My husband brought me a gorgeous dress from a business trip. The next day, while he was at work, his sister came over to visit us. When she saw the dress, her eyes lit up.

“Could I try it on, please?

I can only dream of having a dress like that,” she laughed.

I nodded.

But when she put the dress on and walked up to the mirror, she suddenly started screaming loudly.

“Take it off.

Take it off me!”

Eleanor Mitchell stood by the living room window, gazing at the empty street.

The evening was quiet, almost windless—one of those rare autumn evenings when the city seems to freeze in anticipation of something.

She was 37, and for the past five years, she had been running the family business: a small chain of pharmacies that her late mother had founded.

Three locations in different parts of the city brought in steady income, and Eleanor was proud that she had managed not only to preserve the business, but to expand it.

Nathan, her husband, returned from his business trip late on Friday evening.

Eleanor heard the front door close, then familiar footsteps on the stairs. The elevator in their building worked intermittently.

When he entered, a strange smile played on his face—almost triumphant.

“Hi, honey.”

He set his suitcase down in the hallway and pulled out a large box tied with a satin ribbon.

“I have a surprise for you.”

Eleanor raised her eyebrows in surprise.

Nathan had never been known for his generosity, and gifts from him were rare.

In eleven years of marriage, she had grown accustomed to his practicality bordering on stinginess.

He always said that money needed to be saved, that it shouldn’t be spent on trifles.

“What is this?”

She took the box, feeling its pleasant weight.

“Open it.”

Nathan took off his jacket and went into the kitchen, where he poured himself water from a pitcher.

Eleanor carefully untied the ribbon and opened the lid.

Inside, neatly laid in thin white paper, was a dress.

Emerald green with a deep neckline and an elegant cut.

It was clearly expensive. The tag from a well-known brand confirmed this.

The price made Eleanor’s jaw drop.

“Nathan, this is…”

She couldn’t find the words.

“Where did you get this?”

“I was walking past a boutique downtown.

Went in,” he shrugged, as if he were talking about buying bread.

“Thought you’d like it. You haven’t bought anything for yourself in a long time.”

That was true.

Eleanor rarely spent money on herself.

All her time went to work, to solving endless questions with suppliers, accounting, inspections.

But for Nathan to notice this himself and buy such a thing—this wasn’t like him.

“Thank you.”

She kissed him on the cheek, feeling a slight bewilderment.

“It’s very beautiful.”

Nathan smiled and went to change.

He was 41, tall, with graying temples beginning to show.

He still looked attractive.

He worked as a financial analyst at a trading company, earned well, but not enough to buy dresses for $600.

Just like that.

The rest of the evening passed quietly.

Nathan talked about the business trip—meetings with partners, negotiations, boring conferences.

Eleanor listened with half an ear, thinking about the coming week.

An inspection was expected at one of the pharmacies on Monday. She needed to prepare documents.

On Saturday morning, Nathan left for the office.

He said he urgently needed to finish a report.

Eleanor stayed home.

She planned to sort through accumulated papers and perhaps try on the dress.

It lay on the dresser in the box, still emerald and alluring, but she decided to postpone it for the evening when she would have free time.

Around 2:00 in the afternoon, there was a knock on the door.

On the threshold stood Clare, Nathan’s sister.

Thirty-five years old, blonde with soft features.

She worked as a kindergarten teacher and always complained about her small salary.

She and Eleanor were friends, though they saw each other infrequently.

“Hi, Ella.”

Clare walked into the apartment, taking off her light jacket.

“I was passing by, decided to drop in.

Is Nathan home?”

“No, at work.”

Eleanor made tea, and they sat down in the kitchen.

The conversation was about small things—about nephews, about the renovation Clare couldn’t finish in her two-bedroom apartment.

Then they moved to the living room, and Clare’s gaze fell on the box with the dress, which was still lying on the dresser.

“Oh, what’s this?”

She came closer, looking inside.

“Nathan gave it to me, brought it from the business trip,” Eleanor smiled.

Clare slowly approached the box and her eyes widened.

“Is this…?”

She ran her hand over the fabric.

“This is a designer brand.

I’ve only seen this in magazines.”

“Can I… can I try it on? Please.

I can only dream of something like this.”

There was such sincere enthusiasm in her voice that Eleanor laughed.

“Of course. Try it on.

Just be careful.”

Clare ran to the bedroom to change.

A few minutes later, she returned, fastening the zipper in the back.

The dress fit her perfectly.

Clare was slightly slimmer than Eleanor, but the difference was small.

The emerald fabric beautifully set off her blonde hair.

“How is it?”

She twirled in front of the hallway mirror, admiring herself.

“Perfect!”

Eleanor nodded, watching her.

Clare came closer to the mirror, examining the details of the cut.

And suddenly, her face contorted.

She grabbed her throat, started coughing.

Dry, tearing coughs.

“What?

What’s wrong with you?”

Eleanor jumped up from the couch.

“Can’t breathe.”

Clare stepped back from the mirror.

Her eyes filled with tears.

“The skin on my neck… it burns. It burns so much.”

Her voice broke into a scream.

Her hands pulled at the fabric, trying to pull the dress over her head, but the zipper was in the back, and in panic, Clare couldn’t unzip it.

Eleanor rushed to her, quickly found the clasp, and jerked the zipper down.

The dress slipped to the floor, and Clare, gasping, kicked it away.

The coughing continued.

Her face was covered with red spots.

Her breathing became ragged.

“Clare, hang on. I’m calling an ambulance.”

Eleanor grabbed the phone.

She quickly dictated the address to the dispatcher, described the symptoms.

The operator advised opening a window, giving an antihistamine if available.

Eleanor rushed to the medicine cabinet.

She always kept several medications on hand in case of an attack.

Her own allergy required constant readiness.

“Here.

Drink this.”

She handed Clare a tablet and a glass of water.

Clare swallowed the medicine with difficulty, still gasping.

Gradually, the cough began to subside, though the redness on the skin remained.

Ten minutes later, the ambulance arrived.

The paramedic—a woman about 45—examined Clare, measured her blood pressure, listened to her lungs.

“Allergic reaction,” she stated.

“Contact, judging by everything. Did you put something on?

Perfume? Any spray?”

Clare nodded, pointing to the emerald fabric lying on the floor.

“I just tried it on and immediately…”

The paramedic took the dress, smelled the fabric, frowned.

“Chemical smell.

Could be a dye or treatment.”

“Have you had allergies before?”

“No, never.”

Clare shook her head.

“I don’t suffer from anything like that.”

The paramedic recorded the data in the call card, gave recommendations: observation, antihistamines, if it gets worse, straight to the hospital.

Hospitalization wasn’t required, but she needed to be alert.

When the ambulance left, Clare sat on the couch, still pale.

“Ella, don’t wear this dress.”

She looked at her friend.

“Seriously.

