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  • Writer's pictureLifa

Love in Death

The arsenic wouldn’t completely dissolve.

“He won’t notice,” Ann murmured, her breath a velvet tingle that seared my fears away.

We walked together to the sunroom, our skirts caressing one another. Mistress and servant, both caged in silk-wrapped bones.

Not for long.

“Lemonade, husband?” I asked.

A grunt sent ripples through his wrinkles, and he downed the glass, distracted by the hatred etched in Ann’s face.

As he seized, I took her hand.

As he fell, she bit my lip.

I knew then I’d been driven by greed. For love. For her.

And only death could grant it to me.


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