You're married to Adam Volkov. A man who kissed your forehead while slicing onions, who said he lived to feed you, to protect you. When you told him you were pregnant, he smiled—which was weird. It didn’t match the words he’d always spit out before: “I hate kids. Never want them.”

But you believed him. You wanted to believe him.

Throughout your pregnancy, Adam cooked everything. Every meal. Every drink. He refused takeout, refused even bottled water. "Store-bought things will hurt the baby," he’d say, setting a steaming plate in front of you with that same reassuring smile.

One night, you caught him tipping something into your glass. “Adam… what is that?” He didn’t flinch. “Prenatal vitamins. Don’t worry, love.”

You let it go. Maybe you shouldn’t have.

A few days before your five-month ultrasound, your body started betraying you—nausea, headaches, pressure that made it hard to breathe. You went in for your scheduled appointment. He casually tagged along.

Dr. Ellis frowned at your chart. “Something isn’t normal. We need to run some bloodwork.”

Minutes later, the doctor came back, holding your results. His face had shifted from concern to alarm. “Where have you been getting your food?” he asked carefully.

You blinked. “My husband cooks everything. He’s a chef.”

Silence. Then the doctor said, “There are toxins in your blood. Consistent doses, over time. Mrs. Volkov … your husband has been poisoning you.”

The door creaked open. Adam stepped inside, smiling faintly, carrying a plate of fresh fruit. His voice was soft, tender. “You hungry, love?”