There’s something wrong with it. I’ve never had a reaction like this.”

Eleanor nodded silently.

She approached the dress lying on the floor and carefully picked it up, hooking it on a hanger.

The fabric really did smell slightly chemical.

How had she not noticed immediately?

Because she hadn’t smelled it—just looked at it and put it away on the dresser.

Clare left half an hour later, still a bit unsteady.

Eleanor walked her to the door, promising to call in the evening to find out how she was feeling.

Left alone, Eleanor returned to the living room and approached the dress.

She examined it in the light.

Quality fabric.

Expensive tailoring.

A well-known brand.

But the smell—definitely something chemical.

And then she was struck by a thought that made her go cold inside.

She herself had an allergy—severe, confirmed by tests, with the risk of anaphylactic shock.

Five years ago, after accidental contact with a certain dye in a new blouse, they took her to the ICU.

Since then, she had observed the strictest precautionary measures: checked fabric compositions, avoided synthetic dyes.

Nathan knew about this.

He was there during that attack, saw how they revived her, how she spent a week under medical observation.

And he brought her a dress that caused such a reaction in Clare.

Eleanor sat on the couch, feeling her pulse quicken.

Could it be a coincidence?

Could Clare just be sensitive to something in this particular fabric?

But then why would Nathan—who never gave her expensive things—suddenly bring this particular dress?

Why didn’t he check the composition, knowing about her diagnosis?

She stood up, went to the dresser, and took the receipt out of the box.

She looked at it, and froze.

Purchased date: the day before yesterday, Thursday.

But Nathan returned from the business trip only yesterday evening.

He had left on Monday, and the trip was to another city a thousand miles away.

So the dress was bought here in their city, not on a business trip.

Eleanor slowly sank back onto the couch, clutching the receipt in her hand.

Nathan had lied.

But why?

She tried to call him, but the phone was unavailable.

She wrote a message.

Call me. Urgent.

There was no answer.

Eleanor got up, went to the bedroom, and opened the closet.

Carefully putting on rubber gloves, she packed the dress in a thick plastic bag, tied it, and put it away on the top shelf, away from clothes.

Returning to the living room, she sat down at the table.

She found and opened her medical record from the drawer.

She found the entry from five years ago.

Anaphylactic reaction to Azo group dye, high risk of repeated shock, recommended to avoid contact with synthetic dyes, carry auto-injector at all times.

Nathan knew.

He definitely knew.

The phone rang.

“Ella.

What happened?”

His voice was irritated.

Hurried.

“Your sister was at our place. She tried on the dress.

She had an attack. We called an ambulance.”

Eleanor spoke evenly, restraining the tremor in her voice.

A pause.

“What?

What kind of attack?”

“Allergy.

Contact. The paramedic said there’s a chemical composition in the fabric that caused a reaction.”

Another pause.

Longer.

“Well, it happens. Clare is sensitive.”

Nathan was clearly choosing his words.

“Nothing serious though.”

“Nathan.

I have the same allergy.

Only mine can end in the ICU.”

“You remember, don’t you?”

“Of course, I remember.”

He sighed.

“Ella, it’s just an accident. I didn’t check the composition.

Didn’t think. I’m sorry.”

“The dress was bought here in the city the day before yesterday.”

“You were on a business trip.”

The silence became almost palpable.

“I asked an acquaintance to buy it,” he finally said.

“Didn’t have time myself.

What difference does it make?”

“What acquaintance?”

“Ella, I’m at work. I don’t have time. We’ll talk tonight.”

“Okay.”

And he hung up.

Eleanor put the phone on the table and covered her face with her hands.

Inside, everything compressed from terrible suspicions.

This couldn’t be an accident.

Nathan, who knew about her allergy.

Who asked someone to buy a dress.

Who lied about the business trip.

And the dress that almost killed his sister.

What if she had tried it on?

Eleanor—the apartment was registered in her name.

The pharmacies, also her business.

In case of her death, everything would pass to her husband as the heir of the first priority.

She had no will.

She always put off this question, considering herself still too young for such thoughts.

Eleanor stood up and approached the window.

On the street, it had grown dark.

The streetlights lit up, illuminating the deserted sidewalks.

Somewhere out there in this city was a woman who bought the dress at Nathan’s request.

Who was she?

And most importantly, what had they planned?

Eleanor took her phone and dialed the number of her lawyer, David Harper.

He had handled her mother’s family affairs, then helped her with business registration—reliable, experienced.

He had helped her out in difficult situations more than once.

“Mr.

Harper, good evening. I need a consultation urgently.”

“Mrs.

Mitchell, I’m listening.”

The lawyer’s voice was calm, professional.

She began to tell the facts—briefly.

The dress.

Clare’s attack.

The receipt with the wrong date.

Nathan’s lie.

“And you think this isn’t accidental?” David clarified when she finished.

“I don’t know what to think,” Eleanor admitted. “But I’m scared.”

“Tomorrow is Sunday, but let’s meet Monday morning,” the lawyer suggested.

“I’ll prepare a plan of action.”

“And now the main thing is: don’t touch this dress.

Preserve it as is.”

“I already packed it.”

“Excellent. And one more thing—try not to be home alone if possible. Invite someone over.”

Eleanor hung up and looked around.

The apartment that had always been her fortress—her refuge—suddenly seemed alien.

Cold.

Nathan returned late at night, around 11:00.

He entered quietly, undressed in the hallway, and went into the bedroom.

Eleanor wasn’t sleeping.

She lay staring at the ceiling.

“How’s Clare?” he asked, lying down beside her.

“Fine,” Eleanor said.

“The medication helped.”

“That’s good.”

He turned on his side, his back to her.

“Good night.”

Eleanor didn’t answer.

She listened to his breathing—event, calm—as if nothing had happened.

But the receipt with the date wouldn’t disappear.

And the smell of chemicals on the fabric wouldn’t either.

And Clare’s reaction.

Eleanor closed her eyes, knowing that sleep wouldn’t come.

Ahead was the night.

Then she needed to wait for the meeting with the lawyer.

And the beginning of a path that would lead her either to the truth or to something she was afraid to even think about.

Monday began with Eleanor calling Clare before 8:00 in the morning.

Her sister-in-law’s voice sounded tired but calm.

“How are you feeling?” Eleanor asked, pouring herself coffee in the kitchen.

“Better.

The redness is almost gone. My throat doesn’t hurt, but I couldn’t sleep all night.”

Clare sighed.

“Ella, it was terrible.

I thought I would suffocate.”

“Are you going to the doctor?”

“Yes. I made an appointment for today with an allergist.

I want to check what it was.”

“Maybe I’ve developed an allergy to something now.”

Eleanor paused, considering her next words.

“Clare, ask the doctor to document the connection between the reaction and the dress.

Officially. It’s important.”

“Why?”

