His Poisoned Love, My Escape

My husband, Austen, the man the world saw as my devoted admirer, was the artist of my pain. He had punished me ninety-five times, and this was the ninety-sixth.

Then, a message from my stepsister, Joyce, buzzed on my phone: a photo of her perfectly manicured hand holding champagne, captioned, "Celebrating another victory. He really does love me more."

A second message from Austen followed, "My love, are you resting? I' ve asked the doctor to come. I' m sorry it had to be this way, but you must learn. I' ll be home soon to take care of you."