a row. At some point, I started thinking divorce was the only way out. Then Emily came along.
Emily was a colleague at work. We often crossed paths during coffee breaks, and she had a way of listening like no one else. When I began sharing my troubles with her, she didn’t judge—she sympathized. Slowly, our conversations grew closer, and I found myself feeling at ease with her in a way I hadn’t in years. One evening, after yet another blazing row with Lucy, I confided in Emily that I didn’t know how to break the cycle. That’s when she suggested something that, at first, sounded insane. “There’s one way,” she said with a sly smile. “Put something in her coffee. Nothing bad, just a little something to help her relax, calm down a bit. I’ll give you the powder—it’s harmless.” I laughed, thinking she was joking, but Emily was dead serious. She handed me a small sachet and said, “Try it. What’s the worst that could happen?”
I hesitated for ages. Spiking my own wife’s coffee? It sounded like something out of a cheap thriller. But Emily swore it was just a mild sedative, that it would help Lucy mellow out, give us a chance to fix things. I was so exhausted from the fighting that, eventually, I agreed. The next morning, while Lucy was in the shower, I brewed her coffee and, feeling like a complete fool, stirred in a pinch of that powder. My hands shook, but I convinced myself it wasn’t a big deal. Emily had said it was safe. Right?
Lucy drank her coffee as usual, none the wiser. I watched her, expecting her to grow drowsy or just unwind like Emily promised. But within half an hour, she suddenly went pale, clutched her stomach, and said she felt sick. She collapsed onto the sofa, her breathing ragged, while I panicked. “Lucy, what’s wrong? Should I call an ambulance?” I asked, but she just waved me off, muttering that it was probably something she ate. I rushed to the balcony and called Emily, demanding to know what the hell she’d given me. Her calm voice only made my panic worse. “Oh, James, don’t worry, it’s just herbal. Maybe she’s allergic? Give her some water, it’ll pass.” But Lucy was getting worse, and a terrible thought clawed at my mind—what if it *was* poison?
I rang for an ambulance before things got worse. The paramedics arrived fast, checked Lucy over, and whisked her to hospital straight away. One of them asked if she’d eaten anything unusual or taken medication. I mumbled that I didn’t know, but inside, I was drowning in horror. What if they found traces of the powder? What if I’d poisoned my own wife? At the hospital, they told me Lucy had severe food poisoning but, thank God, she’d stabilised. The doctors weren’t sure what caused it, but all I could think about was my guilt.
That night, I called Emily again, but this time, my tone was different. “What did you give me?” I shouted down the line. “They barely saved Lucy! If that was poison, I’ll go straight to the police!” Emily started backpedaling, insisting it was “just a relaxant,” that she’d taken it herself and I must’ve misjudged the dose. But I didn’t believe a word. I remembered how she’d nudged me into this, how she’d assured me everything would be fine, and I realised—she’d played me. Did she want to wreck my marriage to have me for herself? Or was it something even darker? I didn’t know, but one thing was clear: I’d made a terrible mistake trusting her.
Now Lucy’s still in hospital, but the doctors say she’ll recover. I’m sitting in our empty flat, staring at her favourite mug, torn apart by guilt. I never meant to hurt her—I just wanted us to be happy again. Instead, I nearly lost her. I’ve decided I’ll tell Lucy the truth as soon as she’s strong enough. Let her decide whether to forgive me. And I *will* find out what that powder really was. If Emily gave me something dangerous, she won’t get away with it.
This whole mess taught me one thing: never trust someone else’s word when it comes to the people you love. I nearly destroyed my family because I was weak and stupid. Right now, all I can do is pray Lucy gets better—that we still have a chance to fix this. And Emily? She’s *done* meddling in our lives. Sometimes one mistake costs more than you can bear, but I have to believe it’s not too late to set things right.