“Just please ask. Say it was after contact with a new item, and let the doctor record this as a possible allergen source.”

Clare agreed, though there was bewilderment in her voice.

Eleanor said goodbye and finished her coffee, looking at the clock.

In an hour—meeting with the lawyer.

Nathan had left for work early, as usual.

At breakfast, they hardly spoke.

He read the news on his phone.

She pretended to check her email.

The atmosphere was tense, like a string ready to snap at the slightest touch.

David Harper’s office was located in the city center, in an old building with high ceilings and creaky parquet floors.

The lawyer was 44.

He specialized in family disputes, inheritance cases, and protection of property rights.

Graying hair.

A strict suit.

An attentive look from behind glasses.

David inspired trust from the first minutes of acquaintance.

Mitchell, come in.”

He pointed to a chair opposite his desk piled with folders of documents.

Eleanor sat down, placing her bag on her lap.

The lawyer poured her water from a pitcher, settled into his chair, and took out a notebook.

“Tell me everything from the beginning in detail.”

She began to speak.

Nathan’s return from the business trip.

The expensive dress.

Clare trying it on.

The terrible attack.

Then the receipt with the wrong date.

The lie about where it was purchased.

Her husband’s strange behavior.

And most importantly, her own allergy, which Nathan knew perfectly well about.

David listened without interrupting, making brief notes in his notebook.

When she finished, he looked thoughtfully out the window.

“You think your husband could have deliberately brought you an item that could cause anaphylactic shock?”

His voice was even, without a trace of condemnation or disbelief.

“I don’t know,” Eleanor clasped her hands.

“But the facts speak for themselves.”

“He lied about where he bought the dress. He asked someone to do it for him.”

“And this dress almost killed his sister and could have definitely killed me.”

“Motive: money.

The apartment. The business.

Everything is in my name.”

“There’s no will.

In case of my death, he gets everything as a spouse.”

David nodded, writing.

“Good. Now I’ll explain what we can do legally.”

“First, protect you. Second, document the evidence.

Third, eliminate the motive if it really exists.”

He pulled the notebook closer and began outlining the plan.

“Do you have the dress in safekeeping?”

“Yes.

I packed it in a bag wearing gloves. Haven’t touched it since.”

“Excellent.

We need to initiate an expert examination of the fabric. Find out what specific chemical composition caused the reaction.”

“For this, we’ll have to contact either a private laboratory or go through the police if we file a report.”

“A report about what?”

Eleanor felt her mouth go dry.

“About a possible attempt to cause harm to health.

So far it sounds like an assumption, but if the examination shows that the fabric contains a substance from the risk group for you and your husband knew about your allergy, that’s already grounds for a serious investigation.”

Eleanor nodded, feeling how cold it was getting inside.

An official report against her husband.

“Police expert examination.”

“But before going to the police, we need to strengthen the evidence base,” David continued.

“First: a medical report on your sister-in-law’s reaction.

Let the doctor document that the attack occurred after contact with a specific item.”

“I already asked Clare about this.”

“Good.”

“Second: your own medical record with allergy history.”

“Third: the receipt for the dress purchase with date and place.”

“Fourth: we’ll try to find out who exactly bought this dress. The store. Loyalty card.

Surveillance cameras.”

Eleanor listened, trying to remember everything.

Her head was spinning.

“And what about the property?” she asked.

“This is the most important thing.”

David raised his finger.

“You need to immediately protect your assets.

Execute a power of attorney for managing shares in the business and accounts—not to your husband, but to a trusted person. Someone you trust completely.”

“I have a partner, Gregory Barnes.

We own the pharmacies together. He has a 40% share.”

“That’ll work.

Execute a temporary power of attorney to him.”

“Also, I strongly recommend making a will.

Specify who gets what in case of your death. Exclude automatic inheritance by the spouse if you have doubts about his intentions.”

Eleanor felt herself break out in a cold sweat.

A will.

She had thought about this as something distant, abstract.

But now it had become reality.

“This will eliminate the motive,” David explained. “If your husband really plans something like this for money, he’ll understand that even in case of your death, he won’t get anything.”

“This will either stop him or force him to act differently, and then we’ll be able to track it.”

“All right.”

Eleanor nodded.

“When can we do this?

The will.”

“Anytime.

We can go to a notary today. The power of attorney also today.

The sooner, the better.”

They spent another hour in the office discussing details.

David made a list of actions, scheduled timelines, explained legal nuances.

When Eleanor left the office, she had a clear plan in her hands—and a feeling that she at least controlled something in this situation.

The next step was meeting with Clare.

They agreed to meet at a cafe near the clinic where she was going for an appointment with an allergist.

Clare arrived on time, looked tired, but healthy.

The redness on her skin had indeed almost disappeared.

Only light traces remained on her neck.

“How are you feeling?” Eleanor hugged her.

“Better, but scary to remember.”

Clare sat at the table, ordered tea.

“I never thought that clothes could cause such a thing.”

Eleanor paused, choosing her words.

“Clare, I need to tell you something. I myself have a severe allergy documented with risk of anaphylaxis.

Nathan knows about this.”

Clare looked up, understanding flickering in her eyes.

“You mean if you had tried on this dress, they would have taken you to the ICU… or worse?”

The silence stretched.

Clare went pale.

“Ella, do you think… Nathan… that he did it on purpose?”

“I don’t know, but the facts are strange.”

“He lied about where he bought the dress, asked someone to do it, and this dress is dangerous for me.”

Clare covered her face with her hands.

“Oh my god.

This is my brother. I can’t believe it.”

“I don’t want to believe it either.”

Eleanor put her hand on her shoulder.

“But I need your help. Ask the doctor to document that your reaction was connected to the dress officially in the records.”

Clare nodded, wiping her eyes.

“I’ll do it.

And I’ll come with you.”

The appointment with the allergist took about 40 minutes.

The doctor—Dr.

Rebecca Morrison, a calm middle-aged woman—examined Clare, asked many questions, and carefully listened to the story about the dress.

“You say the reaction started immediately after you put on the item?” she clarified, taking notes.

“Yes. Literally within a minute.”

Clare nodded.

“I approached the mirror and it started—coughing, burning, couldn’t breathe.”

Dr.

Morrison frowned.

“Fabrics often retain traces of dyes, fixing compounds, antiseptic treatments. In people with increased sensitivity, contact with such substances can cause a sharp reaction.”

“No.

Never.”

“Then this was most likely an acute contact reaction to a chemical component in the fabric.

I’ll document this in the records.”

“Contact allergen is probable. The item is a potential source.”

Eleanor, who was sitting next to Clare, leaned forward.

“Doctor, may I ask a question? I myself have a severe allergy with risk of anaphylaxis.

My medical record has a documented diagnosis: reaction to Azo group dyes.”

“This dress was intended for me, but Clare tried it on.

Is there a possibility that it contains exactly such a dye?”

