“Alden smiled sweetly as he passed the lunch to his driver. There was a message on a small note that read, ‘Finish it all, sweetheart. I love you, A.’ He never imagined the death he was sending would be delivered to the wrong address. His loyal driver, out of habit, took it to his mistress’s apartment instead. 30 minutes later, a ringing phone would mark the beginning of Alden’s own destruction. He had planned the perfect murder to inherit his wife’s fortune and marry his mistress. But a single ambiguous word—”house”—sent fate spinning in a direction he never anticipated.

What happened next left everyone speechless…

Alden’s world stopped turning. His face, which had been pretending to be panicked, turned a deathly pale. His eyes widened, his pupils constricting. The blood drained from his face.

“What?” Alden whispered, his voice barely audible. “Who did you say?”

“Miss Scarlet Dubois, sir. The victim was found unconscious in her apartment by security. She ate a lunch that was there. The poison is extremely potent. Sir, you need to get here immediately—”

The officer’s words faded into a roar in Alden’s ears. “Scarlet? Why Scarlet? Didn’t I tell Hector to go to the house?”

Fragments of memory flashed through his mind—his instructions from that afternoon: “Take this to the house. To the one who’s always waiting for me.”

Alden staggered backward, his legs giving out. He collapsed back into his chair. “Mr. Collins, are you all right?” a colleague asked, concerned by the drastic change in his boss’s demeanor.

Alden didn’t answer. His mind was in chaos. He intended to kill his wife for his mistress, but fate and his own stupidly ambiguous command had diverted death to the very woman he desired.

“I’m on my way,” he stammered. He hung up and shot to his feet, ignoring the stunned looks of the meeting attendees. “Meeting’s over. I have an urgent matter to attend to.” Without waiting for a response, he ran out of the room like a madman.

In the elevator on the way down, Alden punched the steel wall with his fist. “Stupid, stupid. That damn Hector,” he cursed. He ran for a taxi, hailing one aggressively in front of the lobby.

To understand what had happened, you had to go back. Way back.

Ara had been the definition of a devoted wife. She was patient, her words gentle, her calm demeanor unwavering. Her clear face, free from heavy makeup, always seemed to glow after her morning meditation. She was everything a husband could want—loving, supportive, faithful.

But for Alden, all that goodness was just a monotonous routine.

He was engrossed in his phone during breakfast, scrolling through messages from Scarlet. The affair had begun a year ago. Scarlet was exciting, demanding, and dangerous. She had filled Alden’s darker days with passion and drama. But now she had become a nightmare.

Scarlet’s threats were not a bluff. She knew about the embezzlement at Alden’s firm—the money he had skimmed from investors, the fake invoices, the offshore accounts. If the scandal came to light, his career and freedom were over. But divorcing Ara was not simple either.

Most of their assets, including the luxurious brownstone and several other properties, were part of an inheritance from Ara’s late parents—willed directly to their daughter. If they divorced, Alden would be cast out with very little. He loved his lavish lifestyle. He couldn’t imagine being poor or starting from scratch.

The solution, in his twisted logic, was simple: If Ara died, all her inherited assets would pass to him as her husband. He would be the sole heir since they had no children. With that fortune, he could silence Scarlet, marry her, and live peacefully without her threats.

The insane idea appeared in his head like a sweet whisper from the devil.

But how? Food poisoning. Ara loved Japanese food, especially the premium bento boxes from Kaido. She had a sensitive stomach. If she ate something that disagreed with her, people would easily believe it was just a case of severe food poisoning.

The dark web contact had provided the undetectable high-dose liquid poison. The chemical was odorless and tasteless. When mixed with strongly flavored food, no one would suspect a thing.

The plan formed in his mind within seconds. He would buy lunch, inject the poison, and send it home. The sudden sweet gesture would lower her guard. The naive Ara would surely think he was trying to mend their relationship.

At Kaido, he ordered the premium salmon teriyaki bento—the one Ara always chose in the early, sweeter days of their marriage. He paid, returned to the car, and directed Hector to park in a secluded spot.

