**“My Husband Always Gave Me Crimson Tea at Night — Until I Discovered It Wasn’t Tea.”**

The first night my husband handed me that crimson tea, I thought it was tenderness—his quiet, gentle way of taking care of me.

I never imagined there was anything unusual about it.

At first, I didn’t question a thing.

Every night, without fail, he would bring it to me—warm, faintly steaming, always in the same cup.

“Here you go, sweetheart,” he’d say, smiling softly.

And like clockwork, I drank it.

It had almost no flavor.

But then… little things started to feel off.

Each night, before preparing the tea, **he stepped outside** for a few minutes.

Not to smoke. Not to take a call.

Just… outside.

Then he’d return, head straight to the kitchen, and moments later, the crimson tea would be in my hands.

But he never drank it.

Not once.

One evening, after he set the cup in front of me, I finally asked,

“Daniel… why don’t you ever have some?”

He gave me that same warm smile.

“Oh, I already had mine earlier. This one’s just for you.”

I opened my mouth to question him further, but he leaned down, kissed my forehead, and whispered,

“I love you.”

I smiled back, though something inside me tightened.

“I love you too.”

But that night… I didn’t want to drink the tea.

He noticed instantly.

A flicker—barely a breath—of fear crossed his face before he forced a laugh and teased me gently.

And somehow, despite my unease… I still drank it.

Days went by.

Same ritual.

Same cup.

Same crimson liquid.

And every single night, he went outside first.

Finally, I made up my mind.

I was going to see what he did out there.

So when he told me he needed to “check the back gate,” I followed—quiet, careful, keeping to the shadows.

He walked toward the far corner of the yard, looking over his shoulder twice.

Then he crouched behind the old garden shed.

My heart hammered so loud I was sure he’d hear it.

I crept closer, breath shallow.

Then he leaned down and did something—

and when I saw **what** he was touching…

I froze.

My blood went cold.

“Oh my God…” I whispered.

Because behind that shed, hidden under a tarp, was—

Behind the shed, under the filthy tarp, was a **crate**.

Not a toolbox.

Not storage.

A crate.

And inside it… I saw **glass jars**.

Dozens of them.

Each one filled with the same **crimson liquid** he’d been giving me every night.

My stomach lurched.

My hands shook.

I stepped closer—just enough to see the labels on the jars.

Dates.

Times.

Amounts.

And a word written in his neat, careful handwriting:

**“HER.”**

My name.

Before I could move, a voice whispered behind me.

“You weren’t supposed to see that.”

I spun around.

Daniel stood there, the warm, gentle smile gone.

What replaced it was something colder… something calculated.

He didn’t look angry.

He looked **resigned**, as if he had been preparing for this moment.

“I tried to do it slowly,” he said, taking a small step toward me.

“So your body wouldn’t notice. So you wouldn’t suffer. That’s why the doses were small.”

My pulse slammed against my throat.

“W-what is this?” I managed.

He tilted his head, almost pitying.

“It was supposed to be peaceful for you. You weren’t supposed to be frightened.”

I stumbled back, eyes darting toward the house.

Toward escape.

But he saw it.

He always saw everything.

“You should never have followed me,” he said quietly.

And then—before I could scream, run, or think—

he reached into his jacket and pulled out the **same cup** he used every night.

Steam rose from it.

Crimson.

Too familiar.

He held it out to me, arm steady, eyes unblinking.

“Drink,” he whispered. “This is the last one.”

My mind spun.

My breath shattered.

But in that moment—while he focused on the cup—I made my choice.

I grabbed the crate beside us and **hurled it at the ground**.

Glass shattered everywhere—red liquid spilling over the dirt, soaking into the grass.

Daniel snapped—an instant, sharp, terrifying shift.

He lunged for the cup, trying to save every drop.

That was my opening.

I ran.

Straight across the yard.

Straight into the house.

Straight to the phone.

Behind me, I heard him shout my name—once, twice—voice breaking into something feral.

I reached the kitchen.

Dialed.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“My husband—” I gasped. “He’s been poisoning me. Please. Send someone.”

Daniel appeared in the doorway—breathless, wild-eyed.

But this time…

**he wasn’t smiling.**

He froze when he saw the phone.

Saw the broken jars.

Saw the truth unraveling in real time.

For the first time since the night he handed me that crimson tea…

**he realized he’d lost control.**

The sirens arrived minutes later.

He didn’t run.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t fight.

They took him away in silence.

When they asked if I wanted to see him before he was driven off, I shook my head.

There was nothing left to say.

And as the police car disappeared down the road, I finally understood:

The tea was never love.

Never care.

Never devotion.

It was a countdown.

One he thought I’d never hear ticking.

But I heard it.

And I survived it.

**Decisive. Final. Over.**