Chapter 1: Cơn Ác Mộng Dưới Ghế Sofa

Part 1

🔪 **I found chilling evidence under the sofa that my husband was gone, then my mother-in-law burst in, accusing me of murder and claiming she knew exactly what I’d find.**

I had just renovated the kitchen for my daughter, Lena. It was a project I poured my heart into, a fresh start.

Just a few weeks later, I found her fearfully huddled under the sofa because of strange noises. She was only six, her small body trembling.

My husband, Viktor, had been missing for three days, leaving behind many suspicious signs that I couldn’t explain. The house felt too quiet, too empty without him.

When the police arrived to investigate, my mother-in-law unexpectedly appeared. She declared that I had killed her son.

More horribly, she knew exactly what I found under the sofa.

The memory of Lena’s terrified whimpers still echoed in my ears. She had pointed a trembling finger at the dusty space beneath the living room sofa, insisting on “scratchy noises” and a “bad smell.”

I tried to reassure her, but her eyes were wide with fear. After a few nudges, I convinced her to move.

“There’s nothing there, sweetie,” I’d said, crouching down.

My hand swept beneath the old fabric. That’s when my fingers brushed against something cold and metallic.

I pulled out a small, velvet bag, the kind Viktor used for his cufflinks. My heart began to pound with an uneasy rhythm.

Inside, nestled on a bed of faded silk, was Viktor’s wedding ring. The very one I’d slipped onto his finger on our wedding day.

My breath hitched. He never took it off.

Not ever.

Alongside it lay a neatly folded shirt, one of his favorites, a crisp white linen. But it wasn’t crisp anymore.

A dark, dried stain marred the front, an unmistakable rust-red.

Blood. My stomach dropped.

Then, beneath the shirt, was a folded piece of paper, thick and official-looking. It was a spreadsheet.

The title, printed in bold, sent a chill straight through me: “Rostova Family Asset Distribution – Activation Upon Viktor Rostova’s Demise.”

My hands shook as I scanned the columns. Large figures, coded accounts, specific beneficiaries listed.

And there, under a primary payout section, was my name: Anya Rostova.

It wasn’t a life insurance policy. This was something far darker, tied to Viktor’s “death” and designed to funnel funds from a hidden family asset fund.

And it implicated me as the recipient of a crime.

Just as the horror truly began to sink in, the doorbell rang. Detective Evans stood on my porch, his face grim.

“Mrs. Rostova, we received a call.”

Before he could finish, a black Mercedes pulled up sharply behind the squad car. The door swung open.

Elena Rostova, my mother-in-law, emerged, her face a mask of cold fury. She strode past Detective Evans, her eyes locking onto me.

She didn’t even glance at the crumpled spreadsheet in my hand. Her gaze was fixed, knowing.

“Anya,” she spat, her voice like ice.

“What have you done to my son?”

She walked straight to the sofa, her gaze piercing the exact spot I’d just investigated. She gestured with a dismissive wave.

“Did you think I wouldn’t know what you’d hide under there, you fool?”

Her eyes glittered with malicious triumph.

“Did you think I wouldn’t recognize that ring? And his shirt?”

Then she leaned in, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper, audible only to me.

“You’ve killed my Viktor.”

“And I know you found the blood.”

A wave of dizziness washed over me. How could she possibly know?

Part 2

My head spun. Detective Evans cleared his throat, pulling me back to the present. He looked from Elena to me, then to the items scattered on the floor.

“Mrs. Rostova,” he said, his voice flat. “Can you explain what we have here?”

Elena let out a sob, a dramatic, heartbreaking sound that instantly drew Detective Evans’s sympathy. She staggered toward him, clutching her chest.

“My son,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face. “My poor Viktor.”

I tried to speak, to explain the spreadsheet, the fear, Lena’s terror, but my words felt hollow against Elena’s theatrical grief. Detective Evans listened to her with concern. He barely looked at me.

He picked up the shirt, his brow furrowing at the dried red stain. He bagged the ring and the spreadsheet as evidence. My denials felt weak, easily dismissed. They saw a grieving mother and a suspicious wife.

Later that evening, after the police had left with their ambiguous assurances, a cold dread settled over me. Elena’s eyes, full of malicious triumph, replayed in my mind. She knew. She had known exactly what I would find.

I paced the living room, Lena asleep in her bed, thankfully oblivious. I couldn’t just sit there. I needed answers, real ones. Not the kind the police seemed interested in.

My mind went to Viktor’s past, to the shadows he sometimes inhabited. There was a name, a contact he’d mentioned once, a “fixer” for problems that didn’t involve official channels. Marco Rossi.

I found his number buried deep in Viktor’s old contacts, coded under “M.R. auto repair.” My hands trembled as I dialed. A gruff voice answered.

“Marco,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “This is Anya Rostova.”

He agreed to meet me at a dimly lit coffee shop on the edge of town, far from prying eyes. I carried the stained shirt, wrapped in a paper bag. The air crackled with unspoken tension.

Marco sat across from me, a man of few words, his eyes sharp and assessing. I pushed the bag across the table. He took out the shirt, his gaze immediately falling on the dark stain.

He didn’t need to ask. He simply examined the fabric, turning it over in his hands. He sniffed it, then rubbed a small section between his fingers. A grim look settled on his face.

“This isn’t human,” he stated, his voice low and firm.

My breath hitched. “What do you mean?”

“It’s animal blood,” Marco continued, looking me straight in the eye. “Looks like it came from a butcher’s shop. Freshly butchered meat.”

A sudden chill ran through me. It wasn’t just a staged disappearance. This was a calculated, cruel setup. But who would go to such lengths?