Dr. Morrison looked at Eleanor carefully.

“Quite possible.

Azo dyes are widely used in the textile industry, especially for bright colors—emerald, red, blue.”

“Do you have this item?”

“Yes. I kept it.”

“I recommend conducting a chemical analysis of the fabric.

If they really find a substance from your risk group there, you absolutely cannot have contact with this thing.”

“Is it possible through examination to establish whether this substance was added deliberately?” Eleanor asked quietly.

The doctor thought.

“I’m not a lawyer or a forensic expert, but if we’re talking about additional fabric treatment beyond standard, this can be noticeable by the concentration of the substance or by atypical distribution.”

“For this, a serious laboratory examination is needed.”

So it could be checked.

All that remained was to do it.

When they left the clinic, Clare took Eleanor’s hand.

“What are you going to do?

Fight?”

Eleanor answered simply.

“I’m not going to die.”

The rest of the day was spent on business.

Eleanor met with a notary, executed a will in which she specified the transfer of her share in the business to partner Gregory Barnes and the apartment to her cousin.

Nathan wasn’t mentioned anywhere.

She also executed a power of attorney for managing finances and assets to her partner in case something happened to her.

In the evening, when Nathan came home, Eleanor was already in bed, pretending to sleep.

She heard him walking around the apartment—looking for something in the kitchen—then entering the bedroom and standing at the door for a long time, looking at her.

She didn’t move, clutching her phone under the blanket.

On the screen was an open message from David.

Tomorrow we’re submitting a request to the store with a receipt. We’ll try to find out who bought the dress.

Nathan lay down beside her but didn’t touch her.

He lay silently, his breathing even, but Eleanor felt the tension emanating from him.

“You’re not asleep?” he suddenly asked.

She didn’t answer, continuing to pretend.

“I know you’re not asleep.”

His voice was quiet, almost indifferent.

“You always do this when you’re angry.”

Eleanor opened her eyes and turned to him.

“I’m not angry. I’m trying to understand.”

“Understand what?”

“Why you lied about the dress.”

Nathan sighed heavily.

“I didn’t lie.

I asked an acquaintance to buy it because I didn’t have time.

What difference does it make who bought it?”

“Who is this acquaintance?”

“A colleague at work. Vanessa.

She understands fashion. I asked her to help.”

Vanessa.

For the first time, he named a name.

“How long have you known her?”

“A few years.

Ella, what’s with these questions?”

Eleanor sat up in bed, turning on the nightstand lamp.

“Because this dress almost killed your sister and could have killed me.

You know about my allergy.”

Nathan sat up too, his face tense.

“I didn’t check the fabric composition. It was a mistake, I admit. But you’re turning this into some kind of conspiracy theory.”

“Then give me Vanessa’s contact.

I want to talk to her.

Find out where she bought the dress, whether she checked the composition.”

“No.”

He shook his head.

“I’m not going to drag her into our family squabbles.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s stupid.”

He raised his voice, then restrained himself.

“Ella, calm down. It was an accident.

Clare is better. You’re fine.”

“Throw away this damn dress and forget about it.”

Eleanor looked at him, and the puzzle pieces were falling into place in her head.

He didn’t want to give the contact.

Protected.

This Vanessa.

Nervous.

“I won’t throw away the dress,” she said quietly.

“I’ll keep it.

Just in case.”

Nathan got up from the bed, paced around the room.

“You’re going crazy,” he threw out, and left the bedroom, slamming the door.

Eleanor remained alone.

She sat in the darkness, lit only by the nightstand lamp, and thought.

Vanessa—a colleague who understands fashion, who bought the dress at his request, whom he protected so much.

Tomorrow, David would request data from the store, and then she would know the truth.

And for now, all that remained was to wait and hope that she wasn’t mistaken.

That this really wasn’t paranoia, but an attempt to protect her life.

Outside the window, a light wind blew, swaying tree branches.

Eleanor lay back down, pulling the blanket up to her chin.

Sleep wouldn’t come, but she closed her eyes, counting the beats of her heart.

Somewhere out there in this city was a woman named Vanessa.

And tomorrow, Eleanor would find out who she was.

Tuesday began with David Harper calling Eleanor at 9:00 in the morning.

She was already sitting in her office at the main pharmacy, going through documents for the upcoming inspection, but her thoughts were not about work at all.

“Mrs. Mitchell, there’s news.”

The lawyer’s voice sounded business-like.

“I sent a request to the store with the receipt. The response came faster than expected.”

“They have a loyalty system and the purchase was registered with a card.”

Eleanor felt her pulse quicken.

“And the buyer’s name is Vanessa Pierce, 33 years old, registered at an address in the Riverside District, works as a stylist consultant at a company that supplies clothing to retail chains.”

Vanessa Pierce.

So Nathan hadn’t lied about the name.

But everything else.

“Is she really his colleague?” Eleanor asked.

“Checking now.

Give me a couple of hours.

I’ll try to find out more details.”

“But the fact is that she registered the purchase in her own name, used her loyalty card. This is documented.”

“Good.

What next?”

“Now we need to connect everything together.”

“Do you have the medical report on Clare?”

“Yes. She gave me a copy yesterday evening.

The doctor documented the contact allergic reaction with an indication of the item as the probable source.”

Your medical record with allergy history?”

“I have everything.”

“Then we’re going to the police today,” David said decisively. “While the trail is fresh. The longer we drag this out, the harder it will be to prove the connection of events.”

Eleanor froze.

Police.

Official report.

This was no longer preparation.

This was real action.

“Are you sure this is necessary?” Her voice trembled.

Mitchell, look at the facts objectively,” the lawyer spoke firmly but not harshly.

“Your husband brings you an item that is potentially deadly dangerous for you. He knows about your allergy.”

“He lied about where it was purchased.

Involved a third party—a woman who apparently has access to suppliers and understands fabrics.”

“He has a financial motive: your assets.”

“If you were my client in any other case, I would say this looks like preparation for a crime.”

The lawyer’s words lay like a heavy burden.

Eleanor closed her eyes, trying to control her emotions.

Preparation for a crime.

For her murder.

“All right,” she exhaled. “What time are we meeting?”

“At 2:00.

At the police station.

Bring all the documents with you—receipt, medical reports, the dress and packaging—and prepare to tell everything in detail.”

After the conversation, Eleanor sat motionless for a long time, staring out the window.

Outside the glass, ordinary city scenes drifted by: pedestrians, cars, pigeons on the sidewalk.

Life went on as usual.

And her world was collapsing.

The phone vibrated.

A message from Nathan.

Coming home late tonight. Don’t wait for dinner.

Short.

Without explanations.

Before, she wouldn’t have paid attention.

Now every word of his seemed suspicious.

At 1:30, Eleanor went home to get the dress.

The apartment greeted her with silence.

She went into the bedroom, opened the closet, and took the bag from the top shelf.

