My Husband Bought Me Flowers To Celebrate My Promotion. A Homeless Woman Just Warned Me That Smelling Them Will Kill Me. Should I Trust My Husband Of Five Years Or A Stranger?

“Yes,” she said. “Of course. Let’s celebrate.”

She stood up, walked past him to the kitchen, and took the champagne out of the fridge. Two flutes from the cabinet. Her hands were still trembling, but she tried not to show it. Michael sat down at the table, leaning back in his chair, watching her.

“Are you happy about the promotion?” he asked.

“Of course.” Eleanor popped the cork, poured the sparkling wine into the glasses. “I’ve worked 3 years for this. I finally made it. So the salary will be higher.”

“Yes, about 15,000 more a year.”

“Good,” Michael nodded. “That’ll come in handy. They’re making cuts at my job. I might get laid off.”

Eleanor froze with the glass in her hand. “What? When?”

“They’ll announce it next week. But I already know I’m probably on the list.” He picked up his glass, held it to the light. “So your promotion is good timing.”

She sat down across from him, her fingers gripping the stem of her glass. So that was it. He was worried about his job, about money, about the uncertainty. That’s why he was so strange, so on edge.

“Michael, we’ll get through this,” she said softly. “You’ll find another job. You’re a good specialist. They’ll hire you.”

“Easy for you to say,” he sneered. “You get a promotion, I get fired. Funny isn’t it?”

There was no joy in his words, no support. There was something else. Bitterness, envy. Eleanor took a sip of champagne. It tasted sour.

“Let’s not talk about this now,” she proposed. “Let’s just be together quietly.”

Michael drained his glass in one gulp and stood up. “I have to make a call. Work stuff.”

He left the kitchen, went into the living room, and closed the door. Eleanor sat at the table staring at her unfinished glass. The silence was deafening. She could hear Michael’s muffled voice from behind the door but couldn’t make out the words.

She got up, went to the balcony door. The bouquet was still where she had left it. Huge, bright, and exuding that heavy scent even through the glass.

She could feel the aroma. If you breathe it in, you won’t survive.

Eleanor closed her eyes. God, what nonsense is in my head. They were just flowers, normal flowers. Michael wanted to do something nice. Yes, he acted strangely, but he was stressed. Work problems. Everything had an explanation.

But why had he insisted so much that she smelled them? Why had he watched her? Why had he asked if she was sure she had smelled them?

Eleanor looked at the closed living room door where Michael was talking, then at the bouquet on the balcony, then back at her phone. Cassie couldn’t have known about the flowers. She couldn’t have. It was impossible. Unless… unless she was telling the truth.

Eleanor took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. Okay, fine. She would take this damned bouquet and bring it to that woman. Let her say what was so special about it. Let her dispel these foolish suspicions. And then Eleanor would come home, get this paranoia out of her head, and get on with her normal life.

She changed into jeans, a sweater, and a jacket. Grabbed her purse and went out onto the balcony. She carefully picked up the bouquet by the wrapping, trying not to bring it close to her face.

The scent enveloped her anyway, heavy and cloying. Her chest tightened again. She opened the living room door and peeked in. Michael was sitting with his phone and didn’t see that she had the bouquet in her hand.

“I’m going to take out the trash,” Eleanor lied. “The bag is full.”

“Where are you going this late?” he asked, his voice suddenly wary. “Can’t you take it out in the morning?”

“It’s full and it’s already starting to smell up the apartment.”

Michael stared at her for a long time, too long. Then he slowly nodded.

“Fine. Just don’t be long. It’s already dark.”

Eleanor left the apartment, closing the door behind her. Her heart was pounding, from fear or adrenaline, she couldn’t tell which. She ran down the stairs out into the street.

It was almost completely dark. The street lights had come on, illuminating the sidewalk with a cool glow. She walked quickly, almost running, holding the bouquet down by her side. It was a 15-minute walk to the supermarket.

She would make it. She had to make it. Because if Cassie was right, if she was actually right, then the husband she had lived with for 5 years had just tried to kill her.

Eleanor walked through the evening streets with this bouquet and each step echoed in her temples with a dull thud. The darkness thickened around her. The street lights flickered on one by one.

Passersby hurried about their business, paying no attention to her, a normal woman with flowers. Nothing suspicious. No one could know that inside her a hurricane of fear, disbelief, and a desperate hope that this was all just an absurd misunderstanding was raging.

The scent of the flowers seeped through the wrapping and even in the open air it seemed suffocating. Eleanor stopped several times, pulled out her inhaler, took a puff. Her lungs constricted, breathing was difficult. Psychosomatic or a real threat? She didn’t know, but with every step the certainty that she needed to go there, to that woman, grew stronger.