The Deadly Walnut Powder

I'm a dessert chef with a modest reputation in South City. The coconut mousse I craft can win over even the most demanding food experts, but in the end, that very skill became the knife that killed me. My husband, Eric Luke, is always accompanied by a woman named Cindy White. Cindy is severely allergic to nuts—Eric has kept that in mind for three years. But he forgot that I have asthma; I can't tolerate even the slightest trace of nut dust, let alone swallowing a whole plate of walnut powder. That day was the Luke Group's anniversary banquet, with chandeliers lighting the hall as bright as daylight. I stood behind the dessert counter, carefully placing the last plate of nut-free mousse—meticulously avoiding any ingredients that could trigger Cindy White's allergy. As I turned to grab a Silver Fork, sudden crying came from behind me. I looked back and saw Cindy holding that plate of mousse, collapsing into Eric Luke's arms, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably. "Eric, Blair did this on purpose..." She coughed until tears streamed from her eyes, her face unnaturally flushed. "She knows I can't have walnuts, yet she added crushed walnuts into the mousse..." The silver fork in my hand clattered onto the marble floor. I hurried over and grabbed Eric Luke's sleeve. "It wasn't me, Eric, I didn't add walnuts—you have to believe me!" Eric Luke didn't even lift his eyelids. He raised his hand and pushed me away with such force that I staggered into the dessert counter; plates crashed to the floor, cream splattering all over me. "Blair, when will you stop?” His voice was as cold as winter ice. "If Cindy ends up harmed, can you take responsibility?" "Eric, don't blame Blair. Maybe she just forgot..." "I'm fine, just a little short of breath..." Those words pierced Eric Luke like a needle, making him even angrier. He grabbed my wrist and dragged me to a corner of the banquet hall, where a plate of finely ground walnut powder sat on the table before us. "Since you forgot Cindy is allergic, you can taste it for her." He pinched my chin, forcing me to open my mouth, his tone leaving no room for negotiation: "Eat it all, and we'll call it even." The scent of the walnut powder flooded my nostrils, and I burst into a coughing fit immediately. The warning signs of asthma were already coming on—my chest tightening, every breath growing more difficult: "Eric, I have asthma, I can't eat nuts, it could kill me!" But he thought I was just pretending to be pitiful. He sneered, scooped up a spoonful of walnut powder, and shoved it into my mouth: "Stop faking it. If you really cared about Cindy, you should be able to endure this." The powder choked my airway, like someone was grabbing my throat. Each breath ripped through me like a knife, my vision darkening. I grabbed onto Eric Luke's pant leg, begging for help—only to be kicked away in disgust. Don't make people sick here. He turned and lifted Cindy White into his arms, his voice softening instantly. "Cindy, we're going to the hospital." I lay on the cold floor, watching their backs disappear through the door. As my mind grew hazy, I thought I saw Principal Clark rush in, her sobs both distant and painfully close. When I woke again, I was floating in midair. Below me, doctors covered my body with a white sheet, still smeared with cream that hadn't been wiped away. Principal Clark collapsed onto my body, crying as her shoulders shook violently. The doctor patted her back, offering comfort: "My condolences—you arrived too late. The asthma attack caused suffocation; there was nothing we could do." I tried to hold her, but my hands slipped right through her shoulders. It was only then that I understood—I was already dead, killed by the hands of the one I loved most, dead at the very feast I had carefully prepared. It wasn't until later that I realized the doctor had called Eric Luke several times that day. Each time, Cindy White answered and told the doctor, “No need to worry about that woman,” then turned off the phone.