With slightly trembling hands, Alden opened the bento package. The savory aroma of grilled salmon and fluffy Japanese rice filled the car. The food looked incredibly appetizing—a glistening piece of salmon coated in teriyaki sauce, a fresh salad, a slice of tamagoyaki, and a bowl of miso soup still warm.

Alden took out the small vial from his inner jacket pocket. He drew the poison into a syringe. His hands were clammy with cold sweat.

“One drop is enough for severe cramps, but a full syringe will stop the heart within hours,” he recalled the seller’s explanation.

He inserted the needle into the thickest part of the salmon, injecting a portion of the liquid, letting it seep into the flesh, camouflaged by the brown teriyaki sauce. He injected the rest into the miso soup through a small opening in the lid, then gently shook it to mix. The poison’s faint smell was completely masked by the strong aroma of garlic and ginger.

Visually, nothing had changed. The food still looked delicious, luxurious, and harmless. But behind that deliciousness lay a one-way ticket to death.

The final step to perfect the charade was a sweet message. Alden took a pen and a bright yellow post-it note, crafting words that would melt Ara’s heart and erase any suspicion:

“I’m sorry I’ve been so busy and grumpy lately. This lunch is special for you, sweetheart. Finish it all so you stay healthy. Love, Alden.”

He stuck the note on the bento box lid and smiled cynically. How easy it was to manipulate a woman like Ara, he thought. She would surely be moved by this message, see it as a sincere apology, and eat every last bite.

Alden composed himself and pressed the intercom button. “Hector, I’m done. Now we—” Alden paused, looking at his watch. He had an important meeting in fifteen minutes. He didn’t have time to go home and deliver this himself. If he went home, he might be late, and that would cause problems at the office.

Besides, if he wasn’t there when Ara died, his alibi would be stronger. He could feign shock when he received the news of his wife’s death later.

“Hector,” Alden called again. “Take this to the house right now.” He deliberately emphasized the word “house.” To him, the house obviously meant his legal residence with Ara—the place where he wanted his wife’s body to be found.

However, in his haste and nervousness, Alden forgot a crucial detail about his habits over the last year—a small detail that would completely derail the evil scenario he had so carefully constructed.

Hector took the package. He felt the warmth from the food container. The delicious smell of teriyaki was faint but present. Hector frowned slightly at the word “house.”

“Sir,” he repeated, seeking clarification. For Hector, this was a reasonable question. His boss led two different lives. There was the large brownstone in Brooklyn Heights, where Mrs. Ara lived. And there was the luxury apartment in Midtown, where Miss Scarlet lived. Usually, when Alden said he was going home, the destination depended on the day and his mood.

Alden, overwhelmed by panic and pressed for time, found Hector’s question incredibly annoying. Why did this old driver have to ask so many questions at such a critical moment? Alden was afraid that if he specified Ara’s name, it would seem odd—he hadn’t sent his wife anything in months. He wanted to seem casual, as if this was a normal routine.

“Yes. To the house. To the one who’s always waiting for me,” Alden snapped, his voice sharp. “Give it to her. Tell her it’s a special lunch from me. Tell her to eat it now while it’s warm. Understand?”

Alden intentionally used the phrase “the one who’s always waiting for me” to refer to Ara. In his memory from before the affair, Ara had always waited for him in the living room, greeting him with a smile. Alden assumed that this image of a waiting wife was still firmly fixed in Hector’s mind as the definition of his legitimate household.

Alden forgot that people change and habits can shift perception.

“Yes, sir. Understood,” Hector replied nervously, startled by the outburst. He didn’t dare ask any more questions. He knew Alden’s temper had become explosive lately. Another question could cost him his job.

The sedan finally stopped at the lobby of the grand office building. Alden got out, adjusted his jacket, and grabbed his briefcase. Before closing the door, he leaned in, looking at Hector with a gaze he tried to make firm.