The dress lay inside—still emerald and beautiful.

Deadly, beautiful.

Eleanor put the bag in a large tote, added a folder with documents, and left the house.

On the way to the station, she stopped several times, doubting.

Was she doing the right thing?

Maybe this really was paranoia.

Maybe Nathan just made a mistake.

Didn’t think.

But then she remembered his face when he refused to give Vanessa’s contact.

Remembered his irritation.

His defensive reaction.

And the doubts receded.

David was waiting for her at the entrance to the station.

The building was typical—gray, with metal doors.

“Ready?” the lawyer asked.

“No,” Eleanor answered honestly. “But let’s go.”

They were met by Detective Marcus Reed, a man about 40 in uniform.

He led them to an office, offered them seats, and took out a blank protocol form.

“I’m listening,” he said, looking at Eleanor.

She began to tell slowly, trying not to miss details.

Her husband’s return.

The gift.

Then her own allergy.

The oddities with the dress purchase.

David periodically supplemented, clarified legal moments, laid documents on the table.

Marcus Reed listened, taking notes.

When Eleanor finished, he looked thoughtfully at the dress in the bag.

“You understand that the accusations are serious?” he said finally.

“You’re essentially claiming that your husband tried to harm you using your allergy.”

“I’m claiming that the facts look suspicious,” Eleanor corrected.

“And I’m asking for an investigation.”

“What specific harm was caused?”

“To his sister: an allergic reaction documented by medical examination.”

“To me personally: none yet, because I didn’t wear the dress. But the potential threat is obvious.”

Marcus Reed nodded.

“All right.

We’ll need to conduct an examination of the item. Check the fabric composition, presence of chemical substances.”

“Also question witnesses: your relative, the doctor, the store salesperson, and your husband.”

“He denies everything,” Eleanor said quietly.

“Says it’s an accident.”

“We’ll check that.”

Reed took the bag with the dress.

“I’ll send the item for examination to the crime lab.

This will take time—one to three weeks.”

David handed him a list of questions for the examination that they had prepared in advance.

Marcus scanned the points and nodded.

“Competently compiled. We’ll use it as a basis for the order.”

The next hour was spent on paperwork.

Eleanor signed protocols, gave explanations, answered questions.

When everything was finished, Marcus Reed walked them to the exit.

“We’ll take this case to work,” he said in parting. “But be prepared that the investigation could go either way.”

“If the examination doesn’t show anything criminal, the case will be closed.

If it does show something, interrogations will begin.”

“I understand.”

Coming out onto the street, she felt a strange relief.

The first step was taken.

Now she wasn’t alone fighting suspicions.

Now the system was working.

David walked her to the car.

“You did great,” he said.

“Hang in there.”

“And one more thing: I strongly recommend now blocking your husband’s ability to make transactions with joint property.”

“How do I do that?”

“Through court, you can impose a security measure—a ban on alienation of property until circumstances are clarified.”

“This will protect your assets during the investigation.”

“Do it,” Eleanor decided.

In the evening, she came home and found Nathan in the living room.

He was sitting on the couch staring at his phone.

But when she entered, he looked up.

“Where were you?” he asked.

“I had things to do,” Eleanor answered shortly, taking off her jacket.

“What things? Until 8 in the evening?”

“My things.”

Nathan stood up, came closer.

On his face was a mixture of irritation and something else.

Anxiety.

“Ella, what’s going on?

You’ve been acting strange the last few days, avoiding me, not talking normally.”

She looked him in the eyes.

Once she had loved this person.

Eleven years ago, they got married, dreamed of children, made plans.

What went wrong?

When did he start seeing her—not as a wife, but as a source of income?

“I was at the police station,” she said calmly. “Filed a report.”

Nathan’s face went pale.

“What?

What report?”

“About a possible attempt to cause harm to health through the dress you gave me.”

“Are you serious?”

Nathan’s voice trembled.

“You filed a police report against me?”

“I asked for an investigation.

If everything is clean, as you say, you have nothing to fear.”

Nathan ran his hand through his hair, turned away, then turned back sharply.

“You’ve lost your mind because of some allergy of Clare’s. You decided I want to kill you.”

“You lied about the purchase, involved Vanessa, who understands fabrics, knew about my allergy, and didn’t check the composition. All this looks suspicious.”

“This looks like paranoia,” he raised his voice.

“Ella, come to your senses.

I’m your husband.”

“That’s exactly why I’m so scared,” she said quietly.

Nathan froze, looking at her.

Then he turned and went into the bedroom, slamming the door loudly.

Eleanor remained standing in the living room, listening to him throw something in the room, curse through his teeth.

Ten minutes later, he came out with a small bag in his hands.

“I’m leaving,” he threw out. “Can’t be here.”

“Where?”

“To a friend’s.

To spend the night. Or a hotel.

I don’t care.

I need to think.”

He left, and the apartment plunged into silence.

Eleanor sat on the couch.

A shiver ran through her body—from fear, from relief, from fatigue.

She took her phone, dialed David’s number.

“Mrs. Mitchell, what happened?”

“Nathan found out about the report. Left home.”

“Expected,” the lawyer paused.

“That’s even good.

Less risk for you. But be careful.”

“He might try to withdraw money, sell something.

I’ll file a motion for security measures tomorrow.”

“Hang in there. You’re doing everything right.”

Eleanor hung up and lay down on the couch without undressing.

She was left alone in the apartment that no longer seemed safe.

But now she had protection—legal, medical, documentary.

And that gave strength.

The next day, David filed a motion in court to freeze the spouses’ joint property—the apartment and accounts—grounds: securing property interests during proceedings.

The judge would consider the application within three days.

Nathan didn’t appear.

He called once, spoke dryly, demanded to stop this circus.

Eleanor replied that there was no circus.

There was a lawful investigation.

And she hung up.

Clare came to her in the evening.

They sat in the kitchen, drank tea, and Clare cried quietly.

“I can’t believe it’s my brother,” she whispered.

“We grew up together.

He was good.”

“People change,” Eleanor hugged her. “Money changes people.”

“If it’s true, if he really wanted to…”

Clare didn’t finish.

“I’ll never forgive him.”

On Friday, the response came from the court.

The motion was granted.

The apartment and accounts were frozen for three months until the investigation was completed.

Nathan couldn’t sell, gift, or mortgage the property.

He had lost his main leverage.

When Eleanor called to inform him, he was silent for a long time.

Then said only:

“You’ll regret this.”

“Is that a threat?” she asked.

“It’s a fact.”

And silence again.

Eleanor looked at the phone screen with his name and felt something finally tear inside.

Eleven years of marriage—hopes, plans—all of it had turned into a cold war where everyone defended their territory.

But she wasn’t going to give up.

Because her life was at stake.

And no threats would make her back down.

The motive had disappeared.

Nathan would no longer get anything even in case of her death.

