One evening, Ethan told me he planned to stay up late. “I’m making a special herbal dessert for the yoga team,” he said, kissing my forehead. “Go to bed, baby. I’ll be up soon.”
I nodded, changed into my nightgown, and pretended to sleep. But something in me—some old teacher’s instinct—wouldn’t rest.
Ethan stood by the counter, humming softly. My glass—the one he always used for my bedtime tea—was on the counter. I watched as he poured in warm water, added honey and chamomile… and then, from a small amber bottle, counted three clear drops into the mix.
One. Two. Three.
Then he stirred, smiling to himself, and carried the glass upstairs.
The Test
I raced back to bed, my heart pounding. When he entered the room, I feigned a sleepy yawn.
“Here you go, little wife,” he said softly.
“I’ll drink it in a minute,” I murmured, setting it aside.
Later, when his breathing deepened in sleep, I poured the contents into a small thermos, sealed it, and hid it in the closet.
The next morning, I took it straight to a private clinic and asked for a discreet analysis.
