PART 2: Ruth presses the small white packet into Amara’s hand and closes her fingers around it like she is giving her a tip instead of a death sentence. The living room is glowing with chandelier light, rain sliding down the tall windows, and you sit only a few yards away in your wheelchair, staring at the fireplace as if you do not hear a word. But you hear enough. You hear Ruth’s whisper. You hear Amara’s sharp breath. You hear the sentence that turns your blood cold.
“Put this in my husband’s food.”
Amara freezes.
For a moment, the entire mansion seems to hold its breath. The marble floors, the gold-framed mirrors, the velvet sofa, the expensive paintings Ruth chose just to impress her friends—all of it feels suddenly rotten. Amara looks down at the packet in her palm, then up at Ruth’s face, searching for any sign that this is a cruel joke.
But Ruth is not joking.
Her red lips curve into a smile so calm it looks practiced. “Don’t look so dramatic,” she says softly. “It won’t kill him right away. It will only make him weaker. Confused. Easier to manage.”
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