Chapter 7 7

The dinner table was a battlefield of silence. The only sounds were the scraping of silver against china and the ticking of the grandfather clock.

Julian had come home early. He was still wearing his work clothes, minus the tie. He looked agitated. He kept tapping his foot against the table leg.

Victoria sat opposite him, cutting her steak into precise, geometric squares. She chewed slowly.

Are you going to stare at me all night? Julian asked finally.

I'm just enjoying the view, Victoria said without looking up.

He scoffed. You made a scene today. Xavier tells me the whole floor is gossiping.

Good, Victoria said. Maybe it will remind everyone who your wife is.

Julian pushed his plate away. The steak was barely touched. I'm done. I want coffee. Espresso. Double shot.

He signaled for Mrs. Jiang, but Victoria stood up.

I'll get it, she said.

Julian looked surprised. You? You don't know how to work the machine.

I've been learning, she said sweetly. Sit. Relax.

She walked into the kitchen. Mrs. Jiang was there, drying dishes.

You can go, Mrs. Jiang, Victoria said. I'll handle the coffee.

But Madam-

Go.

Mrs. Jiang nodded and left.

Victoria went to the massive Italian espresso machine. She ground the beans. The noise was loud, grinding and mechanical.

She reached into the pocket of her cardigan. She pulled out a small, brown glass bottle.

It wasn't a laxative. That would be childish. It was a concentrated herbal tincture. Valerian root, St. John's Wort, and a specific blend of melatonin. Harmless, but in high doses, it induced dizziness, a rapid heart rate, and a sensation of floating-mimicking the onset of a panic attack or extreme exhaustion.

She looked at the bottle. She looked at the cup.

"This is for the club," she whispered. Two drops.

"This is for the lunchbox." Two more drops.

"This is for checking your tie." A squeeze.

She swirled the dark liquid into the black coffee. It disappeared instantly. No smell. No color change.

She added a single sugar cube, just to be nice.

She walked back into the dining room. She placed the cup in front of him on a saucer.

Here, she said. Made with love.

Julian looked at the cup. He looked at her. He narrowed his eyes.

Did you poison it? he asked.

Victoria's heart skipped a beat, but her face remained a mask of polite confusion. Don't be dramatic, Julian. If I wanted to kill you, I'd do it in your sleep. It's cleaner.

He snorted. True.

He picked up the cup.

Victoria held her breath. She watched the cup tilt. She watched his throat work as he swallowed.

He drank half of it in one gulp. He grimaced.

It's bitter, he said.

It's espresso, she said. It's supposed to be bitter.

He finished the rest. He set the cup down with a clatter.

Victoria sat back down. She picked up her wine glass. She waited.

It took twenty minutes.

Julian was reading a report on his tablet. Victoria was pretending to read a magazine.

Suddenly, Julian frowned. He rubbed his chest.

He shifted in his chair.

A sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead. His breathing hitched.

Victoria watched over the top of her magazine. Is everything okay, darling?

Julian gritted his teeth. I'm fine. Just... hot. Is the heat on?

He loosened his collar. His hands were shaking.

"I feel..." he started, then stopped. The room was spinning. His heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. It felt exactly like the episodes he used to have. The ones he took medication to suppress.

Julian's eyes widened. He dropped the tablet.

He stood up. He swayed violently, gripping the table edge.

Victoria? he gasped. What did you put in that coffee?

Coffee? Victoria blinked. Just beans and water. And sugar. Maybe your stomach is sensitive to the roast? Or perhaps you're just stressed, Julian. You work so hard.

Julian didn't answer. He couldn't. The walls were closing in.

He stumbled toward the hallway.

He didn't walk. He lurched. He needed air. He needed a doctor.

"Call... call Xavier," he choked out, collapsing onto the bottom step of the grand staircase.

Victoria put down her magazine. She picked up her wine glass. She took a long, slow sip of the Pinot Noir.

She watched her husband unraveling, fighting demons that weren't really there.

She smiled. A genuine smile.

It wasn't a divorce. It wasn't a victory. But god, it felt good.

She stood up, walked to the kitchen, and rinsed the coffee cup thoroughly. No evidence.

Then she picked up the phone to call 911, making sure her voice sounded sufficiently hysterical.