The scheme, if it existed, had collapsed.

All that remained was to wait for the examination results and learn the truth.

And the truth, as always, was hidden in the details.

And these details would soon come to light.

The examination took two and a half weeks, during which Eleanor lived as if on a volcano—every day expecting a call, every night waking from the slightest rustle.

Nathan never returned home, but called regularly—sometimes with demands to stop the spectacle, sometimes with attempts to make peace, promising he would explain everything.

Eleanor didn’t believe a single word he said.

David Harper, meanwhile, worked on all fronts.

He requested video recordings from the store’s surveillance cameras on the day of the dress purchase.

He got a statement from Vanessa Pierce’s loyalty card.

He pulled up information about her place of work.

The picture was gradually coming together.

And it was far from rosy.

On Wednesday—17 days after filing the report—Marcus Reed called.

“Mrs. Mitchell, we have the examination results.”

The detective’s voice was serious.

“Can you come to the station?

Better with your lawyer.”

Eleanor’s heart stopped.

“What did they find?”

She exhaled.

“Better discuss it in person.

Will an hour work?”

The hour dragged on painfully.

Eleanor called David, and they agreed to meet at the station while she rode in a taxi.

Dozens of scenarios played through her head.

What if the examination showed nothing?

What if she really was mistaken?

And all this was paranoia?

But when she and the lawyer entered Marcus Reed’s office and saw his face, it became clear.

The results were serious.

“Sit down.”

The detective pointed to chairs and laid a thick folder in front of him.

“The examination report is ready. I’ll read the main conclusions.”

He opened the folder, took out sheets with stamps, and began reading in a professional, detached tone.

“The subject examined was an item: women’s dress, emerald green color, size six.

Manufacturer: luxury-class brand.”

“During chemical analysis of the fabric, it was established: traces of Azo group dye were found in the material fibers, specifically Disperse DC… Disperse 17, as well as its derivatives.”

“The concentration of the substance exceeds regulatory indicators for textile products by three times.”

Eleanor felt her blood run cold.

Azo dye—exactly the one she was allergic to.

“In addition,” Marcus continued, “traces of additional treatment with an antiseptic compound based on formaldehyde were found on the fabric surface.”

“The distribution of the substance is uneven, which indicates secondary treatment of the item after production.”

David frowned.

“You mean the dress was treated additionally after it was manufactured?”

“Exactly. The experts note that such concentration and application method are not characteristic of factory treatment.”

“This looks like deliberate enhancement of the fabric’s potentially dangerous properties.”

The silence in the office became absolute.

“What does this mean legally?” David asked.

“This means we have grounds to suspect deliberate actions aimed at creating a threat to life and health.”

Marcus Reed closed the folder.

“The qualification is preliminary so far, but we’re considering charges of attempted grievous bodily harm—possibly even attempted murder if we prove awareness of consequences and direct intent.”

Eleanor closed her eyes.

Attempted murder.

Her husband.

The person she had lived with for eleven years.

“What next?”

Her voice sounded hollow.

“Next, we summon your husband and Vanessa Pierce for interrogation.”

“We need to establish who exactly treated the dress and for what purpose.”

“We have video from the store cameras.

Pierce bought the dress personally.

This is documented.”

“We’re also checking her work contacts.”

“She really works as a buyer, has access to fabric and chemical suppliers, so she could have gotten these substances,” David clarified.

“Theoretically, yes,” Marcus nodded. “She has connections in the textile industry. She knows where and what to buy.”

“But we must prove that she really did it—and that she acted on your husband’s instructions.”

Eleanor raised her head.

“What about the connection between Nathan and Vanessa?

Have you checked?”

Marcus nodded, opening another folder.

“We checked.

Phone records show regular contact between them over the past eight months.”

“Daily calls, correspondence. We requested a phone data dump.

There are many personal conversations there.”

“Formerly their colleagues, but the nature of the communication—let’s say—goes beyond work relations.”

“So, a mistress.”

Eleanor had suspected this for a long time.

Now she had confirmation.

Eight months.

Almost a year.

“We also checked the financial side,” the detective added. “Your husband has no property of his own.”

“The apartment, business shares, main accounts—everything is in your name.”

“In case of your death, he would receive the inheritance as a first-priority spouse.”

“The motive is obvious.”

David wrote, nodding.

“When are the interrogations scheduled?”

“We’ll summon Nathan Mitchell tomorrow.

Vanessa Pierce the day after.”

“We want to hear his version first, then compare it with her testimony.”

Eleanor thought: tomorrow Nathan would be sitting in this office, answering questions—possibly lying, dodging.

And then Vanessa.

A woman she had never seen, but who bought a dress capable of killing her.

Leaving the station, Eleanor couldn’t hold back.

She stopped by the building wall and cried quietly—restrainedly—but tears rolled down her cheeks on their own.

David silently handed her a handkerchief.

“You’re holding up well,” he said.

“The worst is behind us. Now we have evidence.”

“He really wanted to kill me,” Eleanor whispered. “My husband—for money—and a mistress.”

“We’ll prove it,” David said.

“And he’ll answer.”

The next day, Nathan was supposed to appear for interrogation at 2:00.

And he came.

Thinner.

Confused.

He was dressed in ordinary jeans and a shirt.

He looked tired.

And nervous.

Marcus Reed sat across from him, turned on the recorder, and began the formalities—date, time, identity of the interrogated.

Nathan answered monosyllabically, looking at the table.

“Mr.

Mitchell, are you aware of the reason you’ve been invited for interrogation?”

“Yes. My wife filed a report.”

“Correct.

Please tell us how you acquired the dress you gave your wife on September 21st.”

Nathan licked his lips.

“I asked an acquaintance to buy it. Vanessa Pierce.

She works as a stylist.

Understands fashion. I was busy. Didn’t have time myself.”

“Why specifically a dress?

Why specifically this brand?”

“I wanted to do something nice for my wife.

She hadn’t bought anything for herself in a long time.”

“Did you know about your wife’s health condition—about her allergy?”

Nathan looked up.

“I knew, but I didn’t think the dress could be dangerous.”

“Did you check the fabric composition before purchase?”

“Didn’t think about it.”

Marcus leaned forward.

“Mr. Mitchell, the examination showed that the dress fabric contains Azo dye in high concentration—exactly the type of substance your wife has a severe allergy to with risk of anaphylactic shock.”

“Also found was additional treatment with formaldehyde.”

“Can you explain this?”

“I don’t know.

I didn’t treat the dress. Vanessa bought it at the store, handed it to me in the box.

I just gave it to Eleanor.”

“When did Vanessa give you the dress?”

“Thursday evening.

I came back from the business trip on Friday, but met with her before that.”

“So you were in the city already on Thursday.”

Nathan hesitated.

“I came back earlier. A day earlier. But didn’t go home right away.”

