«Tell my husband and mother-in-law that I died…

At four months, Emma miscarried. James was supportive for three days, then slipped back into his old habits. Margaret didn’t miss a chance to comment. «See, you couldn’t keep him. You should’ve listened to me.» Something broke in Emma that day.

She realized she was fighting a war on two fronts—against her husband and his mother. One day, returning home early, she found James and Margaret poring over the flat’s deeds. «What are you doing?» she asked.
«Just checking the paperwork,» James said innocently. «Mum suggested we make sure everything’s in order.»
«Why check? Is something wrong?»
«No, but you never know,» Margaret chimed in. «Better safe than sorry.»

Emma started keeping a closer eye on her documents and discovered James had tried to get power of attorney over her accounts. «James, what’s this?» she asked, showing him the paper.
«Oh, just a precaution,» he waved it off. «If something happens to you, I need access to the money.»
«Why didn’t you discuss it with me?»
«Wanted it to be a surprise,» he lied clumsily.

Emma consulted a solicitor and learned James had also attempted to transfer the flat’s title using her passport details. Fortunately, it required her physical presence. Open conflicts erupted. Emma demanded explanations; James deflected or attacked. «You’re so paranoid!» he shouted. «I’m doing this for us, and you don’t trust me!»
«For us? Or for you and your mum?» Emma shot back.

One fateful evening, James came home unusually calm and affectionate. «Let’s make up,» he said. «I was wrong.» Emma couldn’t believe her ears—James had never admitted fault in three years.
«Okay,» she said warily. «Let’s talk.»
«I’ll make tea,» he smiled.

As James clattered in the kitchen, the doorbell rang. Emma opened it to find Margaret holding a cake. «Thought I’d pop by,» Margaret sang. «Heard you’re patching things up?»
«How did you—»
«James called, invited me,» Margaret cut in. «Tea’s ready, I presume?»

Emma sat on the sofa, tension knotting her shoulders. Something felt off about this cozy scene—James brewing tea, Margaret with a cake. James emerged with a tray of three cups.
«Mum, I didn’t know you’d bring cake,» he grinned. «But it’s even better. Em, here’s your tea. I added honey, just how you like it.»

Emma took the cup and noticed a strange glint in James’s eyes. He watched her expectantly.
«To reconciliation,» James raised his cup.
«To reconciliation,» Margaret echoed, giving James a subtle nod.

Emma sipped. The tea was oddly sweet with a faint bitter aftertaste. «Tastes strange,» she remarked.
«It’s a new blend,» James said quickly. «Fancy Indian stuff.»

Another sip, and the room began to spin. «I’m not feeling well,» Emma mumbled.
«Just getting used to it,» Margaret said serenely. «Keep drinking.»

Her tongue grew heavy, her hands weak. The cup slipped from her fingers, shattering on the floor. «James, what—» Emma tried to stand, but her legs gave way. The last thing she saw before darkness swallowed her was Margaret’s smug smile and James’s cold, calculating stare.
«Don’t worry, dear,» Margaret’s voice drifted through. «It’ll be over soon.»…