My husband slipped something into my soup, thinking I wasn’t looking; when he stepped out, I switched our bowls; what unfolded 30 minutes later left me in shock.
About twenty minutes after we finished eating, Marcus suddenly stopped talking.
He was telling me about some boring report he had to finish, and then his words just stopped.
His face went really pale, like all the blood had drained out of it.
“I don’t feel good,” he whispered, putting his hand on his stomach.
Then he started sweating.
Big drops of sweat were rolling down his face, even though our house wasn’t hot.
He tried to stand up from his chair, but his legs gave out, and he fell hard onto the kitchen floor.
That’s when the shaking started.
Now I’m watching my husband of five years die from whatever poison he put in my soup.
The same poison that should have killed me instead.
I should call 911, but I can’t move.
I can’t even breathe properly.
Marcus’s phone is buzzing on the counter.
I can see the screen from where I’m standing.
It’s a text message from someone named S that says, “Is it done? Call me when she’s gone.”
My sister Sophia’s name starts with S.
My own sister and my husband wanted me dead.
I finally grab my phone with shaking hands and call 911.
“Please help,” I whisper to the operator. “My husband is dying. I think he’s been poisoned.”
But even as I’m saying the words, I know it’s too late.
Marcus isn’t moving anymore.
His eyes are still open, but they’re empty now, like nobody’s home.
The poison that was supposed to kill me in my beautiful Chicago penthouse has killed him instead.
And I have no idea what I’m supposed to do now.
Three weeks ago, everything in my life was perfect.
At least that’s what I thought.
I was sitting in my corner office on the 40th floor of the Willis Tower in Chicago, looking out at Lake Michigan and feeling like I owned the world.
And in many ways, I did.
My hotel business was booming.
The Victoria Grand in downtown Chicago was fully booked for the next six months. My Miami Beach location was making more money than I ever dreamed possible.
Even my newest hotel in Beverly Hills was already turning a profit.
I had worked so hard to build this empire.
Started with nothing but a small loan and a big dream when I was just 22 years old.
Now, at 29, I was worth over $15 million.
Marcus seemed so proud of me back then.
He would brag to his friends about his successful wife.
“My Victoria is going to be the next big hotel mogul,” he would say at dinner parties in our Lincoln Park neighborhood. “I’m just lucky she chose me.”
But looking back now, I can see when things started to change.
It began with small questions that seemed innocent at the time.
Marcus would ask me about my business accounts while we were having breakfast.
“Honey, which bank do you use for the hotel profits?” he would say, sipping his coffee like it was just casual conversation.
Or he would bring up my life insurance while we were watching TV in our living room.
“Victoria, do you think we have enough life insurance? What happens to your hotels if something bad happens to you?”
I thought he was just being a caring husband, planning for our future together, maybe thinking about having kids someday and wanting to make sure we were financially secure.But then I started noticing other things.
Marcus began asking me detailed questions about my daily schedule.
Where was I going?
Who was I meeting with?
What time would I be home?
He said he just wanted to plan nice dinners for us, but it felt like he was keeping track of my every move.
My sister Sophia started coming around more often, too.
She would show up at our house in Lincoln Park unannounced, always when I was at work.
Marcus would tell me later, “Oh, Sophia stopped by. We just talked about family stuff.”
Sophia had always been jealous of my success.
Growing up in our small apartment on the South Side of Chicago, she would get angry whenever I got good grades or won awards at school.
“Why does Victoria get everything?” she would complain to our parents.
When I started my first hotel, Sophia made mean comments about how I was showing off and thinking I was better than everyone.
But I thought she had gotten over that jealousy.
She was 26 now, old enough to be happy for her sister’s success.
I was wrong.
One evening, I came home early from a meeting in downtown Chicago and found Marcus and Sophia sitting very close together on our couch.
They were talking in whispers, and when they saw me, they quickly moved apart.
“Hey, honey,” Marcus said, his voice sounding fake and too cheerful. “Sophia was just telling me about her new job.”
But Sophia looked guilty, like a kid who got caught stealing cookies.
And Marcus kept fidgeting with his hands, which he only did when he was nervous.
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
Something felt wrong, but I couldn’t figure out what it was.
Marcus was lying next to me, breathing normally, but I kept thinking about how weird they had acted.
The next week, I decided to check our computer history.
I told myself I was being paranoid, but I had to know what Marcus was doing online when I wasn’t home.
What I found made my blood turn cold.
Marcus had been searching for things like untraceable poisons, how to make death look natural, and life insurance payout after spouse death.
He had also been looking up information about my business accounts and how to transfer ownership of my hotels.
I printed out all the search history and hid it in my office at the Willis Tower.
I didn’t know what to do with this information.
Part of me wanted to confront Marcus directly, but another part of me was scared of what he might do if he knew I was suspicious.
I started paying closer attention to everything Marcus did.
And that’s when I noticed he had been going through my purse, looking at my phone when I was in the shower, and asking my business partner, James, strange questions about my health and stress levels.