“Remember, Hector, go straight there. No stops. Make sure she gets it and eats it. Text me when you’ve delivered it and she’s eating. Don’t call. I’ll be in a meeting.”

“Yes, sir. Will do,” Hector confirmed.

Alden slammed the car door shut. He stood on the sidewalk for a moment, taking a long deep breath as if he had just shed a heavy burden. He watched his sedan slowly pull away from the lobby, carrying the deadly poison that would end his marriage. A faint cold smile played on Alden’s lips.

“Goodbye, Ara,” he whispered to the wind. “Enjoy your last meal.”

With a light step filled with false confidence, Alden strode into the skyscraper. He felt victorious. He felt clever. He was completely unaware that the single ambiguous word “house” had just sent fate spinning in a direction he had never anticipated.

---

While Alden entered the elevator to the 30th floor, Hector steered the car away from the office building. The bento box sat innocently on the front passenger seat. Hector drove calmly, but his mind was working hard to decipher his boss’s cryptic command.

“To the house. Give it to the one who’s always waiting for me,” Hector muttered, repeating his boss’s instruction. His weathered brow furrowed in concentration.

As a driver who had served for nearly a decade, Hector knew the ins and outs of his employer’s life. He was a silent witness to the drastic change in Alden. In the past, the word “house” referred to only one place—the brownstone in Brooklyn Heights, where Mrs. Ara lived.

But that was the story from two years ago. For the past year, the definition of home for Alden had completely changed. Almost every day after office hours, Alden never asked to be taken to Brooklyn Heights. He always asked to be taken to the penthouse apartment in Midtown where Miss Scarlet lived.

Hector recalled the few times he had driven Alden to Brooklyn Heights in the last few months—just to pick up documents. Mrs. Ara wasn’t waiting at the door. She was usually already asleep, praying in her room, or busy with her social activities. Their relationship had grown very cold. Alden would enter the house without a smile and leave with a sour face.

So, Mrs. Ara was clearly not the one enthusiastically waiting.

Conversely, the image of Miss Scarlet popped into Hector’s mind. Every time his car stopped at the lobby of the Midtown apartment, Scarlet was often already standing there or would run to greet Alden as soon as the elevator doors opened. Scarlet always greeted Alden with clingy hugs, laughter, and whines for attention. Scarlet was the one who was always waiting.

Hector glanced at the bento box again. His eyes fell on the yellow post-it note stuck to the top. Alden’s handwriting was clear: “Finish it all, sweetheart.”

The word “sweetheart.” That was the key to Hector’s confusion.

“There it is,” Hector mumbled. “There’s no way he calls Mrs. Ara ‘sweetheart.’ His tone with her is always high and intense, like he’s looking for a fight. But with Miss Scarlet, he’s all love, calling her sweetheart and baby.”

Hector’s logic was based on what he saw and heard every day. To him, it was impossible that Alden would suddenly act sweet to Ara, sending her expensive food with an affectionate note, especially after the loud argument Hector had accidentally overheard on the phone two days ago.

On the other hand, Hector knew that Alden and Scarlet had a small spat in the car yesterday because Scarlet wanted a new handbag. So, it made perfect sense that Alden was sending this food as a way to appease Scarlet.

“This must be for Miss Scarlet. It’s his way of apologizing,” Hector concluded with certainty. He nodded to himself, proud that he could understand his boss’s implicit code.

“If I deliver this to Mrs. Ara, he’ll be furious. I could get fired for delivering to the wrong address,” he reasoned. “‘Don’t ask too many questions’ means I have to be smart.”

The traffic light turned green. At the upcoming fork, there were two paths. The left led towards Brooklyn Heights—Ara’s home. The right led onto the expressway towards Midtown—Scarlet’s apartment.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Hector turned the steering wheel to the right. The car ascended the on-ramp, moving away from Ara’s house and speeding towards Scarlet’s apartment. Fate, through the innocent hands of a driver just trying to do his job right, had just diverted the path of death.

