Liam and I had only been married eleven months when he announced his mom invited us to Sage Hill for a week. I didn’t love being volunteered, but I agreed—marriage is compromise. When we arrived, Betty welcomed Liam with open arms and greeted me with a stiff, practiced kindness. The house radiated curated warmth—her cooking, her praise for Liam, the photo albums—all carefully tuned to remind everyone of who mattered most.
But beneath the charm, something felt off. One night, unable to sleep, I caught Betty in the kitchen whispering over burning photos of me, surrounding a candle and a bowl of ash. She claimed it was a prayer for health, but my gut screamed otherwise. When I told Liam, he found nothing—no candle, no photos. He brushed it off gently, but I couldn’t.
The next day, alone in her room, I discovered crude dolls with my face, pages of symbols, and scorched wedding photos. I took pictures of it all. That night at dinner, I exposed her calmly, opening the drawer in front of Liam. He stared in disbelief, and Betty admitted she was trying to “help” him find someone better—like Alice, the girl from his past. Her love was conditional, twisted into control.
By morning, I posted everything to her church circle. Whispers turned into shameful calls. As we packed, Liam finally saw through the fog. We left together. “Thank you for fighting when I didn’t know how,” he said. I smiled. The most powerful spell I had wasn’t revenge—it was daylight. And I wasn’t going anywhere.
