One evening, Ethan told me he’d stay up late to make “herbal desserts” for some friends from his yoga studio. “Go to sleep first, baby,” he said, brushing my forehead with a kiss.
I nodded and turned off the light, but something deep inside refused to settle. It wasn’t fear exactly — just a quiet instinct whispering look again.
My chest tightened. My heart wanted to deny what my eyes had seen.
When he carried the glass upstairs, I was already back in bed, pretending to stir awake. He offered it with his usual affection.
“Here you go, baby girl.”
I took it, smiled faintly, and said, “I’ll finish it later.”
He kissed my hair and turned off the light. When his breathing finally deepened beside me, I poured the drink into a thermos, sealed it, and hid it in my closet.
The Results
The next morning, I drove to a private clinic and asked them to test the liquid. Two days later, a doctor sat across from me, hands folded.
“Mrs. Carter,” he said, “the sample you brought in contains a strong sedative. Taken regularly, it can cause memory loss and dependence. Whoever gave you this wasn’t helping you sleep — they were keeping you subdued.”
The world tilted. Six years of supposed love suddenly looked like something else entirely.
When Ethan saw the full glass on my nightstand, he frowned. “Why didn’t you finish your water?”
“I’m not sleepy tonight,” I said softly.
His voice stayed calm, but his eyes sharpened. “You’ll feel better if you drink it. Trust me.”
For the first time, I saw something hard behind the gentleness — a shadow that had been there all along.
