Chapter 2
Three days later, Henry and I registered our marriage. There was no ceremony, and we didn't tell anyone.
Outside the city hall, Henry wore a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing his lean, strong wrists.
When he took the marriage license, the staff smiled and congratulated us.
He glanced at my photo in the license, closed it, and slipped it into his trouser pocket. "Let's go eat."
That was it. There were no sweet words or grand promises.
But I noticed his knuckles clenched tightly as he put the license into his pocket.
*****
On the fourth day, I moved into the Landon family's house.
It was a detached villa in the priciest part of the east side. The place was all cool tones and sharp lines, definitely a guy's style.
But on the coffee table in the living room, there was a bouquet of fresh white roses.
The kitchen was stocked with all the dishes and utensils I liked to use.
The right half of the walk-in closet was left empty, and it fit all my clothes perfectly.
Henry set the suitcase down in the entryway and turned to me. "If you don't like anything, we can change it."
I stared at the white roses, their petals still damp with droplets. He must have gotten them ready before I arrived.
"No need to change a thing," I said.
The first month of marriage felt almost too perfect.
Henry was the heir to the Landon Group, always busy, but no matter how late it got, he'd come home.
There was one thing he never missed: serving me a cup of warm milk.
Every night at 10:30, like clockwork, he'd bring it to me.
The milk was at the perfect temperature. It wasn't hot; it was smooth and warm going down.
He'd sit by the bed, watching me finish it, and then take the cup away.
Sometimes, he'd mess with my hair and say in a low voice, "Get some sleep early."
The first time I drank the milk, I asked, "You're not having any?"
He replied, "I don't like sweet things."
I never asked again.
That cup of milk every night became a ritual, soft enough to get me hooked.
I almost bought into it, if it hadn't been for that night in the third week, when I couldn't sleep and got up to get some water.
As I walked past Henry's study, I noticed light leaking out from under the door and a medication leaflet on his desk.
At the end of the ingredients list, I saw a word I recognized: ethinyl estradiol. It was the main ingredient in birth control pills.
I stood outside his study, barefoot on the cold floor. The chill was creeping up from my toes and crawling up my spine.
My heart didn't race.
Strangely, I wasn't surprised at all. If anything, there was this twisted sense of relief. From the day I married Henry, I'd known that he didn't really love me.
A guy chased me for eight years and finally had me. He should've been dying for me, wanting to pull me tight into him every second.
But Henry wasn't like that.
His tenderness was held back, always measured, like he was following some carefully worked-out plan.
Every move was perfectly timed. That kind of perfection was the biggest sign that something was off.
I slipped back into the bedroom, lay down, and closed my eyes. My head kept spinning: ethinyl estradiol, milk, and every night at 10:30. I wondered why he didn't want me to have a baby.
He'd chased me for eight years and finally got me, but he didn't want me to carry his child.
It was simply because I was never the one he really wanted.
I rolled over and buried my face in the pillow. I didn't cry. I only closed my eyes and replayed every detail from the past three weeks in my head.
Henry never hung up any photos of us together in the house. His photo album on his phone was password-protected.
He never opened the safe at the very back of his study when I was around.
And there was one more thing: like clockwork, he'd claim to be working late for two hours every Wednesday afternoon. But the Landon Group's management meetings were always on Thursdays.
I wondered where he went during those two hours every Wednesday afternoon.
I didn't know. But I was going to find out.
That night, the milk arrived at 10:30 PM, as always.
Henry sat by the bed, watching me finish it, sip by sip.
"Good girl." He took the empty cup away.
As he reached the door, I called out, "Henry."
He turned back.
I smiled at him. "Thanks for being here with me every day."
For a split second, his gaze wavered. It was so quick that most people wouldn't notice. But I caught it.
In that moment, I saw guilt in his eyes. It was so faint, vanishing in a heartbeat.
He said, "It's what I should do."
The door closed.
I stared at the ceiling, letting the warmth of that milk linger in my stomach.
Every night from then on, I'd drink the milk.
But starting the next day, I'd take the antidote an hour earlier. Making myself throw up was too foolish, and switching cups was too risky.
The safest way was to let Henry believe everything was normal. I'd keep taking the pills while making my plan.
I needed time and proof, and I had to figure out who he was paving the way for.
And more importantly, I needed to know what part my dear sister Yvonne was playing in this whole scheme.