My Husband Gifted Me A Silk Dress That Nearly Killed His Sister. He Blamed Me For Her “Allergy,” But I Found Drugs In Her Tea. What Is He Trying To Hide?
I hadn’t even had time to recover, to pick up the phone lying inert on the cold floor, when from the main entrance the screech of brakes tore through the silent night. The iron gate was pushed open with brutal violence, creating a terrifying crash.
Then the sound of footsteps followed, not of someone walking quickly, but of someone running desperately. The pounding of shoes on the patio tiles sounded like war drums.
Before I could understand what was happening, a figure burst into the house like a whirlwind. It was Matthew, but not the Matthew I knew.
His hair was disheveled, his work shirt rumpled, and his eyes—my god, his eyes were bloodshot, crisscrossed with red veins like a crazed wild animal. He didn’t look at me even though I was standing right in front of him.
His gaze swept the living room and then he lunged up the stairs toward Clara’s room. He shoved me aside, a heedless push that made me stagger and almost fall.
Horrified, I followed him up, my steps feeling like lead. From Clara’s room, the desperate wails of my mother-in-law could already be heard. “Clara! My child! Why are you like this?” “Wake up, please!”
When I reached the doorway of the room, a gruesome scene froze me to the spot. Clara, my fragile sister-in-law, was curled up on the floor, convulsing.
Beside her, the jade green dress lay crumpled. Her whole body was shaking in spasms.
Her eyes were rolled back, lifeless, and white foam was bubbling from the corner of her lips. My mother-in-law was kneeling beside her, pounding the floor with her fists while frantically shaking her daughter.
Her face was bathed in tears mixed with an infinite rage. Seeing me at the door, Isabelle reacted like a wild beast spotting its enemy.
She leaped up and lunged at me, her eyes burning with hatred. “You! You witch! You’ve hurt my daughter!” “You came to this house to kill her, didn’t you?”
She screamed, raising her hand to slap me, but Matthew stopped her just in time. He didn’t stop her to protect me, but to restrain his mother. “Mom, calm down. We have to call an ambulance.” “We need to get her to the hospital now.”
I stood there rooted to the spot. My mind was blank, unable to think.
What the hell was happening? Why was Clara like this?
The dress, yes, it was all because of the dress. But a dress can’t cause harm; it’s not poison or a dagger.
What did I do wrong? I only received a gift, a gift my own husband had sent me.
Amid the chaos, Matthew lifted Clara into his arms. The girl was still convulsing, her body limp in her brother’s arms.
Isabelle ran after them, relentlessly cursing me with the most venomous words. “Snake! Vixen! Get out of my house!” “Cursed be the hour you entered here!”
When Matthew passed me, he paused for a second. He looked at me, but his gaze held no trace of yesterday’s tenderness.
It was cold, distant, and filled with hatred. It was a look one gives a mortal enemy.
He hissed each word through his teeth like a knife in my heart. “You’re still here? Get out of my sight!”
I stumbled back, hitting the doorframe painfully. I watched them—a mother crazed for her daughter, a brother terrified for his sister—rush Clara to the car and disappear into the night.
They left me alone in the immense house. The house suddenly became terrifyingly silent.
The silence after the storm is even more chilling than the screams. I walked trembling into Clara’s room.
The room was a mess, as if there had been a struggle. The empty gift box lay in the middle of the room, and the dress—that fateful jade green dress—was still there, crumpled on the cold floor.
I slowly bent down, picking it up with shaking hands. It was still the same soft, cool silk, the same transparent green color as a lake’s water.
But now, in my eyes, it was no longer a gift of happiness. It looked like the evidence of a crime, a deadly curse that I unknowingly had activated.
I don’t know how long I sat there. My body was cold, not from the night wind, but from a chill that rose from the depths of my soul.
My own husband, the person I loved and trusted most, had accused me of being a murderer. My mother-in-law had cursed and expelled me.
And all of this had happened in less than an hour. What have I done?
I asked myself hundreds, thousands of times, but I couldn’t find an answer. I didn’t sleep that night.
I sat in the dark living room, looking out at the empty yard. I waited, waited for a call.
I waited for Matthew to come back and tell me it was all a misunderstanding. But there was nothing, only the dense darkness and an invisible fear surrounding me.
I knew that from the moment Matthew screamed that phrase over the phone, my life had changed forever. My marriage, which I thought was peaceful, concealed a terrible secret.
It was a secret in which, whether I liked it or not, I was already involved. I had to find out the truth, not just to clear my name, but also to understand why the husband I loved so much could look at me with the eyes of a mortal enemy.
Just before dawn, I fell asleep on the cold sofa. My body was curled up from exhaustion, but even that intermittent sleep was filled with nightmares.
I saw Matthew and my mother-in-law standing before me, their eyes ablaze, endlessly repeating: “You killed her.”
I woke with a start, drenched in sweat. Dawn was breaking through the window, but for me, the night seemed to still envelop everything.
Around 8:00 a.m., the sound of a car stopping outside the gate startled me. My heart pounded.
I ran to the door with a glimmer of hope. Maybe Clara was fine; maybe Matthew had calmed down and would explain everything.
But that hope vanished as soon as the car door opened. Only my mother-in-law and Matthew got out.
Their faces were haggard, with dark circles under their eyes and filled with hatred. Isabelle walked past me like a shadow, without a word, and went straight into the house.
Matthew, however, stopped in front of me. The distance between us was barely an arm’s length, but I felt an abyss separating us.
With a trembling, dry voice after a sleepless night, I asked: “Clara? How is Clara?”
He looked at me with a strangely terrifying look. His dry lips moved, uttering a phrase as cold as ice. “She’s not dead, but it’s as if she is.”