Thirty minutes later, Hector’s car arrived at the lobby of Scarlet’s luxury apartment building. The building soared into the sky, its glass panels reflecting the harsh sunlight.

Hector rolled down his window as a security guard approached. “Dropping off a package for Miss Scarlet on the 15th floor from Mr. Collins,” Hector said to the guard who already recognized him.

“Oh, go ahead, Hector. You can park in the lobby for a moment. It’s quiet,” the guard replied warmly.

Hector parked the car and carefully took the bento package. He walked into the cool, fragrant lobby and headed for the elevator. Pressing the button for the 15th floor, the elevator ascended quickly, carrying death neatly wrapped in a Japanese food box.

Hector walked to unit 1508 and rang the doorbell twice. Soon he heard footsteps from inside. The door opened. Scarlet stood there dressed in stylish loungewear. Her face was a bit puffy, a remnant of yesterday’s frustration, but her eyes lit up when she saw the package with the logo of her favorite restaurant.

“Oh, Hector, what is it?” Scarlet asked, her voice shifting to a curious tone.

Hector smiled politely and handed her the package. “Good afternoon, Miss Scarlet. A lunch delivery from Mr. Collins. He said it’s special for you, and you should eat it now while it’s still warm.”

Scarlet’s eyes widened. She saw the bento box from Kaido and knew exactly how expensive it was. But what made her heart leap with joy was the yellow note stuck on it. Scarlet took the package and read the message: “I’m sorry. Special for you, sweetheart. Finish it all. Love, Alden.”

A triumphant smile spread across Scarlet’s face. Her anger at Alden instantly evaporated. She felt loved. She felt Alden finally understood what she wanted. The words “sweetheart” and “love” were the validation she had been craving.

“Ah, Alden is so sweet,” Scarlet cooed, her cheeks flushing. She looked at Hector with a bright face. “Thank you so much, Hector.”

“You’re welcome, miss. Mr. Collins said you should finish it all,” Hector added innocently, relaying the deadly instruction.

“Of course, I will. Tell Alden thank you and that I’m eating it right now. I haven’t eaten all morning. I was so upset.” Scarlet giggled. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a crisp $100 bill, and gave it to Hector. “Here, this is for you.”

“Wow. Thank you so much, Miss,” Hector said, his face beaming.

After Hector left, Scarlet closed her apartment door, her heart fluttering. She carried the bento to the marble dining table by the window overlooking the city. She sat down, opened the bento, and inhaled the delicious aroma. Without a shred of suspicion, Scarlet picked up the chopsticks. She started with the miso soup, then took a large bite of the teriyaki salmon, now laced with a fatal poison.

“So good,” Scarlet murmured as she chewed. She ate ravenously, savoring every bite while imagining that soon she would be the one and only Mrs. Alden Collins. She had no idea that every swallow was counting down the last moments of her life.

Downstairs, Hector returned to the car, relieved. Mission accomplished. He took out his phone and typed a text message to Alden as instructed: “Sir, package delivered. It was received happily, and she is eating it now. I am on standby.”

Message sent. Hector leaned back, turned on the radio, and whistled softly. He had no idea that the message he had just sent would be the death knell for his own boss.

---

While Hector’s car was speeding away from Brooklyn Heights with its deadly cargo, the atmosphere in Alden and Ara’s large home was peaceful and quiet—a stark contrast to the turmoil Alden felt at his office or the false joy Scarlet was experiencing.

Ara was kneeling on her prayer rug in her private prayer room. The clock on the wall showed it was just past noon. It was lunchtime, but that day was a Monday, and Ara was strictly observing her intermittent fasting, a wellness habit she had maintained for years.

“Mrs. Collins, you should rest,” the gentle voice of Mrs. Gable, the senior housekeeper who was like family, came from the doorway.

Ara turned, her face a little pale, but a sincere smile graced her lips. “In a moment, Mrs. Gable. Just finishing up.”

