The Perfect Husband’s Deadly Menu

Chapter One: Blue Insulated Bucket

That morning, while my husband was trying to play the role of an affectionate model husband, he brought death into my office in a light blue thermos bucket.

At 7:42 in the morning, I stood alone on the 26th floor of the Wittman-Reed Capital Building in downtown Chicago. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Lake Michigan shone with silvery waves, and I was staring at a pile of quarterly financial statements. As always, I arrived at the company earlier than everyone else. That’s what one would expect from Claire Ward—the daughter of the founder, managing partner, a woman who can read a balance sheet faster than most men can read a menu.

However, unbeknownst to anyone in the building, not even my husband, I had spent the past forty minutes kneeling at the marble sink in the executive restroom, suffering the kind of intense morning sickness that felt like the entire world was filled with the smell of gasoline and spoiled milk.

I’m twelve weeks pregnant.

After three years of marriage and two miscarriages, Ethan was devastated in public, but privately dismissed them as insignificant troubles. This time, I finally heard a clear heartbeat during the ultrasound. But I never told him. Some kind of instinctive intuition deep in my heart was warning me - call it fear or intuition. This is the unique sensitivity of a woman in a marriage full of keyholes.

the office door was pushed open without knocking. Ethan Ward walked in. He was wearing a well-tailored dark blue Tom Ford suit, his blond hair was meticulously combed, and he wore a smile that was perfect enough to turn right and wrong in court. In his right hand, he held a light blue thermos bucket that I had never seen before.

“Happy third anniversary, darling,” he said.

At that moment, I even forgot to breathe.

Ethan couldn’t remember our wedding anniversary last year at all; the year before that, he mistakenly delivered flowers to an office that was beyond reach, and laughed afterwards like a big boy who had succeeded in a prank. But today, he looked at me as if I was the only treasure in the world. Gentle, affectionate, even with a hint of teenage shyness.

He placed the thermos bucket on my desk and unscrewed the lid. White hot steam surged out, carrying a strong and greasy aroma. Sausage, beef, bell peppers, onions - it was something rich and heavy, overly seasoned. A breakfast casserole, like the one my dad would make for me every Christmas morning before he died.

My stomach lurched violently.

“I woke up at five o’clock,” Ethan looked at me with a hint of excessive scrutiny in his eyes, “You’ve been looking too pale recently. I think you need to eat something nutritious.”

I gently pressed my hands on my shirt to protect the tiny secret in my belly.

“That’s... so thoughtful,” I managed to say.

“Eat it while it’s hot.”

His voice was soft, but there was an irresistible sense of oppression deep in his tone, like a knife wrapped in velvet.

“I’ve had toast at home,” I said, “I’m not hungry yet.”

His smile froze. It was only for a second, but I captured it.

Then, he pushed the thermos bucket in front of me. “What kind of food is toast, Claire? I made it myself. Don’t embarrass me.”

Before I could answer, there was a knock on the door again. Ethan’s new personal assistant, Madison Bell, walked in holding a stack of folders. She is twenty-six years old, with fair skin and an expensive and sharp beauty. With her neatly trimmed blond hair and beige slim-fitting dress, she exudes the unique confidence of young women who are cared for by powerful men.

Her eyes first fell on Ethan, and then on the box of breakfast.

“Wow,” she chuckled sweetly, “how romantic. Mr. Ward makes breakfast for Mrs. herself. Some women really have everything.”

Ethan didn’t even look at her. This is the first anomaly. The second abnormal detail was that when he heard Madison approaching the food, his jaw muscles twitched involuntarily.

He made a perfunctory remark about going to answer the phone, then turned and walked out, leaving the three of us standing in the sharp silence of the office. I looked at the steaming thermos bucket, and my stomach acid surged again. Madison’s eyes were always glued to the container.

So, I smiled.

“Madison, have you had breakfast?”

Her eyes lit up, “Not yet.”

“I really can’t eat it. It would be a pity to waste Ethan’s efforts.” I pushed the thermos bucket towards her, “You can take it and eat it.”

She blinked, overjoyed, “Really?”

“Of course.”

She hugged the thermos bucket like a piece of jewelry.

“Thank you, Claire. I’ll eat them all.”

She walked out of the office with an “anniversary breakfast” that my husband had made. I slumped in the chair, gasping for breath, only thankful that I had finally escaped the disgusting smell.

An hour later, a scream tore through the floor. It was not an ordinary exclamation, nor was it an office joke, but a desperate, beast-like wail that was torn from the depths of the soul.

I stormed out.

In the corridor, employees have gathered around Madison’s desk. A folder fell to the floor, and papers were scattered everywhere. The light blue thermos bucket fell to the ground, and the sticky casserole ingredients splashed everywhere. Madison was lying on her side, twitching in pain, holding her lower abdomen with her hands, and foaming from the corners of her mouth. Her beige dress had turned a shocking dark red between her legs.

Blood spread mercilessly on the carpet. At that moment, this color was the only thing in my sight. Red on the carpet. The red on her trembling hands. And the red where my breakfast ends.

Immediately afterwards, Ethan rushed out of the office. He didn’t rush toward Madison or call her name. He stared at the blood on the ground. His face turned from white to gray, and finally twisted into a naked, shuddering rage.

His eyes snapped to me. No worries. No confusion. Only rage. He strode across the room and grabbed my arm with such force that he nearly crushed my bones.

“What did you do to her?” he hissed, “Why her?!”

Why her? These words hit me on the head like ice water. Instead of asking: What happened? Nor is it asking: Is she still alive? But - why her? I looked into my husband’s eyes and finally saw the truth that I had refused to acknowledge for three years.

That’s a precise calculation. It was utter panic. It was a burst of deep-seated hatred for the wrong woman who was bleeding in front of everyone. I shook his hand away.

“What did I do?” My voice was trembling, but cold to the bone. “I just gave her a breakfast that was given to me.”

His expression changed. Just for a moment. His pretense completely collapsed. In that terrifying second, with Madison screaming under the fluorescent lights and my unborn child hiding under my clothes, I finally understood—that box of breakfast was never a gift.