I overheard my husbands voice through the crack in the study doorjust wide enough for a whisper to slip through. His tone, usually soft as cashmere, had turned clinical.
*Yes, everythings on schedule. The doctors say she hasnt long left.*
I froze in the hallway, clutching a water glass. In my other hand: two capsules. *Your vitamins, darling,* Edmund Hadley would say, twice a day. *For your strength. To help you recover.*
Six months of marriage had trained me to accept this *care*. The fatigue, the fog, the shrinking of the world to the walls of our London townhouse. Id nearly convinced myself I was terminally ill.
But that sentence, spat into the receiver, held no griefonly the chill of a ledger being balanced.
I crept back to the bedroom, trembling, and flung the pills into the hydrangeas below the window.
Morning came. Edmund entered with his tray, that practised smile. Now, I saw only the maskand the predator beneath.
*Good morning, Sleeping Beauty. Time for your medicine.*
I swallowed thickly. *Already took them. Found them on the nightstand.*
A flicker of irritation. He checked the glass. *Good girl. Taking initiative. Thats promising.*
All day, I played my partlistless, docile. But withdrawal clawed at me: chills, vertigo, bursts of jagged clarity. Like detoxing from a poison Id never consented to take.
Next morning, I *took* the pills early again. Edmunds smile tightened. *Violet, wait for me next time. Timings crucial.*
He watched me closer after that. Lingered by the bed, searching my eyes for cracks. *Youre pale. Should we increase the dose?*
*No need,* I whispered. *Im improving.*
A dangerous game.
Nights became vigils. I lay motionless, listening as he sighed in the dark. One night, he slipped out.
I followed.
*Shes suspicious,* he murmured into the phone. *Refusing meals. Her eyes… theyve changed. We need to hurry. The solicitors readyonce she signs, Eleanor Whitmores estate is mine.*
*Eleanor Whitmore.* My mother. Dead a year, leaving everything to methe inheritance Edmund already counted as his.
At dawn, I dragged myself to the dressing room. My perfume collectionvintage crystal bottles, my one indulgencesat untouched. I lifted one, inhaling ghosts of my past self.
*What are you doing?* His voice at my back. *You shouldnt be up.*
I turned slowly. *Remembering what I smelled like before hospitals and pills.*
He grimaced. *Dust collectors. That antiques dealer I mentionedhell pay well. We need funds for your treatment.*
His fingers brushed the bottle. And I understood: he wasnt just stealing my future. He was erasing *me*.
I lowered my eyes. *Sell them, then.*
His grip loosenedsurprised by surrender. *Thats my girl.*
But Id already begun my countermove. His arrogance would be his undoing.
Two days later, the solicitor arriveda stooped man reeking of mothballs and legal ink. *Just a power of attorney,* Edmund soothed. *While Violets… unwell.*
I took the pen. Let my hand shake. A convulsive jerkblack ink bled across the signature line.
*Apologies,* I stammered. *My armit wont obey.*
The solicitor stood abruptly. *This is highly irregular. Your wifes clearly unfit to consent.*
First blow struck.
That night, I rifled Edmunds study. Behind books: a safe key. Inside: medical records, bank statements, empty vials labelled *Dr. Langford, Neuropsychiatry*. I photographed everything.
At dawn, I hurled a perfume bottle into the rubbishinside, a note, a pill, my mothers sapphire brooch. A gamble.
Next morning, the bin lorrys growl was my salvation.
The solicitor returned at eleven. Edmunds gaze weighted my hand as I lifted the penthen gasped.
*Faces… in the text! Theyre staring* I hyperventilated, choking on manufactured terror.
*Enough!* Edmund hissed.
But the solicitor was already leaving. *This is coercion, Mr. Hadley. Your wife needs a psychiatric evaluation, not a signature.*
Second victory.
Edmund locked me in the bedroom. *Play mad if you like. Youll learn what madness truly is.*
Thenthe phone rang.
*Who the hell is Theodore Whitmore?* Edmunds shout echoed upstairs. *What Bluebird? What nonsense*
*Bluebird.* Our code. My message had reached Mums old solicitor.
The front door splintered open. Theodore entered with police.
*Rescuing a victim,* he said coolly, holding up the pill Id smuggled out. *Clozapine. Highly controlled. And these* He tossed my photos onto the table. *are enough for an arrest.*
Epilogue: Six months later
The trial was swift. Twelve years for Edmund; eight for Dr. Langford.
I sold the townhousetoo many ghosts. Bought a flat in Soho, where street noise promised life. My perfumes gleamed on custom shelves.
I tracked down the waste collectora student named Jamie. Wrote him a cheque for uni fees, gifted him a Baccarat flacon. *Every story deserves a better second act,* I said.
The nightmares still come. But now, I rise, press my palms to the window, and watch Londons lights pulse like a heartbeat.
Last week, Theodore called. *Fancy dinner?*
*Rain check,* I saidtruthfully. My laptop glowed: an article for a fragrance blog, about scent as memorys anchor. My debut.
Dusk bled into *that* hourindigo, uncertain. I didnt uncork any bottles.
Ive learned to breathe without borrowed hope.