Mrs. Gable carried a tray with a glass of water for later and some painkillers. The older woman’s face was etched with worry. “Is your tooth still bothering you? You’ve been holding your cheek all morning. When you break your fast, please don’t eat anything hard.”

Ara gently touched her right cheek. It was true. Since waking up, her molar had been throbbing with pain. The pain radiated to her head, making her lose her appetite completely. Even if she weren’t fasting, she doubted she could chew anything substantial.

“Yes, it’s still a bit sore. It’s a good thing I’m fasting. It helps with self-restraint,” Ara answered quietly.

“Oh, and Mrs. Collins, the boxes of groceries for the youth shelter are already on the back porch,” Mrs. Gable reported.

Ara nodded. She stood up, smoothing her long dress. “Thank you. My plan is to deliver them myself this afternoon and share a late lunch with the children there. This house feels too lonely when I’m by myself.”

Ara walked towards the back porch, passing the empty dining room. She glanced at the long table that had been a silent witness to her husband’s cruelty that morning. A pang of hurt touched her heart, but she quickly dismissed it. She believed patience was a virtue.

Without her knowledge, destiny was working in mysterious ways to protect her. If Hector had not misunderstood and had actually delivered the poisoned bento to this house, Ara would not have eaten it because she was fasting. And if she had saved it to eat later, her severe toothache would have made her reluctant to chew the fibrous salmon. She might have given the food to someone else or thrown it away.

But divine protection was even more thorough than that. The food was not even allowed to reach her doorstep. The angel of death sent by Alden had seemingly gotten lost at a crossroad and taken a wrong turn, moving away from the woman who was busy thinking about the welfare of orphans.

As Ara was checking the rice and cooking oil on the back porch, she suddenly felt a cool breeze on her face. The heavy suffocating feeling she had felt that morning—the bad premonition that had made her anxious—suddenly vanished. Her heart felt light, as if an invisible, heavy burden had just been lifted from her shoulders.

“Goodness,” she whispered. “Why do I suddenly feel so at peace? As if I just narrowly escaped something terrible.”

“Is everything all right, ma’am?” asked the gardener, who was loading a box of instant noodles.

Ara shook her head, smiling. “It’s nothing, just a feeling. Let’s continue. We need to get there before the afternoon is over.”

At that very same moment, miles away, the murder plot devised by Alden was finding its target. But Ara remained shielded by her prayers and her good deeds, completely untouched by her husband’s malevolent intentions. She was busy arranging acts of kindness while her husband was busy arranging his own downfall.

---

The afternoon sun blazed through the windows of the 15th floor apartment, but the air conditioning kept Scarlet’s unit cool and comfortable. On the polished marble dining table, the premium bento box from Kaido was wide open, displaying its tempting contents.

Scarlet sat with her legs crossed, her smartphone in her left hand and chopsticks in her right. Before touching the food, her obligatory ritual was to photograph it. She took several aesthetic shots highlighting the thick salmon slice, the colorful salad, and of course, the yellow post-it note with Alden’s handwriting.

She uploaded the photo to her social media story, adding a caption: “Finally, lunch from hubby. Such a mood booster after yesterday’s drama. Love you, Alden.”

Scarlet smiled, satisfied. As the post uploaded, she felt victorious. She imagined Ara in her big, quiet house, probably eating leftovers while she feasted on a premium bento sent by Alden. A feeling of superiority filled her chest.

“Let’s eat,” Scarlet said cheerfully to herself.

She picked up a large piece of salmon teriyaki with her chopsticks. The thick, glistening sauce coated the fish. Without hesitation, Scarlet put it in her mouth. The savory, sweet, and salty flavors exploded on her tongue. The texture of the salmon was soft and melted in her mouth—so delicious.

However, there was a faint, almost imperceptible bitter aftertaste that lingered at the back of her tongue after she swallowed. Scarlet frowned slightly. “Hmm, a little bitter. Maybe it was slightly overgrilled,” she thought dismissively.

