7. A Measured Dose
Chapter seven
A Measured Dose
That night, the hidden camera Owen pulled from his canvas medical bag was no bigger than a coat button, but it was enough to end a marriage.
I sat in my wheelchair, my chest still heaving slightly from the grueling leg presses he had just forced me through. A faint, salty smell of sweat clung to the collar of my oversized cashmere sweater.
The living room was cast in shadow, bathed only by the stark blue glow of the iPad screen resting flat on the coffee table. Owen leaned over, tapping the glass surface twice. The screen buffered for a second before he brought up a silent, live video feed on the app.
“It’s motion-activated and streams straight to this app. Where do you want it?”
He held the tiny device out to me. I reached forward and pinched it carefully between my thumb and index finger.
The plastic casing felt smooth and entirely foreign against my skin.
Pressing my thumbnail hard into the edge of the tiny lens grounded the sudden rush of panic threatening to make my hands shake.
This wasn’t just a hypothetical legal strategy discussed in Lawrence’s downtown office anymore.
This was the physical trap, resting right in the palm of my hand.
I dragged my gaze away from the bright tablet and scanned the quiet room. The wall clock ticked steadily in the dark, a sharp reminder that Friday was coming. My eyes locked onto the built-in mahogany bookcase adjacent to the fireplace.
“Up there.” I pointed toward the far corner, keeping my voice low so it wouldn’t carry up the stairs. “On the third shelf, behind the ceramic bowl. It overlooks the entire rug and the wet bar.”
Owen followed the line of my finger, his eyes narrowing as he assessed the angle. He gave a short nod of approval, reaching down to slide the iPad closer to the edge of the coffee table so I could monitor the screen.
“I’ll put it up there,” he said, stepping toward me and holding his palm open to take the device back. “You just make sure the iPad is connected.”
I didn’t open my hand. I stared at the tiny black button, feeling the abrasive texture of the wheelchair armrest under my left elbow. I had spent six months letting Simon portion out my food, dictate my sleep, and carry me up the stairs like a fragile porcelain doll.
Watching Owen walk across the room to set the snare for me felt wrong. It felt too easy. If I was going to ruin my husband’s life, I needed to be the one to drive the knife. I needed the physical satisfaction of doing it myself.
I tightened my grip on the casing and looked up at him.
“No.” I shifted my bare feet forward, planting my heels firmly against the hardwood floor. “Help me up. I want to place it myself.”
Owen didn’t argue. He rolled my wheelchair across the rug to the bookcase, then stepped behind me, sliding his calloused hands firmly around my waist. The heat of his palms seeped right through the soft wool. I braced my bare feet on the hardwood, locked my jaw, and pushed upward.
My legs trembled the second they took my weight.
A deep, scorching burn tore through my shins, an agonizing shock after months of chemically induced numbness.
I squeezed my eyes shut, pushing past the pain until I was standing completely straight.
I reached a shaking arm toward the third shelf of the mahogany bookcase and tucked the plastic lens right behind the edge of a glazed ceramic bowl.
The moment my fingers left the casing, my legs gave out. I collapsed backward, landing hard in the seat of the wheelchair. My hands instantly gripped the metal armrests, my knuckles turning white as I gasped for breath.
Owen stepped to the coffee table and picked up the iPad. He adjusted the brightness, scanning the live feed. “It’s perfect. You have the whole room. Now sit down before you tear something.”
I was already sitting, my thighs trembling uncontrollably against the fabric of my loungewear.
But the pain wasn’t a symptom of decay anymore.
It was undeniable proof of my recovery. Realizing that I wasn’t permanently broken wiped away the exhaustion for a moment, leaving me lightheaded with a sudden, addictive rush of power.
I looked down at my bare legs, then up at the man standing over the tablet.
“I did it, Owen,” I whispered, the words scraping against my dry throat. “I actually stood up.”
Owen set the tablet down. The sharp, metallic zip of his canvas medical bag closing broke the silence in the room. He slung the strap over his shoulder, his expression hardening back into strict professionalism.
