I cheated on my wife of 15 years and confessed. She got upset but then she started acting weird: cooked my favorite dishes and left me loving notes. When I finally asked her what was wrong she smiled and then announced to me that she’d been poisoning my food for the past week.
My stomach dropped. The lasagna, the steak, the chocolate cake—every bite flashed before me. “You’re joking,” I stammered, but her eyes were cold steel.
“No joke, darling,” she said, sipping tea. “Arsenic. Slow-acting. You’ve got maybe a day.”
I lunged for my phone; she’d already cut the landline. My cell? Smashed. The doors were bolted from inside with new locks. She’d planned this while I was “working late.”
“Why?” I gasped, clutching my gut as the first cramp hit.
“You wanted excitement,” she whispered, leaning close. “I gave you a story to tell—in hell.”
She kissed my forehead, the same lips that had whispered “I forgive you” days ago. Then she walked out, locking the basement door behind her.
As darkness crept in, I realized her love notes weren’t apologies—they were countdowns. The last one, tucked in my pillow, read: Sweet dreams, cheater. Dinner’s on you forever.