Hunger and happiness dulled her senses. She ignored the strange taste and took another bite, this time with rice. Bite after bite, the poison entered her body, spreading rapidly through her bloodstream to her central nervous system and vital organs.

Scarlet ate heartily while replying to messages from her socialite friends, who were praising Alden’s attentiveness. She finished half the salmon and almost all of the miso soup. The warm soup felt comforting in her stomach—at least for the first five minutes.

Suddenly, the phone slipped from Scarlet’s hand and clattered onto the table. “Hmm!” Scarlet yelped, startled. Her hand felt slick and stiff. She tried to pick up her phone, but her fingers were trembling violently, as if they had lost all strength.

The comfort in her stomach turned into an excruciating cramp, as if an invisible hand was wringing out her intestines. Cold sweat beaded on her forehead and neck.

“Oh god!” Scarlet moaned, clutching her stomach with both hands, doubling over in pain. At first, she thought it was just a stomach ache from eating late. But this pain was different. It was a burning heat that spread from her stomach up to her throat. Her breathing became ragged and shallow. Her chest felt heavy, as if a large stone was crushing her lungs.

Scarlet tried to stand up to get a glass of water, but her legs buckled, her knees gave way, and she collapsed onto the cold marble floor. The dining chair toppled over with her, creating a loud crash in the quiet apartment.

“Help!” her voice was strangled. Her tongue felt thick and numb. Her vision began to blur and spin. The objects around her—the sofa, the TV, the window—started to lose their shape.

An overwhelming fear gripped Scarlet’s mind. “What’s happening to me? What was wrong with the food?” Her mind screamed in panic. The image of Alden appeared in her head. The bento, the note—was it spoiled? Impossible. Kaido was known for its quality.

Was it poison? Her brain refused to believe it, but her body was reacting with brutal honesty. She had been poisoned.

With the last of her strength, Scarlet crawled slowly towards her phone lying under the table. Her fingers, now turning blue and stiff, tried to unlock the screen. Her breathing was a harsh wheezing sound. Saliva started to drool uncontrollably from the corner of her mouth.

She had to call someone. Who? Alden. Alden had to know. Alden had to help her.

Scarlet managed to open her recent calls. “My love, Alden.” She pressed the call button.

Across town, Alden was in the middle of his important meeting, his phone on silent in his jacket pocket. No answer.

“Alden, help me,” Scarlet whispered, tears of despair streaming down her now ashen face.

The call disconnected. Scarlet tried again, this time fumbling for the emergency button or the building’s front desk number, but the connection between her brain and her hand was severed. Her vision went dark.

The pain in her stomach reached a point of numbness. Scarlet’s body convulsed violently several times on the cold floor of her luxury apartment. The bento box on the table stood as a silent witness, its remaining food still looking delicious—and the love note now a death sentence.

In her final moments of consciousness, Scarlet saw the yellow post-it note flutter off the table, carried by the draft from the AC, landing right in front of her face on the floor: “Finish it all, sweetheart.”

The irony hit Scarlet harder than the physical pain. She felt betrayed, fooled, and discarded. The man she thought loved her had sent death to her door. Or was this meant for someone else?

The question went unanswered. Scarlet’s consciousness faded into a deep darkness. Her body stopped convulsing, now still and curled in a tragic, lifeless heap. Silence reclaimed the room, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator and the whisper of the air conditioner—companions to the body of the temptress, now powerless.

The deadly package had found its victim, though it was the wrong one. Destiny has its own way of dispensing justice. And that day, Scarlet paid the ultimate price for being the wrong home.

---

Meanwhile, on the screen of Scarlet’s phone, still dimly lit on the floor, a new WhatsApp notification from Alden appeared. A message he had secretly sent from under the meeting table after getting Hector’s text: “How’s the food? Hope you like it. Finish it all. Don’t want it to go to waste.”

The message glowed brightly next to Scarlet’s lifeless face—a final, horrifying taunt.