“You did,” he agreed, his voice tightening into a rasp. “But tomorrow night, you stay in bed. You just hit record and let them hang themselves.”
Watching Simon touch Nina on this exact rug tomorrow was going to make my skin crawl.
Owen wasn’t just giving me a medical warning; he was explicitly telling me not to blow Friday’s deadline by walking downstairs in a blind rage.
I stared at the empty space on the shelf where the lens was hidden, forcing myself to accept the terms.
I released my death grip on the armrests, letting my hands rest flat against my shaking thighs.
“I won’t make a sound. I just need the video.”
The following evening, the bedroom door clicked open.
Simon walked past the glow of my bedside lamp, carrying a tall glass filled with the familiar green sludge—an unexpected extra dose.
Tonight, there was nowhere to hide it. Owen had taken the steel thermos to the lab, and the kitchen sink was entirely out of reach.
Simon didn’t turn his back to adjust his briefcase. He didn’t check his phone. He simply stood there, crossing his arms over his chest, his slate-grey eyes tracking my every movement.
He held the glass out. I reached up, my fingers wrapping around the condensation coating the sides.
“Drink the whole thing, Audrey,” he instructed, his voice slick with fake concern. “You need the calories.”
The sharp scent of kale and apple masked the chemical rot underneath.
The muscles in my neck pulled tight, a sharp throb of tension radiating through my jaw.
I brought the rim to my lips and let a tiny drop seep onto my tongue.
The metallic, chalky bitterness was instantly recognizable.
Every physical instinct screamed at me to spit it out, but I couldn’t break the illusion now.
Before the poison could slide down my throat, I jerked my shoulders forward and hacked.
I forced a violent, wet cough, intentionally tipping the glass.
The thick sludge sloshed over the rim. It cascaded down my chin, soaking straight through the thin cotton of my pajama shirt and pooling across the pristine white duvet.
The sudden, cold shock of the wet sludge clinging to my ribs made me shiver, but I didn’t stop coughing. I drew a ragged breath, clutching tightly at my chest to sell the physical distress, ignoring the raw burn in my throat.
“I’m sorry,” I gasped out between manufactured wheezes. “It went down the wrong pipe. I can’t catch my breath.”
Simon let out a sharp, irritated sigh. His polite, attentive demeanor vanished the second the green stain spread across his expensive linens.
He lunged forward and snatched the half-empty glass from my hands, slamming it onto the wooden nightstand with a loud crack.
He stared at the mess, a tense silence stretching between us in the dim light.
He hated dirt. He hated losing control over any part of his house.
“Jesus, Audrey, look at this mess,” he snapped, dragging a hand through his perfectly styled hair. “You ruined the duvet.”
I shrank back against the headboard. The damp cotton clung uncomfortably to my skin, a cold, cloying weight against my chest. But despite the ruined sheets, a cold thrill sharpened my focus.
The spreading stain forced his hand, making it impossible for him to just walk away.
I looked down at my lap, deliberately letting my shoulders slump forward to make myself look completely helpless.
I let my empty hands tremble against the wet sheets, staring up at him with wide, apologetic eyes.
“I’m sorry. My hands just started shaking. I didn’t mean to.”
“Take the shirt off before the stain sets into the mattress pad,” Simon ordered.
He grabbed the top edge of the duvet in both fists and yanked.
The rough friction of the thick fabric scraping across the sheets seemed loud in the quiet room.
He ripped the covering entirely off my legs, leaving me exposed on the barren mattress.
Without a word of protest, I reached up, grasped the damp hem of my pajama top, and pulled the sticky fabric over my head.
I dropped the ruined shirt onto the floor beside the nightstand, leaving me stripped down to just a plain grey bra and my sweatpants. Simon scooped the wet duvet into his arms, muttering a bitter curse under his breath as he prepared to march the mess down the hall to the laundry room.
