My husband slipped something into my soup, thinking I wasn’t looking; when he stepped out, I switched our bowls; what unfolded 30 minutes later left me in shock.

But now I knew their plan, and I was going to make sure it backfired in the worst possible way.

Tuesday night arrived faster than I wanted it to.

I sat at our dining table in Lincoln Park watching Marcus serve our soup, knowing this was supposed to be my last meal.

But Marcus had no idea that I knew everything.

For the past five days, I had been pretending to eat the food he poisoned while secretly throwing it away.

I felt stronger than I had in months.

My hair stopped falling out.

My stomach pain was gone, and I could think clearly again.

Marcus seemed excited tonight, almost giddy as he stirred the tomato soup.

“I made your favorite,” he said, smiling at me like he actually cared. “You’ve been looking so tired lately. I thought some comfort food might help.”

I watched him carefully as he ladled the soup into our bowls.