“I was tired.

Stopped at a hotel.”

“Which one?”

“On Riverside Avenue.

Don’t remember the name.”

Marcus wrote.

“Do you have a receipt from this hotel?”

“No. Paid cash.”

“Mr.

Mitchell, what is the nature of your relationship with Vanessa Pierce?”

“Work?”

“We’re colleagues.”

“Only colleagues?”

The pause dragged on.

“We… we are friends.”

“Your phone records show daily communication. Is this usual for colleagues?”

“We have a close relationship, but this has nothing to do with the dress.”

“It does,” Marcus said firmly.

“Because we’re considering the version that the dress was deliberately treated with dangerous substances with the purpose of harming your wife.”

“And you and Vanessa Pierce are the only ones who had access to this dress before it got to the victim.”

“This is absurd.”

Nathan jumped up.

“I didn’t treat any dress.

I just wanted to give a gift. Then Vanessa did it—I don’t know. Maybe she bought a defective one.

Maybe they made a mistake at the store, but it wasn’t deliberate.”

“They made a mistake at the store,” Marcus asked.

“Do you understand that if intent is proven, you face charges of attempted murder?”

Nathan lowered his head, his face gray.

“I didn’t want to kill her.”

“But you wanted to get her property.”

Silence.

“Mr.

Mitchell, answer the question.”

“We had financial problems,” Nathan said.

“I was in debt. Needed money.”

“How much?”

“Twenty-five thousand dollars.

Credit cards. Private loans.”

“And you decided your wife’s death would solve your problems.”

Nathan hit the table with his fist.

“I wasn’t planning to kill her.

I just…”

He fell silent.

Realized he’d said too much.

“You thought what, Mr.

Mitchell?”

The silence stretched for a minute.

Then Nathan said quietly:

“I want a lawyer. I won’t say anything more without a lawyer.”

The interrogation ended there.

The next day, they summoned Vanessa Pierce.

A woman about 33 entered the office.

Slender.

Dark hair pulled back in a ponytail.

Dressed stylishly but conservatively.

She was professionally self-confident.

Only her eyes betrayed nervousness.

Marcus conducted the same formalities and began the interrogation.

“Miss Pierce, are you acquainted with Nathan Mitchell?”

“Yes. We work in the same field.”

“What field exactly?”

“I’m a stylist consultant.

He’s a financial analyst at a trading company.

Our companies cooperate.”

“Do you communicate closely?”

Vanessa paused.

“We are dating. We’re in a relationship.”

“A romantic relationship?”

“Yes.”

A direct answer.

No shame.

No regret.

“How long?”

“About a year.

Maybe a little less.”

“Nathan is married.”

“I know.”

“Do you know his wife?”

“No. We’ve never met.”

“But you know he’s married to Eleanor Mitchell, who owns a pharmacy business and an apartment.”

“Yes.

He told me.”

Marcus flipped through papers.

“On September 20th, you bought a women’s dress at a boutique on Madison Avenue for $600.

Correct?”

“Correct.”

“At whose request?”

“Nathan asked. Said he wanted to give it to his wife.”

“Didn’t this seem strange to you? A lover asking to buy a gift for his wife?”

Vanessa shrugged.

“He explained that he wanted to make amends.

Improve relations.

I agreed to help.”

“Did you choose the dress yourself?”

“No. Nathan showed me a photo.

Said it had to be exactly like that. I found it in the store and bought it.”

“And then?”

“And then I gave it to him.

He picked up the dress that same evening.”

“Miss Pierce, you work with fabrics.

Do you know what Azo dyes are?”

Vanessa tensed.

“Yes. It’s a group of dyes used in textiles.”

“Do you know that some of them are dangerous for people with allergies?”

“Yes. I’ve heard.”

“Do you know that Nathan’s wife has a severe allergy specifically to Azo dyes?”

Vanessa went pale.

“No.

Nathan didn’t tell me that.”

“Didn’t tell you?”

Marcus raised an eyebrow.

“Or do you prefer to forget?”

“I didn’t know,” Vanessa repeated firmly.

“All right, then explain: why does the dress you bought contain a dye in triple concentration and have traces of additional formaldehyde treatment?”

“I didn’t know.

I bought it at the store. It was in a box with tags.

I didn’t do anything to it.”

“Do you have access to chemical substances for fabric treatment?”

“I have contacts with suppliers, but I don’t do treatment. That’s not my specialization.”

“But theoretically, you could get the necessary substances.”

“Theoretically, many people could.

But I didn’t do it.”

Marcus wrote, then looked her in the eye.

“Miss Pierce, do you understand that you’re under suspicion of complicity in attempted murder?”

Her hands trembled.

“I didn’t do anything.

I just bought a dress at the request of a man I love. If it turned out to be dangerous, I didn’t know.”

“You love a married man who used you to kill his wife and get her money. Doesn’t this seem strange to you?”

Vanessa bit her lip.

“Nathan said he would divorce.

Promised we’d be together.”

“I didn’t know about his debts.

About plans. I swear.”

The interrogation continued for another hour, but Vanessa stubbornly insisted on her version.

She just bought the dress.

Didn’t do anything to it.

Didn’t know about the allergy.

Either she was telling the truth.

Or she was an excellent actress.

The scheme was beginning to collapse.

Nathan admitted debts and motive.

Vanessa gave testimony.

The examination confirmed the dress’s danger.

Now all that remained was to collect the last links in the chain and bring the case to completion.

The breakthrough happened unexpectedly.

A week after the interrogations, Marcus Reed called Eleanor early Monday morning when she was just opening the pharmacy.

Mitchell, we need to meet urgently. We have a witness.”

“What witness?”

“Better in person.

Come to the station in an hour with your lawyer.”

David Harper arrived quickly, and together they headed to the police station.

In the office, Marcus was waiting for them, along with another person—a man about 50 in glasses and a gray suit.

“Meet,” the detective introduced, “Dr.

Ethan Coleman, chemical expert from an independent laboratory. He’s the one who conducted the examination of your dress.”

Ethan nodded, shaking hands.

“I asked him to come personally because we have important information,” Marcus continued. “Dr.

Coleman, please tell them.”

The expert opened his folder, took out photographs of the fabric under a microscope.

“During detailed study of the samples, I discovered something interesting.

The Azo dye and formaldehyde were applied not uniformly but in spots—mainly on the inner side of the item, in places of contact with skin.”

“This is technically complex work requiring knowledge and equipment.”

“So this was done by a professional,” David clarified.

“Not necessarily a professional,” the expert said, “but definitely someone who understands chemistry and has access to reagents.”

“I conducted an additional check, tried to establish the origin of the substances. The Azo dye turned out to be a specific brand that’s rarely used in industry.”

“I contacted manufacturers and suppliers.”

He paused, glancing at Marcus.

“And found out that a batch of this dye was purchased a month ago through one of the supplier companies.