Before his foot crossed the threshold, a sharp, melodic chime rang out from the foyer. The front door clicked open a few seconds later.
“Hey, Simon! I brought the Q3 files. Are we ready to work?”
Nina’s voice echoed up the staircase. Her overly cheerful tone carried effortlessly down the hall, instantly breaking the quiet standoff in the bedroom.
Simon visibly relaxed the second he heard her voice.
His shoulders dropped, and he didn’t even bother looking at me.
He simply let go, dropping the ruined, heavy blankets directly onto the hardwood floor.
A cold draft washed across the room, biting into my exposed skin.
Squeezing my arms against my ribs, I shivered as a rush of goosebumps broke out along my arms.
A month ago, watching him abandon me half-naked on a stripped bed to go downstairs to my best friend would have broken me. Tonight, my pulse hammered, and a sudden, sharp thrill rushed through me. ‘Working through financials’ was their thinly veiled code, and the trap was already set.
The anticipation of finally catching them on camera made his blatant disrespect much easier to tolerate. I pressed my back against the headboard, drawing in a long, slow breath to keep myself from smiling.
“Yeah, I’m coming!” Simon shouted toward the open doorway. He spun back to me, eagerly adjusting his shirt cuffs. “I have to go work. Just go to sleep, Audrey.”
He was already stepping over the discarded pile of wet linens.
He didn’t offer to grab a fresh blanket from the closet, and he certainly didn’t care that I was shivering in the dark.
He just wanted me unconscious so he could claim the rest of the house for himself.
I leaned my head against the pillows, forcing my voice to sound soft and completely harmless.
“Have a good night working, you two.”
Simon paused in the doorframe, his hand gripping the brass knob. He threw one final, patronizing glance back at the mattress.
“We won’t stay up late. I’ll check on you in a few hours.”
The brass latch clicked shut. Simon’s footsteps immediately receded down the hallway, moving fast toward the stairs.
I didn’t wait for the sound to fade. I reached down to the foot of the mattress, my fingers catching the hem of a dry cotton sweatshirt left behind from this morning.
I pulled it over my head, welcoming the warmth of the fabric in the quiet room.
Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I planted my feet and stood up. The muscles in my calves trembled under the strain.
“Hold steady,” I muttered, shuffling to the door and gripping the deadbolt.
I twisted the lock. The heavy metallic thud echoed in the dark, leaving me completely alone. Reaching beside the doorframe, I flicked the wall switch, plunging the bedroom into pitch blackness.
Navigating by memory, I made my way back to the center of the barren mattress. I brushed my hands against the wooden nightstand, feeling around until I located the cold, smooth metal of the iPad. I brought the tablet into my lap and tapped the screen. A stark blue glare illuminated the dark room.
I opened the hidden camera app and hit record.
The screen flickered to life. A high-definition view of the living room snapped into focus below me. Downstairs, Nina’s muffled laughter drifted up through the floor vents, but the tablet’s microphone picked up every word perfectly.
“She’s out cold.” Simon’s voice filtered through the small speaker. He glided into the frame, moving directly toward the wet bar. “She spilled half the dose, but it’s enough.”
Nina stepped onto the Persian rug behind him. “God, I hate this house. Pour me a drink before we start.”
A cold knot of nausea tightened in my stomach. Suspecting the betrayal was one thing, but watching it happen right in front of me was a much deeper cruelty. I couldn’t tear my eyes from the screen as the man who crushed poison into my morning smoothies poured scotch into two crystal glasses.
My fingers gripped the hard edges of the tablet casing. I forced the anger to the back of my mind. I stopped looking at them as if they were my husband and my best friend. They were just targets now, handing me the exact evidence Lawrence needed to ruin them.
Simon turned, handing the amber liquid to my best friend.
“Here,” Simon instructed, his voice slick with anticipation. “Drink up, and then take that dress off.”
I didn’t flinch.
Drink up, Nina, I thought, the blue light washing over my face. Take everything you want.