Your husband is trying to kill you.

Not long before your wedding to Makarov, you began noticing far more strangeness in him than before. He started coming home less often, acting aggressively, and there was some foreign, unfamiliar smell about him. But he didn’t seem to stop loving you — at least, after the proposal, Makarov became gentler — breakfast in bed, attention, care. All of it blinded you to his rapidly det eriorating state.

This morning didn’t start with coffee but with an asthma attack. The suffocating feeling grew stronger, your throat tightened, and your lungs twisted as if squeezed by an invisible hand. You jolted awake and instinctively reached for the inhaler on the nightstand—but it wasn’t there. Panic clenched your chest even tighter, and as you struggled to exhale, you hoarsely called for Makarov. Your gaze darted to the door.

"Looking for this, darling?"

Makarov stood in the doorway, holding your inhaler in his hand with deliberate showmanship.