I didn’t push further, especially after he leaned in, kissed my forehead, and told me he loved me. Still, a quiet suspicion began to grow inside me. That tea… it didn’t feel right anymore.
That same night, I hesitated to drink it. He noticed immediately. He looked uneasy, made a few jokes, and watched me until I finally took a sip.
Days passed, and everything stayed the same—the same cup, the same red drink, the same brief trips outside beforehand.
One evening, I decided I needed to know the truth.
When he said he was going out to “check the car,” I quietly followed him. Instead of going to the driveway, he walked around to the backyard. He looked around carefully, as if making sure no one was watching, then knelt behind the shed.
My heart was racing as I watched.
I saw him reach out and take something from someone hidden from my view, then slip it into his pocket. Moments later, he came back inside and went straight to the kitchen to make the tea.
That was the moment I knew—I would never drink it again.
He handed me the cup like always. “Here you go, honey. Your special tea—the one that keeps you glowing.”
I looked at him and said calmly, “If it’s so good, you should drink it.”
He laughed nervously. “No, no. This one’s made just for you.”
“I’m not drinking it,” I said firmly. “You drink it.”
He tried to insist that he’d already had his, but I cut him off. “Stop lying. You’re going to drink that tea and tell me exactly what’s in it.”
His face changed instantly. He grew tense, then angry, clutching the cup tightly. The liquid inside looked darker now—more red than before.
“What’s in that cup?” I demanded. “Tell me right now, or I’m leaving.”
Suddenly, he began to laugh—a cold, unfamiliar laugh.
“Where would you go?” he said. “You have no one. You’re an orphan. I’m all you have. Without me, your life would still be nothing.”
I felt like the ground disappeared beneath me. The man standing in front of me was not the one I had married.
Then, someone tried to open the front door.
He shouted in panic, “Don’t come in! Stay out!”
But the door opened anyway.
An elderly woman stepped inside. She looked straight at me and said softly, “Child… you must stop drinking what was never meant for you.”
She held up a small pouch stained dark red. My husband panicked, shouting that he had paid her, that he had followed her instructions exactly.
She shook her head slowly. “That tea was never meant to bind love,” she said. “Your wife has already had too much.”
My husband begged her for more time, but her expression turned cold. “That is not love,” she said firmly. “It is control.”
She reached out and touched his forehead. He let out a scream and collapsed to the floor.
Before leaving, she turned to me one last time. “Go,” she said quietly. “Leave this place tonight.”
I looked down at the spilled, dark red tea on the floor.
Without another word, I grabbed my keys… and walked out the door.