The Cold Truth

Today is Quincy Scott's birthday. I booked a table three months in advance at her favorite restaurant. This restaurant is tucked away in an alley of the old town; pushing open the carved wooden door, you enter a courtyard filled with lavender. The private room on the second floor overlooks the entire moat— it's the place Quincy casually mentioned last year on her birthday that she wanted to visit again. I took annual leave especially for this birthday celebration and started preparations a week ahead. I bought her the limited-edition perfume she had been talking about for half a year and prepared a necklace inlaid with tiny sapphires—a keepsake left by her mother. She'd been despondent ever since she accidentally lost it last year, so I contacted three antique dealers and managed to retrieve it from the secondhand market. The private room was crowded with her friends and colleagues, laughter rising in steady waves. Quincy Scott wore an ivory silk gown, her long hair loosely gathered into a bun, a sprig of pale lavender tucked behind her ear—the very lavender picked from the restaurant's garden. Surrounded by everyone, she received heartfelt wishes, a sweet smile lighting her face. I held Quincy Scott's hand; her fingertips were warm, her palm slightly damp with a thin sheen of sweat. I saw tiny sparks of light in her eyes, like a sky full of stars, and my heart swelled with warmth. We've known each other for three years—from love at first sight on the university campus to standing by each other after graduation. In just three months, our wedding will take place. I have long considered her the one I want to spend my life with. "Kevin, Quincy Scott is such a wonderful girl; you must treat her well." The speaker was Matthew Luke, Quincy's senior in college, now a biology PhD at the city Research Institute. He was a year ahead of us. When Quincy first enrolled, he was the one who helped her with the admission procedures. They always referred to each other as 'senior' and 'junior' schoolmates. He walked over holding a glass of red wine; the liquid traced a smooth arc along the crystal glass. He was tall and slender, dressed in a sharply tailored dark gray suit, wearing gold-rimmed glasses. He looked refined and scholarly, but there was a barely noticeable glint of challenge in his eyes. "How about we make a bet?" Matthew Luke gave his glass a shake, a teasing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Whoever drinks themselves under the table first has to agree unconditionally to one request from the other." I frowned slightly, feeling somewhat displeased. Today was Quincy Scott's birthday. I didn't want to spoil everyone's mood, but this kind of drinking wager was honestly quite dull—and my tolerance for alcohol was always limited; I rarely drank. But Quincy Scott quietly squeezed the palm of my hand, her fingertips softly tracing the webbing between my thumb and index finger—our little unspoken pact meaning "Please." She leaned close, whispering in a voice only we could hear, "Don't spoil everyone's fun. Matthew Luke just likes to be playful. Just humor him a little, then stop." Her eyes held a pleading look, her long lashes fluttering gently like butterfly wings. In the end, I couldn't bring myself to refuse her. Over all these years, whenever she wanted something, I had almost never said "no." "Okay." I nodded, my voice soft but clear enough for Matthew Luke to hear. Those around us erupted in cheers, clapping and shouting, "Yes!" "Bring the wine quickly!" Quincy Scott's face brightened with a delighted smile as she rose and told the waiter, "Please bring two bottles of the strongest liquor you have—the very best." The waiter swiftly returned with two exquisitely packaged bottles of white liquor, the label reading "Thirty Years Aged," with a potent 65% alcohol content. He took out two spotless glasses, filling them to the brim; the crystal-clear liquid shimmered, releasing a rich, intoxicating aroma. I noticed Quincy Scott rise to get ice cubes from the nearby freezer, passing by Matthew Luke, her fingers unintentionally brushing his glass. The gesture was quick, almost imperceptible; if I hadn't been watching her so closely, I probably wouldn't have noticed. At the time, I didn't think much of it, assuming it was just an accidental brush while she walked by. After all, she was my fiancee—how could she help others? The first sip of the wine burned instantly—the spicy heat scorching my throat before sliding down into my stomach like swallowing a ball of fire. I couldn't help but cough twice, my cheeks flushing hot. Matthew Luke, however, drank without changing his expression. He gently placed his glass on the table and raised an eyebrow at me. "Kevin, already done? This is only the first drink." I forced a wave of my hand, signaling that I was fine. But the dizziness hit far stronger than I had expected, and the figures before my eyes began to blur. I wondered silently why—usually, even with liquor this strong, I wouldn't react so quickly. Quincy Scott handed me a tissue from the side; her fingertip brushed the back of my hand, bringing a faint coolness that sobered me slightly. "Drink slowly, don't rush." She spoke softly, her eyes filled with "concern." As I reached for a tissue to wipe my mouth, the corner of my eye caught a chilling sight — Quincy Scott, seizing the moment I bent down, swiftly pulled a small bottle of mineral water from under the table and poured some clear liquid into Matthew Luke's glass. The liquid looked exactly like the white liquor; without a close look, it was impossible to tell them apart. But I clearly saw the words "mineral water" printed on the bottle. But as she turned to pour me a second glass of wine, she quietly swapped the bottle. The label on the new bottle was different from before, its color a little darker. I faintly noticed the proof marked on the bottle — seventy-two degrees. My heart felt as though a cold hand was clutching it tightly, aching relentlessly. I looked at Quincy Scott in disbelief; her actions were so discreet. After finishing, she instantly resumed a calm expression, even smiling at me as if nothing had happened. I wanted to question her, but the words caught in my throat and I swallowed them back. Surrounded by people, I didn't want to make a scene at Quincy Scott's birthday party, nor could I bring myself to believe she would betray me. Maybe I was mistaken?