“The milk has gone bad again,” Sarah whispered, her trembling fingers wrapped around the glass bottle. The putrid smell wafted through our dimly lit Victorian kitchen, where shadows danced on peeling wallpaper.

I watched her from the doorway, my beloved wife of three months. Her raven hair cascaded down her back, and her pale skin seemed to glow in the gaslight. But something was wrong. Something had been wrong since the day we wed.

“Perhaps we should call the dairy again,” I suggested, stepping closer. “This is the third time this week.”

Sarah turned to me, her dark eyes wide with an emotion I couldn’t quite place. “No, Charles. The milk isn’t the problem. You are.”

Her words hit me like ice water. “What do you mean, my love?”

“I’ve seen you,” she hissed, her lovely features contorting. “Every night, sneaking down here, tainting the milk with your precious chemicals. Did you think I wouldn’t notice my tea tasting different? The way my mind grew foggy?”

I felt my heart race. “Sarah, you’re being paranoid. The summer heat-”

“The summer heat didn’t make me find these.” She reached into her dress pocket and produced a handful of small vials. My vials. “I found your journal too, Charles. About your first wife. And your second. Both died of mysterious illnesses, didn’t they?”

I remained silent, watching her carefully. The moonlight streaming through the window cast strange patterns across her face.

“But you made one mistake,” she continued, a cruel smile playing on her lips. “I’ve been switching our milk glasses for weeks now. How are you feeling, darling? A bit weak? Confused perhaps?”

My vision suddenly blurred. The room began to spin. “You… you couldn’t have…”

“Oh, but I could. And I did.” Sarah stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You see, before I married you, I did my research. I knew about your wives. I knew everything. And I decided to beat you at your own game.”

As my knees buckled and I collapsed against the counter, she leaned down, her breath warm against my ear. “The milk has indeed gone bad, my love. But only for you.”

The last thing I saw before darkness took me was Sarah’s triumphant smile, bathed in moonlight, as she raised my own poison-laced milk glass in a final toast to our doomed marriage.

My vision faded to black as the sound of breaking glass echoed through the kitchen. The hunter had become the hunted, and I had no one to blame but myself.