---

The clock in the executive boardroom showed 3:15 p.m. The atmosphere was formal and cold. Alden sat at the end of the long table. His position as a director required him to look authoritative, but beneath his expensive suit, his body was soaked in cold sweat, his foot tapping incessantly on the carpeted floor.

His mind was far from the meeting, flying across the city to his house in Brooklyn Heights. “The poison should have worked by now,” he thought. “Mrs. Gable should have found Ara by now. My phone should be ringing any second with the news I’ve been waiting for.”

Alden imagined the scenario. He would answer the phone with a shocked expression, ask to be excused from the meeting for a family emergency, rush home, act hysterically in front of his wife’s body, demand privacy, and try to block the autopsy by pulling some strings. Finally, he would be free. Ara’s fortune would be his, and he could marry Scarlet without any trouble.

Suddenly, the silence of the room was shattered by the loud, shrill ring of Alden’s phone. The standard ringtone sounded like a scream in his ears, his heart hammered against his ribs.

“This is it,” he thought. “Time to start the show.”

He looked at his phone screen. It wasn’t his home number or Mrs. Gable. It was an unknown number, a local landline. Probably the nearest hospital, he thought.

His hand trembled as he slid the green button. He pressed the phone to his ear as all eyes in the room turned to him.

“Hello, is this Mr. Alden Collins?” A woman’s voice asked urgently from the other end. The background was noisy, filled with sirens and shouting—the unmistakable sound of an emergency room.

“Yes, this is he. Who is this?” Alden asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Sir, we’re calling from the ER at Metro Health Center. We’re calling you because your number was in the victim’s recent calls,” the officer said bluntly. “Your relative is in extremely critical condition due to acute food poisoning.”

The corner of Alden’s lip twitched, almost forming a victorious smile. “It worked,” he thought. “Ara is in the hospital, just waiting for the news of her death.”

“Oh my god,” Alden began, his voice laced with feigned panic. “My wife? How is my wife?”

There was a brief pause on the other end. The officer sounded confused. “Your wife, sir? The ID we found in the victim’s wallet doesn’t seem to be your wife’s. The victim’s name is Miss Scarlet Dubois.”

Alden’s world stopped turning. His face, which had been pretending to be panicked, turned a deathly pale. His eyes widened, his pupils constricting. The blood drained from his face.

“What?” Alden whispered, his voice barely audible. “Who did you say?”

“Miss Scarlet Dubois, sir. The victim was found unconscious in her apartment by security. She ate a lunch that was there. The poison is extremely potent. Sir, you need to get here immediately—”

The officer’s words faded into a roar in Alden’s ears. “Scarlet? Why Scarlet? Didn’t I tell Hector to go to the house?”

Fragments of memory flashed through his mind—his instructions from that afternoon: “Take this to the house. To the one who’s always waiting for me.”

Alden staggered backward, his legs giving out. He collapsed back into his chair. “Mr. Collins, are you all right?” a colleague asked, concerned by the drastic change in his boss’s demeanor.

Alden didn’t answer. His mind was in chaos. He intended to kill his wife for his mistress, but fate and his own stupidly ambiguous command had diverted death to the very woman he desired.

“Sir, Mr. Collins, we need consent for immediate medical intervention,” the voice on the phone said.

Alden snapped out of his shock, and immense fear seized him—not just the fear of losing Scarlet, but the fear of the legal consequences now gaping before him.

“I’m on my way,” he stammered. He hung up and shot to his feet, ignoring the stunned looks of the meeting attendees. “Meeting’s over. I have an urgent matter to attend to,” he yelled hoarsely.

Without waiting for a response, he ran out of the room like a madman.

The ER hallway of Metro Health Center smelled of antiseptic and anxiety. Alden ran down the corridor, his breath ragged, his eyes searching wildly for any sign of Scarlet.

His steps came to a sudden halt. His feet felt nailed to the floor.

There, on a waiting bench, sat Hector, pale and terrified. Next to him stood two uniformed police officers. And the sight that made Alden’s heart stop was the woman standing calmly beside the police—Ara, his wife, the woman who was supposed to be dead.

