My Husband Let His Mistress Poison Me

Evander stands in the doorway of the guest room where I've been sleeping. He's holding a garment bag.

"The gala is Saturday," he says.

I'm sitting at the desk. I have Dr. Mercer's discharge instructions in front of me. Rest. Avoid stress. Monitor for irregular heartbeat. I've read the same paragraph four times.

"Okay," I say.

He unzips the bag. Navy silk spills out. Floor-length. High neck. Long sleeves. The kind of dress that photographs well and covers everything.

"You'll wear this," he says. Not a question.

I look at the dress. Then at him.

"I don't think I should go."

"You're going." He drapes the gown over the back of the chair. His voice is boardroom flat. "The investors expect to see us together. Stable. United. I'm not giving them a reason to doubt Knight Capital's leadership three weeks before the IPO."

"I just got out of the hospital."

"You've had four days to recover. That's sufficient."

I open my mouth. Nothing comes out. What do you say to a man who measures your survival in days?

He checks his watch. "Opening remarks are at eight. We arrive at seven forty-five. You stand beside me during my speech. You smile for the photographers. You do not leave my side. You do not speak to Waverly. You do not cause a scene."

Each sentence lands like a nail.

"Do you understand?" he asks.

I look at the dress. Navy like deep water. Like drowning.

"Yes," I whisper.

He nods once. Then he's gone.

I sit there. The discharge instructions blur in front of me. I fold them carefully and put them in the desk drawer. Beneath them is the torn divorce agreement. Beneath that, the stack of medical bills I still haven't paid.

I stand. I walk to the dress. I touch the fabric. It's cold and smooth. Expensive. The kind of thing that costs more than my medication.

I hang it in the closet. I close the door.

Three days pass.

Evander leaves early each morning. He comes home after I'm asleep. On Thursday I hear him on the phone in his office, his voice low and warm. He laughs. A sound I used to know. When he hangs up, the apartment goes silent again.

I take my pills. I drink water. I sit by the window and watch the street. I count cars. I count heartbeats. I count the hours until Saturday.

On Friday afternoon, Waverly Ortiz stands on the rooftop terrace of the Astor House, twenty-three stories above Central Park.

The venue is stunning. Glass walls. String lights wrapped around birch branches. Tables set with white linens and gold flatware. The city spreads out below like a promise.

She's here to confirm final arrangements. That's what she told Evander. He thanked her for being so thorough.

She walks the perimeter. She notes the bar station on the east side. The champagne tower in the center. The head table near the glass railing, where Evander and Genevieve will sit.

She watches the catering staff set up. They move in rotations. Fifteen minutes at the bar. Ten minutes at the champagne station. Five minutes at the head table to pour water and arrange napkins. Then they disappear into the service corridor for two minutes to refill their trays.

Two minutes.

Waverly checks her watch. She smiles.

She walks to the head table. She stands behind the chair marked with Genevieve's name card. She looks at the water glass. Crystal. Spotless. Waiting.

She opens her purse. Inside is a small plastic bottle. No label. She bought the contents at three different pharmacies. Ground them herself. Measured the dose twice.

She researched it carefully. Cross-referenced it with the medication list she saw on Evander's desk last month when she was in his apartment. She knows what Genevieve takes. She knows what happens when you mix a stimulant with a beta-blocker and an anticoagulant.

Nothing fatal. Not directly. Just enough to make her heart race. Make her dizzy. Make her panic. Make her cause a scene in front of two hundred investors.

Make Evander see what Waverly has been saying all along: *She's unstable. She's a liability. She's holding you back.*

Waverly looks at the water glass. She looks at the skyline. She looks at the future she's building.

She puts the bottle back in her purse.

Not yet. Saturday. During the two-minute window when no one is watching.

She smooths her skirt. She walks to the elevator. She presses the button for the lobby.

When the doors close, she's smiling.

Saturday arrives cold and clear.

I dress slowly. The navy gown fits, but barely. I've lost weight I didn't have to lose. The fabric hangs strange on my shoulders. I pin my hair back. I don't wear jewelry. I look in the mirror and see someone I used to know.

Evander is waiting in the living room. Black suit. Silk tie. He looks perfect. He always looks perfect.

"Ready?" he asks.

I nod.

We don't speak in the car. The driver takes us through the park. The trees are bare. The sky is purple at the edges. Almost night.

We arrive at seven forty-three. Two minutes early. Evander approves of early.

The elevator takes us to the rooftop. The doors open onto light and sound and people. So many people. I recognize faces from business magazines. From news articles. From the framed photos in Evander's office.

He puts his hand on my back. The same place he touched Waverly outside the restaurant. His grip is firm. Guiding. Controlling.

"Smile," he murmurs.

I smile.

We walk to the head table. My name card is there. Navy script on cream cardstock. There's a glass of sparkling water already poured. Condensation beads on the crystal.

I'm so thirsty. The cold air dried out my throat on the walk from the car. My mouth tastes like metal from the beta-blocker I took an hour ago.

Evander is pulled away immediately by a man in a gray suit. They shake hands. They laugh. Evander doesn't look back.

I stand alone at the table. I look at the water glass. It catches the light from the string lights overhead. It looks clean. Cold. Perfect.

I'm so thirsty.

I pick up the glass. I drink.