At my wedding, I saw my mother-in-law mess with my glass. I saw her hand hover over my champagne flute for exactly three seconds—three seconds that changed everything. The crystal glass sat on the head table, waiting for the toast, waiting for me to lift it to my lips and swallow whatever my new mother-in-law had just slipped inside.
A small white pill hit the golden bubbles and dissolved fast, leaving almost no trace. Caroline didn’t know I was watching. She thought I was across the reception hall laughing with my bridesmaids, lost in the glow of my wedding day.
She thought she was alone. She thought she was safe. But I saw everything.
My heart slammed against my ribs as I watched her glance around, nervous and sharp, her manicured fingers trembling as she pulled back from my glass. A small, satisfied smile curved her lips—the kind of smile that turned my blood to ice. I didn’t think.
I just moved. By the time Caroline returned to her seat—smoothing her expensive silk dress and painting on that perfect Mother of the Groom expression—my glass was sitting in front of her chair. Her glass, the clean one, waited for me.
When Dylan stood up—handsome in his tailored tux, the kind of man who looked effortless in a room full of money—and raised his champagne for the first toast of our married life, I felt like I was watching everything through a fog. His words about love and forever echoed strangely in my ears. His mother stood beside him, beaming, lifting the drugged champagne to her lips.
I should have stopped her. I should have screamed, knocked the glass away, exposed her right there in front of everyone. But I didn’t.
I wanted to see what she had planned for me. I wanted proof. I wanted everyone to see who Caroline really was beneath that “pillar of the community” mask.
So I watched my mother-in-law drink what she’d prepared for me. And then all hell broke loose. The morning of my wedding, I woke up believing in fairy tales.
Sunlight streamed through the windows of the bridal suite at the Rosewood Estate, the kind of old-money property tucked into the green, manicured quiet of Westchester County—stone walls, long driveways, and hydrangeas trimmed like they had a personal trainer. The light painted everything soft gold, and for a few precious hours I let myself believe the world was gentle. My best friend Julia was already awake, hanging my dress.
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