My mother-in-law screamed when my husband drank my wine at his sister's wedding, unaware I had secretly swapped the poisoned glass.

When I returned to the ballroom, the scene had shifted from polite elegance to strained absurdity.

Patrick was standing near the bar, holding a tumbler of club soda, watching his mother with narrow, suspicious eyes. Martha had returned to the table, her face heavily repowdered, but her hands were trembling so violently that the ice in her glass clinked like an alarm bell.

Julian was laughing too loudly with an alderman, completely oblivious. Rebecca had not yet returned to the floor; her seat remained conspicuously vacant while the best man looked around, checking his wristwatch.

"Where were you?" Patrick asked as I approached his side. He didn't ask it accusingly; there was a protective edge in his voice that had been missing earlier in the evening.

"Just touching up my lipstick," I lied smoothly, sliding my arm through his. "You look tense."

"My mother just tried to insist that I take two charcoal tablets from her purse," Patrick whispered, his jaw ticking. "She told me she thought the catering fish had spoiled. Caroline, I didn't eat the fish. I had the beef."

A cold smile tugged at the corner of my lips. Activated charcoal. The standard home remedy for ingested toxins. Martha was still desperately trying to hedge her bets. Even if she suspected I had done something, the sheer terror that her only son might have a trace of lethal aconite burning through his stomach lining was driving her to the brink of insanity.

"Did you take them?" I asked.

"Of course not," Patrick said, shaking his head. "I told her to sit down and stop embarrassing herself. But she kept staring at my neck, Caroline. Like she was looking for my pulse."

He turned to face me fully, lowering his head so only I could hear. "What happened before the toast? You asked Michael to watch your drink. Don't lie to me. I saw him switch the glasses right before the toast. I know his tells from college."

I looked at my husband. Patrick was a good man—honest, hardworking, and tragically burdened with a mother who viewed human beings as either assets or liabilities. For three years, I had tolerated her passive-aggressive insults, her snide remarks about my modest background, her subtle attempts to isolate me from our social circle. I had swallowed all of it to keep Patrick happy.

But this was the end of tolerance.

"Patrick," I said softly, my eyes locking onto his. "If I tell you the truth, it will destroy your family. There is no coming back from what I know."

Patrick didn't flinch. His eyes hardened with an iron resolve I had rarely seen in him. "Caroline, my family was destroyed the moment my mother started acting like a madwoman over a glass of wine. If she did something to you, tell me."

Before I could answer, Martha appeared at our elbows. Her presence was sudden, like a cold draft blowing into an open wound.

"Patrick, dear," she said, her voice dripping with an artificial sweetness that made my skin crawl. "The photographer wants family portraits before the cake cutting. We really must gather in the solarium. Caroline, you can wait at the table. This is just for the immediate bloodline."

The insult was deliberate, a desperate attempt to reassert her dominance and separate Patrick from my influence.

Patrick didn't let go of my arm. In fact, his fingers tightened around mine, pulling me flush against his side.

"Caroline is my wife, Mother," Patrick said, his voice cold enough to freeze water. "She is my immediate bloodline. If she isn't in the portrait, neither am I."

Martha’s mouth tightened into a razor-thin line. Her eyes flicked down to Patrick’s chest, checking his breathing again. "Patrick, don't be difficult. It’s a tradition—"

"I don't give a damn about tradition, Martha," Patrick snapped, dropping the honorific entirely.

The color flared in Martha's cheeks. To be called 'Martha' by her son, in the middle of a crowded ballroom, was an unforgivable breach of decorum in her world.

Right at that moment, my phone buzzed in the small clutch beneath my arm. Once. Twice. A text message notification.

I slipped the phone out with my free hand, angling the screen away from Martha’s ravenous gaze.

It was from an unknown number, but I recognized the signature Michael had set up:

*Prelim screen complete. It’s not just aconite. High concentration of oleander extract combined with pulverized peanut protein. Caroline, you’re severely allergic to peanuts.*

My stomach plummeted into an abyss.

It wasn't an untraceable heart attack. They had added the peanut dust to ensure that even if the aconite failed to stop my heart, my throat would swell shut before the ambulance could cross the city bridge. And with my documented allergy, the coroner would rule it an accidental cross-contamination from the kitchen.