Every night before bed, my husband warms me a cup of osmanthus milk.
On the night of my thirtieth birthday, I tasted a bitter note in it. Our golden retriever had been vomiting blood when it died two weeks ago, and its final symptoms were exactly like mine these past few days.
He's the perfect doctor husband everyone envies. I'm the foolish wife everyone envies for having married so well.
Until I found three plastic-wrapped wedding photos on the bottom shelf of the basement freezer. He was the groom in every one, but none of the brides was me.
Five million in accident insurance, four months of slow-acting medicine, and three ex-wives who had "died of illness," "moved overseas," or "disappeared without a trace."
Perfect. You play the devoted husband, and I'll play the poisoned wife.
This time, whoever cracks first loses.
The more you look at it, the more interesting it becomes