On our anniversary, I saw my husband spike my drink—so I switched it with my mother-in-law’s….

My husband thought he was being subtle when he slipped the white powder into my champagne glass while I was in the restroom. He did not know I was watching him

through the crack in the decorative partition. He also did not know that 30 seconds later, I would switch my glass with his mother’s—the same mother who had just spent the last two hours calling me gutter trash in front of half of Atlanta’s elite. What happened next was not just a disaster. It was a revelation that would burn their entire dynasty to the ground. Before I tell you how I destroyed three lives in one night, let me know where you are watching from in the comments. Hit like and subscribe if you have ever had to serve karma ice cold.

I am Simone, 32 years old, and tonight was supposed to be a celebration. Five years of marriage to Marcus, a man I thought was a king, but who turned out to be a court jester in a designer suit. We were at Bakanalia, one of the most exclusive restaurants in Atlanta—the kind of place where the tasting menu costs more than my father’s first car, and the silence is so heavy you can hear the ice melting in the crystal buckets. I sat there

in my emerald silk gown, trying to keep my posture straight, while my mother-in-law, Beatatrice, dissected my existence with the precision of a surgeon. Beatatrice was 60, wearing a Chanel suit that probably cost $20,000 and a string of pearls that had belonged to her grandmother. She looked at me with eyes that were cold and dead like a shark.

“You know, Simone,” she said, loud enough for the table of bank executives next to us to hear, “green really is not your color. It highlights the yellow undertones in your skin. It makes you look like you are suffering from jaundice. Or perhaps it is just the lighting in here. It is so difficult to dress appropriately when one does not have the breeding for it.”

I took a sip of water and smiled. I was a forensic accountant. I spent my days hunting down hidden assets and exposing corporate fraud. I knew how to keep a poker face. I knew Beatatrice hated me because I came from Bankhead, not Buckhead. She hated that I worked for my money instead of inheriting it. She hated that I did not belong to the Jack and Jill club

or the right sorority.

“Thank you for the fashion advice, Beatatrice,” I said, my voice calm. “I will keep that in mind.”

Beside me, my husband Marcus swirled his cognac. He did not defend me. He never defended me. He just checked his watch and tapped his foot nervously. On his other side sat Khloe, his sister-in-law. Khloe was 28, white, and possessed a smile that was all teeth and no warmth. She was married to Marcus’s younger brother, but tonight she was sitting uncomfortably close to my husband. Khloe reached into her purse and pulled out a small envelope, sliding it across the table to me.

“Happy anniversary, Simone,” she chirped. “I got you a little something. It is a voucher for Dr. Stein in Buckhead. He is a miracle worker. He did my nose and my chin. I told him about you and he said he could do wonders for your profile, you know—just to refine things a bit so you fit in better with the family photos.”

Beatatrice let out a short, cruel laugh.

“Oh, that is

thoughtful. Khloe, Simone certainly needs all the help she can get. God knows we have tried.”

I looked at the voucher. It was an insult wrapped in a gift bow. They wanted me to carve up my face to look more like them, to look less like me. I felt the familiar burn of humiliation in my chest, but I pushed it down. I excused myself to go to the restroom, needing a moment to breathe before I said something that would cause a scene. The restroom was down a dimly lit corridor lined with abstract art. I fixed my makeup in the mirror, staring at my own reflection. You are successful, I told myself. You own your own firm. You paid off your parents’ mortgage. You are worth more than all of them combined.

I walked back toward the private dining room, but stopped just before the entrance. Through the decorative wooden lattice, I had a clear view of our table. Beatatrice was busy inspecting her reflection in a compact mirror, putting on more lipstick. Khloe was texting on

her phone, smiling at the screen. And Marcus. Marcus was looking around nervously. I watched as he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small paper packet. With a quick flick of his wrist, he dumped a white powder into my champagne flute. The powder fizzed for a microsecond and dissolved. My heart stopped. My own husband—the man I had vowed to love and cherish—was drugging me. I did not know what it was. Poison, a sedative, something worse. His eyes were cold, detached. There was no love there, only calculation. He stirred the drink with his pinky finger, then wiped it on a napkin. He sat back and signaled for the waiter to bring the check. He was planning something. I could feel it in my bones.

I had two choices. I could run in there, scream, and call the police, but it would be my word against his. He was a respected real estate developer. I was the angry wife from the wrong side of the tracks. Or I could play the game. I took a

deep breath and walked back into the room. My face was a mask of pleasant neutrality.

As I approached the table, fortune smiled on me. A waiter passing by tripped slightly, bumping into Marcus’s chair and spilling a drop of red wine sauce near his elbow. Marcus exploded.