My sister Sofia’s name starts with S.
My own sister and my husband wanted me to die.
Finally, with shaky hands, I grab my phone and call 911.
“Please help me,” I whisper to the operator. My husband is dying. I think he’s been poisoned.
But even as I pronounce these words, I know it’s too late.
Marcus is no longer moving.
His eyes are still open, but now they are empty, as if there was no one at home.
The poison that should kill me in my precious Chicago attic, on the other hand, has killed him.
And I have no idea what I’m supposed to do now.
Three weeks ago, everything in my life was perfect.
At least that’s what I thought.
I was sitting in my office on the corner, on the 40th floor of Chicago’s Willis Tower, contemplating Lake Michigan and feeling master of the world.
And in many ways, it was.
My hotel business was booming.
The Victoria Grand in downtown Chicago was fully booked for the next six months. My Miami Beach place was generating more money than I ever imagined.
Even my newest hotel in Beverly Hills was already generating profits.
I had worked very hard to build this empire.
I started with nothing but a small loan and a big dream when I was just 22 years old.
Now, at 29 years old, my estate exceeded 15 million dollars.
Marcus seemed very proud of me back then.
He used to show off to his friends from his wife’s success.
“My Victoria will become the next great hotel tycoon,” she used to say at dinners in our Lincoln Park neighborhood. “I’m just lucky I chose me.”
But now, looking back, I can see when things started to change.
It all started with small questions that once seemed innocent.
Marcus was asking me about my business accounts while we had breakfast.
“Honey, what bank do you use for the hotel’s earnings?” he said, sipping his coffee like an informal conversation.
Or I would bring out my life insurance while watching TV in the living room.
“Victoria, do you think we have enough life insurance? What would happen to your hotels if something bad happened to you?”
I thought I was just being a loving husband, planning our future together, maybe thinking about having kids someday and wanting to make sure we had financial security.
But then I started to notice other things.
Marcus started asking me detailed questions about my daily routine.
Where was he going?
Who would I meet?
What time would I get home?
He said he just wanted to plan nice dinners for us, but it gave me the feeling that I was watching every one of my moves.
My sister Sofia also started coming more often.
She would show up at our home in Lincoln Park without warning, always when I was at work.
Marcus would later say to me, “Ah, Sophia went on to say hi. We were talking about family stuff.”
Sofia had always been jealous of my success.
Growing up in our little apartment on the south side of Chicago, she got angry every time I got good grades or won awards at school.
“Why does Victoria have it all?” he complained to our parents.
When I opened my first hotel, Sophia made hurtful comments about how I was bragging and believing myself better than everyone else.
But I thought I had already overcome that jealousy.
Now he was 26 years old, old enough to rejoice in his sister’s success.
I was wrong.
One afternoon, I arrived home early after a meeting in downtown Chicago and found Marcus and Sophia sitting very close together on our couch.
They were whispering, and when they saw me, they quickly turned away.
“Hi, honey,” Marcus said in a feigned voice and too cheerful. Sophia was telling me about her new job.
But Sophia seemed guilty, like a girl they catch stealing cookies.
And Marcus kept playing with his hands, something he only did when he was nervous.
I couldn’t sleep that night.
Something didn’t fit me, but I couldn’t figure out what it was.
Marcus was lying next to me, breathing normally, but I kept thinking about how weird they had behaved.
The following week, I decided to check our computer history.
I was telling myself that I was being paranoid, but I needed to know what Marcus was doing on the internet when I wasn’t home.
What I found froze my blood.
Marcus had been looking for things like undetectable poisons, how to make death seem natural and pay for life insurance after the spouse’s passing.
I had also been looking for information about my business accounts and how to transfer ownership of my hotels.
I printed all the search history and hid it in my office in Willis Tower.
I didn’t know what to do with this information.
One part of me wanted to face Marcus directly, but another part of me was afraid of what I could do if I knew I was suspicious.
I started paying more attention to everything Marcus did.
That’s when I realized that I had been stirring my bag, looking at my phone while I was showering and asking strange questions to my partner, James, about my health and my stress levels.
My perfect marriage was falling apart, and I was just beginning to understand how dangerous my situation really was.
Two weeks after finding those horrible search results on my computer, my body started betraying me in ways I had never experienced before.
It started with my stomach.
Every morning, I woke up in our Lincoln Park house with the feeling that someone had twisted my guts.
The pain was so intense that I could barely stand upright.
I thought maybe I was just stressed about the job, but it kept getting worse.
Then came the nausea.
I couldn’t hold the food, especially in the morning.
Marcus was making me breakfast before I went to my office at Willis Tower, and I had to run to the bathroom to vomit.
He seemed very worried, always wondering if I needed to see a doctor.
“Maybe you work too hard, honey,” he said, rubbing my back while I was leaning over the toilet. All those trips between Chicago, Miami and Los Angeles are probably running out of you.
But the worst was my hair.
I started finding lumps on my pillow every morning.
When my hair brushed, I dropped long strands of dark brown hair.
I had always felt proud of my thick, healthy hair, and now I fell out like I was sick.
My partner, James, noticed the changes immediately.
We were having lunch at a restaurant near Navy Pier when he stopped eating and stared at me.
“Victory, you have a terrible look,” he said in a voice full of worry. When was the last time you saw a doctor? You’ve lost at least seven kilos in the last month.
I looked down at my hands and realized I was right.
My wedding ring was loose on my finger.
My clothes were large, as if I belonged to someone bigger.
“I’ve just been tired,” I said.
But even I didn’t believe my own words.
James insisted that he see Dr. Thompson, our GP in downtown Chicago.
I made an appointment for the following week, but deep down I was beginning to suspect that my illness was not natural.
That weekend, while Marcus was supposedly in his office at the Loop, I decided to search our home.
I started in his office, checking every drawer and closet.
Most were normal things: invoices, working documents, old photos of our happiest times.
But then I found his workshop in our basement.
Marcus had always been very handshift, fixing things at home and setting up furniture.
