On our anniversary, my husband raised his glass—and quietly slipped something into mine. A chill ran through me. I switched glasses with his sister while no one was watching.

Minutes later, she collapsed. Panic erupted. My husband looked shocked—too shocked.

Later, he whispered to himself, “I switched the glasses…”

That’s when I knew: it was meant for me.

At the hospital, doctors confirmed poisoning. His sister survived by luck. At home, I played the perfect wife—while collecting evidence: receipts, messages, even a note saying, “After the anniversary, everything will end.”

I confronted him with it all—then let the police do the rest.

But in jail, he said something chilling: “You weren’t the target. She was. My sister knew too much.”

I checked her old tablet. Messages to a contact named “M.O.” revealed: she had planned to get rid of me. My husband was just her pawn.

I traced “M.O.”—a shadow group that makes people disappear. I met them. I didn’t want revenge. I wanted control.

And I got it.

One night, I faced my sister. “I know,” I said. “I’m giving you a choice.”

The next morning, she vanished.

I had become powerful—feared. Until a note arrived:
“You’re not the first.”

Suddenly, I wasn’t in control. M.O. had vanished. People were disappearing. I could feel eyes on me.

I thought I’d won the game. But I was only ever a piece on someone else’s board.

Now I live without a name, without a past.

And I wait.