I overheard my husband on the phone by accident: “She hasnt got long left.” After that, I stopped taking the pills hed been giving me.
The study door was ajarjust a fingers width, but enough for his voice, usually soft and comforting like a warm blanket, to reach me in a dry, clinical tone.
“Yes, everythings on track. The doctors say she hasnt got long.”
I froze in the hallway, clutching a glass of water. In my other handtwo capsules my husband, Sebastian Whitmore, brought me twice a day. *”Your vitamins, darling. For strength. To help you recover.”*
Six months into our marriage, Id grown used to this *”care.”* Used to the weakness, the fog in my head, the way the vast world had shrunk to the walls of our flat. Id almost convinced myself I was seriously, hopelessly ill.
But that phrase, tossed into the phone like spare change, held no hint of sympathy. Only calculation, cold as steel.
I shuffled back to the bedroom on unsteady legs, hands trembling. I opened the window and, without uncurling my fist, tossed the capsules into the thick lilac bush below. No more of his pills.
The next morning, he swept in with a tray. The same smile, the same *”concerned”* gaze. Now, I only saw the maskand the predator beneath it.
“Good morning, my sleeping beauty. Time for your medicine.”
I swallowed thickly.
“I already took them,” I lied, keeping my voice flat. “Found them on the nightstand. Drank them with water. Woke up early.”
He frownedjust for a secondscanning the nightstand, the glass.
“Good girl. Taking care of yourself. Thats a positive sign.”
All day, I pretended to be as listless as usual. But it was hard. My body, denied its usual dose of poison, rebelled. Chills, dizziness, and sharp, painful flashes of clarity replaced the fog. I felt like an addict in withdrawal.
The next day, I *”took”* the pills before he arrivedflung them into the lilacs. Sebastian was visibly irritated.
“Victoria, lets agree: youll wait for me. Timing is *crucial* for these.”
He became more attentive. Lingered by my bedside, staring into my eyes as if searching for secrets.
“Youre pale today. And your hands are icy. Perhaps we should increase the dose?”
“Dont,” I whispered. “I feel a bit better.”
It was a dangerous game of survival.
Nights were torture. I lay awake, feigning sleep, listening to his every sigheach one icing my heart further. One night, he got up and left.
I waited for the creak of his study door, then crept after him, steadying myself against the wall to fight the dizziness.
He was on the phone again, softer this time, almost a whisper.
“Shes suspicious. Refusing food, says shes not hungry. Shes too *lucid.* Her eyes have changed.”
I pressed against the wall. My heart pounded so loudly I was sure hed hear it.
“We need to move faster. Ive spoken to the solicitor. Mr. Holloway understands. I told him, as her doctor, you advised setting up power of attorney while shes still *somewhat* coherent. Her signature, and its done. Eleanor Hartleys estate becomes mine.”
*Eleanor Hartley.* My mother. Shed died a year ago, leaving everything to me. The inheritance my husband already considered his.
I barely made it back to bed before he returned. He leaned over me, and I caught the sharp, chemical scent on his handsthe smell of my *”vitamins.”*
The next morning, I dragged myself to the old dressing room. At the back of the wardrobe stood my collectionvintage perfume bottles. My only passion before him.
I lifted a heavy crystal flacon. Even sealed, the scent of my past life clung to it.
“What are you doing?” His voice behind me made me jump. “You shouldnt be up.”
I turned slowly.
“Just remembering what I used to smell like before I reeked of hospitals and medicine.”
He grimaced.
“Rubbish. Dust collectors. Speaking ofI found an excellent antiques dealer. Hell pay well for all this glass. We need the money for your *treatment.*”
His fingers brushed the flacon in my hand. Thats when I knew. He didnt just want my money. He wanted to erase *me*my past, my identity.
I lowered my eyes, hiding the flare of hatred. Nodded slowly.
“Fine. Sell it if you must.”
His grip loosened. He hadnt expected such submission.
“Good girl. I *am* looking out for you.”
But I had a plan now. His arrogance would be his undoing.
Two days later, the solicitor arrivedan older, balding man with a briefcase that reeked of mothballs and legality. Mr. Holloway.
Sebastian hovered.
“Victorias very weak, Mr. Holloway. But she understands the importance of this. Its just temporary power of attorney while shes unwell.”
The solicitor coughed and slid the papers toward me. I took the pen. My hand, once feeble, now burned with strengthbut I made it tremble.
I bent over the document, started the first letter of my surnamethen jerked violently, spilling ink in just the right spot.
“Sorry,” I stammered. “My hand it wont obey.”
Sebastians face hardened.
“Not to worry,” he forced out. “We can reprint.”
Mr. Holloway pursed his lips.
“I have another appointment. But in this state are you *certain* your wife is competent?”
First blow to his plan.
“Of *course* she is!” Sebastian snapped. “Its just muscle weakness!”
When the solicitor left, the caring mask vanished. He grabbed my shoulder.
“Was that deliberate?”
“I feel sick,” I whispered, real tearsof furywelling up. “I cant control my body.”
He released me, but his eyes were icy. He didnt trust me anymore.
That night, I didnt sleep. I waited. When the house was silent, I slipped out. His study. The safe key was always on him, but I knew he kept a spare behind the books.
I found it. Insidemy medical records, my mothers bank statements. And more: empty vials, a syringe. A prescription slip from a Dr. Langley, a psychiatrist Id never met.
I photographed everything with an old phone hidden in a shoebox. My trump cards.
The next day, Sebastian was sickly sweet. Brought breakfast. Offered *”vitamins.”*
“Take them, darling. You need strength. The solicitors coming tomorrow.”
While he was distracted, I pocketed a pill. I needed it analyzed.
All day, I searched for a way to reach the outside world. Then I rememberedUncle Theodore. My fathers old friend, a barrister. His number was in an old address book.
But how to call? Then I saw the bins. A reckless, mad idea took shape.
I grabbed an empty perfume bottle. Inside, I tucked a note with Uncle Theodores number, a plea for help, one capsule, and my mothers broochvaluable enough to catch attention.
That night, I crept to the kitchen and hurled it into the bin. Now, I waited.
Morning brought the rumble of the rubbish lorry. Sebastian watched from the window. The truck moved on. My heart stuttered.
“Up,” he ordered coldly. “The solicitors due in an hour. And this time, Victoria, your hand *wont* shake.”
Mr. Holloway arrived at eleven. Sebastian glared as I took the pen. I hesitatedthen gasped.
“Theres a *face* in the letters,” I whispered, recoiling. “Staring at me horrible!”
I hyperventilated, feigning panic.
“Victoria, *enough!*” Sebastian hissed.
But Mr. Holloway stood.
“Ill have no part in this! Mr. Whitmore, your wife doesnt need a solicitorshe needs a *psychiatrist.* This is unlawful.”
He left. Another delay. Victory.
Sebastian was silent. His gaze scorched me.
“Think youre clever? Fine. Want to be mad? You *will* be.”
He shoved me into the bedroom and locked it. The trap snapped shut.
Time crawled. Thenthe phone rang. I heard Sebastian answer.
“Who is this? What do you mean, *Is the Nightingale ready to fly?*”
He stormed in.
“Who is Theodore Hartley? And why is he asking about a *bloody bird?*”
*The Nightingale.* Our code phrase. My message had reached Uncle Theodore.
I stood slowly.
“No idea. Perhaps *