Ara stood tall in her simple dress. Her face showed deep sadness, but also incredible strength. There was no sign of poisoning on her. She was perfectly healthy.

Alden felt his knees buckle. He wanted to turn and run, but the police had already seen him.

“There he is. That’s Mr. Collins,” Hector cried out, a mixture of relief and fear in his voice.

The two officers strode purposefully towards Alden. He took a step back, but his back hit the wall. He was trapped.

“Mr. Alden Collins?” one of the officers asked in a firm tone.

Alden swallowed hard. He looked at Ara, hoping for sympathy, but she just met his gaze with a coldness he had never seen before. It was the look of a wife who had run out of patience.

“Yes, that’s me,” Alden answered weakly.

“We need to ask you some questions regarding an attempted murder case which resulted in the victim, Miss Scarlet Dubois, passing away ten minutes ago,” the officer stated flatly.

“Deceased.” The word hit Alden like a sledgehammer. His world crumbled. Scarlet was dead. The woman he had fought dirty for was gone, killed by his own hand.

“No, impossible,” Alden hissed, tears starting to fall. “It must have been an accident, just food poisoning.”

The officer held up a clear plastic evidence bag. Inside was the messy bento box and the intact yellow post-it note. “Your driver, Hector, has given a preliminary statement. He was ordered by you to deliver this food with specific instructions. And this—” the officer pointed to the note, “—is your handwriting, is it not? ‘Finish it all, sweetheart.’ Our forensics team has already secured the remaining food, which contains a high dose of cyanide.”

Alden stared at the yellow note. His own handwriting had become his death sentence. He couldn’t deny it. Hector, in his innocence, had told them everything—how Alden had forced him to deliver it to the house for the one who was waiting, how Alden had forbidden him from asking questions.

Alden turned to Ara. “Ara, help me. This is all a misunderstanding. I didn’t mean to—”

Slowly, she didn’t scream or curse. She just took a deep breath.

“Alden,” she said softly. “Hector called me earlier, confused and crying, because Scarlet was having seizures after eating the lunch from you. He said the lunch was supposed to be for our house. He thought he made a mistake and had harmed someone.”

Ara looked directly into her husband’s eyes. “But after I saw the evidence, I realized something. Alden, Hector didn’t make a mistake. That food arrived exactly where it was supposed to, according to God’s will. If Hector had brought it to our home, I might be the one in the morgue right now.”

She shook her head slowly. “You wanted to kill me, Alden. Just for money and another woman.”

Alden dropped to his knees on the cold hospital floor. His defenses shattered. He sobbed uncontrollably, not out of repentance, but out of regret for his ruined fate. He regretted that his plan had failed. He regretted his flawed instruction.

“I’m sorry, Ara. I’m so sorry,” he wailed.

“Your lies finally caught up with you, Alden. You dug your own grave,” Ara said coldly. She turned to the police. “Please proceed, officers. I will serve as a witness that my husband did not come home today and did not send any food to my house.”

The officers nodded. “Mr. Alden Collins, you are under arrest on suspicion of premeditated murder.”

The click of handcuffs locking around Alden’s wrists was the most painful sound he had ever heard. He was hauled to his feet. As he was led away, he looked back one last time. He saw Ara comforting a still-shocked Hector. Ara looked radiant, protected by her goodness and her prayers.

As for Alden, he would spend the rest of his life behind bars, haunted by the ghost of Scarlet, who died eating the poison he had prepared. The painful plot twist for Alden was the realization that the wrong address was, in fact, the most fitting address for betrayal.

Evil will always find a way to destroy its master.

Ara walked out of the hospital with a light step. Though her heart was wounded by the knowledge of her husband’s cruelty, she was grateful that God had given her another chance at life. She would file for divorce immediately, secure her inheritance, and move on with her life, dedicating it to more worthy causes.

The evening sun greeted her warmly, bright and clear, signaling a new beginning, cleansed of the poison of Alden’s betrayal