The Night Theresa Died

"911. What's your emergency?" The call beeped. On the other side of the line was John, his voice choked with tears. "My wife is dead." 18 Hours Before Theresa's Death The vacuum cleaner buzzed through the early morning silence, pulling John from his sleep. He twitched his eyes open, squinting at the digital clock on the nightstand—4:35 a.m. The other side of the bed was rumpled but empty. Groaning, he stood and followed the hum of the vacuum cleaner. John is a 41-year old business tycoon and CEO of Cryst Empire, inherited the company from his father. Despite the weight of responsibility, his quiet demeanor masked a sharp mind. He crept up behind Theresa, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her neck gently. She startled but relaxed into his embrace. "Was last night so terrible that you're up this early, cleaning?" John teased, turning her to face him. Theresa giggled softly, eyes sparkling. "Maybe." "No, you didn’t," he said, chasing her briefly across the living room. She surrendered, falling back into his arms. "You're receiving the Most Prestigious CEO Award today," she reminded him, running her fingers through his beard. "It’s going to be a full house for the after-party." "There are people who can handle these things. Why don’t you ever want help?" His voice carried a hint of frustration. "That's not true. I want help sometimes, but only from people I trust. We can’t let strangers into our home, John. Besides, no one takes care of our home better than I do," she replied confidently. "Yes, but—" "But nothing, babe." She silenced him with a kiss. "Jake, Amy, and the rest of the team will be here later for the decorations. Go rest that hardworking head of yours." "Leaving you to work alone isn’t easy," John said, folding his arms stubbornly. "You’ll slow me down. Please, go back to bed." She pecked him on the cheek. He didn’t argue further. Instead, he headed to the kitchen, brewed her favorite coffee—strawberry decaf—and handed it to her with a kiss on the forehead before returning to the bedroom. Theresa moved through the house with practiced ease. She seemed to have it all—a successful career in interior decoration, a perfect marriage, a life most women envied. Hours later, the once-quiet house buzzed with activity. Workers moved about, carrying decor items, while Theresa supervised every detail. "How many people are here, Amy? This is just too much crowd," she muttered to her assistant. "We’re only seven, ma’am, doing the work of a 24-person team," Amy replied. "Just tell the movers to hurry up. I’m choking in here." Theresa’s tone softened only slightly. As she moved towards the kitchen, her friends Sarah and Mandela walked in. "Everywhere already looks different," Mandela remarked, glancing at the gold decorations being hung. "Well, it ain’t easy to bag the Most Prestigious CEO Award," Sarah added with a smirk. Theresa hugged them both, sharing a brief giggle. Her social circle was small, and they were practically her sisters. "You know what would top this award?" Sarah asked, a sly smile on her lips. "What would?" Mandela replied before Theresa could speak. "A baby," Sarah said, her smile widening. The room fell silent. Theresa’s expression hardened, her eyes briefly shadowed. "Girl, you’re so insensitive. Do you ever stop to think?" Mandela snapped, her voice sharp with anger. Sarah feigned innocence. "I didn’t mean it that way. It was just a happy thought." Theresa forced a smile, brushing it off. "It’s okay," she murmured, taking a sip from her coffee. "You’ve got to slow down on the caffeine," Mandela said softly, noting the tension. "It’s not great for you." "What can I say? I love strawberry decaf," Theresa replied, finishing the last sip. The silence stretched. Mandela shot Sarah a glare, while Sarah whispered an insincere "I’m sorry." Theresa and John had been married for three years, but a baby hadn’t come. It was a quiet ache she often shared with her friends. John didn’t mind, he loved his wife too dearly to care about babies. As Theresa set down her empty cup, her eyes lingered with sudden anxiety—not because of the childlessness her friends thought consumed her, but something far sinister. Today was not just any day. Today, Theresa would kill John.