The Fabricated Wife: The Perfect Victim

Chap 2

The door slams shut behind her.

For a second, she just stands there outside the funeral hall, the world around her too bright. Her wrists burn where the metal cuffs bite into her skin.

“I didn’t do anything,” she says, breathless, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I didn’t... there’s been a mistake, okay? You’ve got the wrong person.”

No one answers. Officer's hands press against her back, pushing her forward.

“Walk.”

“I am walking,” she snaps, panic bleeding into her voice.

The black car is already right there, waiting.

“Hey, wait... ” she turns her head, trying to look back, trying to see. “I need to talk to my husband,” she pleads, her voice cracking. “You can’t just... he’ll explain everything.”

The door of the funeral hall is already closed. No one comes out to stops this. Her chest tightens violently.

“…No,” she whispers, shaking her head. “No, no, no... this isn’t happening.”

The officer opens the car door. “Inside. Now.”

Sorelle hesitates for a second. Then her body moves as if on autopilot. She ducks into the back seat. The door slams behind her and suddenly, she’s trapped. The car starts moving. Sorelle stares at her reflection in the dark window. She barely recognizes herself, her makeup is smudged and her hair is falling loose.

“I didn’t do anything,” she repeats, softer this time.

No one responds. The city whirls by outside. People walking, cars passing normally. Everything is normal. Except hers. Except this. Her fingers curl against her palms.

This is a mistake. That’s all this is. They’ll sort it out. They’ll check the records. They’ll talk to Kael. He’ll say I'm innocent. Her stomach drops. He didn’t say anything. Her breath catches.

“No,” she mutters, shaking her head harder now. "He was just shocked. That’s all. He didn’t expect it. He...”

Her voice trails off because that’s not what she saw. Her chest tightens painfully.

“…Kael wouldn’t do that,” she whispers, but it sounds weak even to her.

Would he? The memory hits her again, you’re free to leave. Her stomach twists violently.

“Stop the car,” she suddenly demands.

No response.

“I said stop the car!” she raises her voice, panic spiking. “I need to go back. This is wrong.”

“Sit still.”

“I am sitting still!” she snaps. “God! what is wrong with you people? You can’t just take someone and...”

“Enough.”

The word cuts through her. Sorelle’s mouth snaps shut. Her chest rises and falls quickly, uneven. Tears sting her eyes, but she forces them back.

The station feels colder than the outside. It has harsh white lights that make everything look too clear. Sorelle is led inside, her heels clicking unevenly against the floor. Her legs feel weak and unsteady. People look. Of course they do. Some with curiosity and others with quiet judgment. She lowers her gaze.

“I'm innocent” she murmurs, more to herself .

A door opens, and she’s pushed inside. The cuffs finally come off. Her wrists sting as she pulls them back slightly, rubbing the skin.

“Sit.”

She does. The room is small with a table and two chairs. Nothing else. No windows. Her heart starts beating faster. The door opens and a tall man steps in, his eyes sharp. He closes it gently behind him and sits across from her, placing a file on the table. He opens it and flips a page.

Sorelle watches him, her throat tight.

“…Can you please tell me what’s going on?” she asks, her voice trembling despite her effort to steady it. “There’s been a mistake.”

The man doesn’t look up immediately. He reads something first, then lifts his gaze. "I'm Detective Orin Vale," he says. His eyes settle on her, steady and unreadable. “There's no mistake."

Sorelle blinks.

“You were the primary caregiver to Mireya Drenwick,” he continues, his tone calm. “You had access to her medication, to her food and her daily routine.”

Sorelle stares at him.

“Yes... but that’s because I was taking care of her. That’s... what are you implying?”

Orin doesn’t answer right away. He slides a photo across the table. Sorelle looks down; It’s a medicine bottle. Her stomach twists.

“I used that,” she says quickly. “Of course I did. The doctor prescribed it. I...”

“Autopsy shows traces of a toxic compound,” Orin says, cutting in. “The same compound found in that bottle.”

Her breath catches. “No, that’s not possible. I didn’t put anything in there.” Her voice is barely a sound.

Another photo slides forward, documents bearing her signature. “What is this?”

“This are the authorization forms of the medication adjustments that were signed by you,” Orin states.

Sorelle shakes her head immediately. “No... I signed what they gave me. The doctor said it was necessary.”

“Dr. Halvek Sorn confirmed you insisted on the changes.”

Sorelle’s mind blanks. “…That’s not true,” she whispers.

Orin carefully observes her. “Witness statements place you alone with Mireya Drenwick multiple times in the hours before her death.”

“I was alone with her,” Sorelle protests, her voice rising in pitch. “Because I was taking care of her! That’s what I’ve been doing for two years!”

Her hands shake as she presses them flat against the table. “You’re twisting everything,” she continues, her breath uneven. “You’re making it sound like I had some sort of plan. I didn’t. I would never...”

“Why were you cut off from outside contact?” Orin interjects suddenly. The question catches her off guard. “No regular communication with friends. No visits. No outside witnesses to your daily life.”

Sorelle frowns, confused. "What does that have to do with anything? That was my choice. I was busy.”

“How convenient,” Orin replies coolly. “For someone planning a crime.”

“I wasn’t planning anything!” she yells, slamming her hands down on the table. “I was taking care of a sick woman who needed me, and now you’re sitting here acting like I killed her? Are you serious right now?” Tears spill over before she can stop them. “This is insane,” she whispers. “This is completely insane.”

Orin remains impassive. Sorelle’s breathing turns uneven, her head spinning. There has to be something she’s missing. Her stomach twists suddenly with a sharp pain. She winces slightly, instinctively pressing a hand against her lower abdomen. A strange unexpected wave of nausea rises.

“…I need water,” she mutters, her voice weaker. “Can I... can I get some water?”

Orin looks her for a second, then nods once. He stands and walks to the door, opening it slightly.

“Water.”

Then he steps back inside and closes the door. Sorelle takes a deep breath, her hand still pressed lightly against her stomach.

Whatever it was, it will pass. Everything crashes back in, the photos, the documents and the accusations.

“…I didn’t do this,” she says softly, her voice trembling. “You have to believe me.”

Orin sits back down, folding his hands as he looks at her.

“I want to believe you, but all the evidence points to you.”

Just then, there's a knock and the door opens. A glass of water is placed in front of her. Sorelle grabs it immediately, her hands shaking as she takes a quick sip.

It doesn’t help.

She sets it down slowly, her fingers gripping around the glass tightly. “…Then check again,” she urges, her voice barely steady. “Look closer. Because something’s wrong. This whole thing is wrong.”

Orin remains silent, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. In that moment, a thought creep in. This isn’t a mistake. The way everything lines up; the documents, the doctor, the timing, the arrest. Her grip on the glass tightens, almost painfully. “…This was set up,” she whispers.

Orin’s gaze flickers for a moment. “You’re saying

someone framed you.”

Sorelle looks at him, at his calm demeanor, at the file infront of him. Nothing about this feels random. “…Yes,” she replies slowly. “…I think someone did.”