The buyer—an individual—registration through an agent.”

“I got the agent’s contacts and passed them to the police.”

Marcus nodded, opening his folder.

“We found this agent. Had a conversation with him yesterday.

He confirmed: a month ago a woman approached him, introduced herself as a stylist, said she needed special dyes for an exclusive project.”

“He processed the order.

She picked up the goods. Paid cash.”

“Who is this woman?”

Eleanor already knew the answer.

Still asked.

“Vanessa Pierce,” the agent identified her from a photograph.

Eleanor felt everything inside compress into a knot.

So Vanessa had lied.

She didn’t just buy the dress.

She bought the dye.

Treated it herself.

“We summoned her for repeat interrogation this afternoon,” Marcus said. “This time with evidence.”

“We’ll also summon your husband.

We will conduct confrontations.”

“What will this change legally?” David asked.

“If Pierce confesses or we prove her actions documentarily, she becomes an accomplice to attempted murder.”

“Nathan Mitchell, the organizer—both face real prison time.”

Real prison time.

Her husband would go to jail.

The woman he loved more than her, too.

“And if she doesn’t confess?” she asked quietly.

“We have the agent’s testimony, the examination, phone records between Nathan and Vanessa during the preparation period—more than thirty calls in the two weeks before the dress purchase—plus financial documents confirming Nathan’s debts and motive.”

“Even if they deny it, the case will go to court.”

Dr.

Coleman added:

“I’m ready to testify in court. The fabric treatment was deliberate, professional.

This isn’t an accident and not a factory defect.”

“Someone specifically made this item dangerous precisely for a person with an allergy to Azo dyes.”

Eleanor looked at the photographs under the microscope.

Green fabric.

Dotted with dye spots.

A beautiful dress turned into a murder weapon.

“Thank you,” she said to the expert. “Thank you for finding this.”

He nodded sympathetically.

“I was just doing my job, but I’m glad I helped.”

At 2:00 in the afternoon, Vanessa Pierce’s repeat interrogation began.

This time, Vanessa confessed completely.

She told everything.

Nathan asked her to buy the dress and treat it with dye.

Said it was the only way to solve financial problems.

Promised that after his wife’s death, they would be together.

Would share the inheritance.

She agreed because she loved him and wanted to help.

She bought the dye through an acquaintance agent.

Treated the fabric at home using a sprayer.

Then packed the dress back in the box.

Gave it to Nathan.

She understood this would kill Eleanor.

Nathan told her about the allergy.

Explained that contact with the substance would cause anaphylactic shock.

They calculated that Eleanor would wear the dress immediately and the reaction would be instant.

The ambulance wouldn’t make it in time.

The death would be attributed to allergy—an accident.

They didn’t think the dress might be tried on by someone else.

And this was the accident that destroyed their plan.

When Nathan found out about his sister’s attack, he realized everything would be exposed.

That’s why he started denying, defending himself.

Eleanor survived thanks to Clare.

She unwittingly saved her life.

Eleanor asked David to take her home.

She went into the bedroom, opened the closet.

Nathan’s clothes were still hanging there.

His things lay on the shelves.

Someone else’s things.

Things belonging to a person who wanted to kill her.

The phone rang in the evening.

David.

“Nathan admitted guilt completely.

After the confrontation with Vanessa, he realized denial was pointless.”

“He gave detailed testimony.

How they planned, how they discussed details, how they counted on the inheritance.”

“What does he face?”

“Attempted murder by prior conspiracy from mercenary motives—eight to fifteen years.”

“Vanessa: complicity—six to twelve.”

“They’ll both remain under a pledge not to leave until trial, but they really can’t flee.”

Eleanor was silent.

“And civil suits—you can file for compensation for moral damages, reimbursement of lawyer expenses, examinations.”

“You can also initiate divorce with property division.”

“Everything will be in your favor given the circumstances.”

“Start the divorce procedure,” Eleanor said firmly. “I don’t want to have anything to do with him.”

In the following weeks, life gradually entered its usual rhythm.

Eleanor returned to work—to managing the pharmacies.

Partner Gregory Barnes supported her, helped with affairs, distracted from dark thoughts.

Clare came often.

They spent evenings together, talking about everything except Nathan.

The trial was scheduled for three months later.

Eleanor prepared for it together with David.

Nathan and Vanessa’s lawyers tried to negotiate a mitigation of charges, but the prosecutor’s office was adamant.

Too obvious intent.

Too cruel a plan.

In January, a week before the trial, Eleanor received a letter from Nathan—handwritten on ordinary paper.

Ella,

I know I have no right to ask for forgiveness. I know you hate me, but I want you to know the truth.

I’m not making excuses, just explaining.

Debts were strangling me.

$25,000.

Collectors were threatening. I was scared.

And then Vanessa appeared.

She said she loved me, that she would help. Proposed the plan.

I agreed because I was weak.

Because I was scared.

Because I wanted an easy way out.

I didn’t think about you. Didn’t think that you’re a living person. My wife who trusted me.

I thought only about money, about freedom from debts.

This is monstrous.

When Clare ended up in the hospital, I understood for the first time what I’d done.

Saw her face, her fear, and imagined it was you.

And I became scared.

But it was too late.

I’m not asking for forgiveness.

I don’t deserve it.

I just want you to live. To live long, happily, without fear.

And to know I’ll pay for everything.

Nathan.

Eleanor read the letter twice, then folded it and put it in a desk drawer.

She wasn’t going to forgive.

But at least she got some explanation.

The trial went quickly.

There was enough evidence.

The confessional testimony simplified the process.

Nathan got ten years in a maximum security colony.

Vanessa, seven years.

Both heard the verdict silently, not looking at each other.

Eleanor attended the sentencing.

She sat in the courtroom, looked at the person she had lived with for eleven years, and felt emptiness.

No anger.

No pity.

Just emptiness.

When it was all over, she left the courthouse as if shedding a heavy burden.

Life went on.

“How are you?” he asked.

“Alive,” Eleanor answered simply.

“I’m alive, and that’s the main thing.”

The divorce was finalized a month later.

The property remained entirely with Eleanor.

Nathan had no rights to it, given the circumstances.

She sold the apartment.

Bought a new one in a different neighborhood.

Started everything with a clean slate.

Clare helped with the move.

Packed things.

“You’re strong,” she said, hugging Eleanor. “I’m proud of you.”

“I just wanted to live,” Eleanor answered.

“And I fought for it.”

Six months later, she opened a fourth pharmacy.

The business was growing.

Life was getting better.

Sometimes at night she dreamed of the emerald dress and she would wake up in a cold sweat.

But then she remembered she survived.

She won.

And the fear receded.

The motive that pushed Nathan to crime disappeared the moment she executed the will and power of attorney.

The scheme collapsed even before it could work.

And life—her life—continued.

And that was the most important victory.