The house was silent as I crept up the stairs, my heart pounding against my ribs. Axton had left for his "late meeting" with his publisher—the third one this week. I'd grown suspicious of these meetings, especially after what I'd overheard at the school.
I slipped into our bedroom, moving carefully across the plush carpet. Axton was meticulous about his personal items, keeping his phone on his nightstand charged and ready. But I needed to find something else—something that might confirm my growing suspicions.
"Where would he hide it?" I whispered, running my fingers along the edge of his dresser.
My husband was nothing if not predictable. The small wooden box at the back of his drawer—the one I'd never been allowed to touch—seemed like the most obvious place to start.
Inside lay a sleek black phone I'd never seen before.
My hands trembled as I picked it up. The screen was locked, but the notification banner at the top showed three unread messages from "K."
"Can't wait to see you tonight. Our usual spot? -K"
I swallowed hard, trying to steady my breathing. The passcode—what would he use? Our anniversary? Too obvious. His birthday? I tried it.
The screen unlocked.
My stomach lurched as I opened the messaging app. Hundreds of texts between him and Kiara, dating back months. Intimate photos. Plans for secret meetings.
"The little fool still has no idea," one message from Axton read. "She actually believes I'm working late."
Kiara's response made my blood run cold: "How much longer until we can move forward with our special project? I'm tired of pretending."
"Patience," Axton had replied. "The switch is already in motion. Soon everything will be ours."
The switch? What switch?
I scrolled further, finding more references to their "project" and "the switch." My name came up repeatedly—always in derogatory terms.
"Dorothy's too weak to fight back," Kiara had written. "She's exactly where we want her."
A wave of nausea hit me as I realized how thoroughly they'd been discussing me—like I was some kind of experiment or game they were playing.
I heard the garage door opening downstairs.
Axton was home early.
Panic surged through me as I quickly took photos of the most damning messages with my own phone. I replaced the secondary phone exactly where I'd found it and closed the drawer just as footsteps started up the stairs.
---
Three days later, I woke up on the bathroom floor, my body shaking uncontrollably.
"Dorothy?" Axton's voice came from the doorway, concern perfectly modulated. "What happened?"
"I don't—" My teeth chattered as another wave of tremors hit me. "I don't know."
He helped me to bed, his hands gentle as he tucked the covers around me. "You need to rest," he murmured, brushing hair from my forehead. "I'll get you some water."
I nodded weakly, watching through half-closed eyes as he moved to the kitchen. When he returned, I forced myself to drink the water he offered, pretending to swallow while actually holding it in my mouth. When he turned away, I spit it into a tissue.
Something was very wrong with me—and I was beginning to suspect it wasn't natural.
Later that day, while Axton was in his study, I collected samples of my morning tea, the water from my bedside glass, and the juice he'd poured me at breakfast. I labeled each container carefully and hid them in my purse.
"I'm going to the pharmacy," I told him, keeping my voice steady despite another wave of dizziness.
"At this hour?" He looked up from his computer, surprise flickering across his face.
"I need some headache medicine," I replied, touching my temple. "These spells are getting worse."
Sympathy replaced suspicion in his eyes. "Be careful," he said, already turning back to his work.
I drove across town to a small private laboratory I'd found online. The technician raised an eyebrow at my request but asked no questions when I handed over cash.
"Results will take 48 hours," he said, sealing my samples in labeled bags.
Those two days were the longest of my life. Each hour seemed to bring new symptoms—memory lapses, disorientation, trembling hands that made simple tasks impossible.
When I returned to the lab, the technician's face told me everything before he spoke.
"Mrs. Medina," he said quietly, sliding the report across the counter. "You were right to be concerned."
I stared at the chemical analysis, my vision blurring as I read the highlighted sections.
"Psylocibin," I whispered, recognizing the compound name from my college pharmacology class. "That's a hallucinogen."
"There are traces of several psychoactive substances," he confirmed. "All of them could cause the symptoms you've described."
My hands shook as I clutched the report. Someone had been drugging me—systematically, deliberately destroying my mind.
And I knew exactly who it was.
The question now was: how deep did this conspiracy go? And what exactly did they mean by "the switch"?
