My Husband Sent Me A Christmas Gift From Dubai. The Office Janitor Saw The Ribbon And Told Me Not To Open It. She Might Have Just Saved My Life.

The Story of Dalia

Her gaze drifted out to the black river where the ghostly green flame had just died out, leaving trails of white smoke to dissolve into the void. I followed Zola back to her small apartment tucked away in a winding alley in the Pilsen neighborhood, where the dim yellow street lights were not enough to dispel the darkness and dampness.

The rented room was cramped, barely fitting a rickety bed and an old fabric wardrobe, but it was organized and spotlessly clean. On the wall mottled with damp patches, she had a small altar. The smoke from a burning incense stick filled the air with a warm sandalwood scent, a stark contrast to the cold of the Christmas Eve night outside.

Zola shakily opened an old wooden chest under her bed and took out a picture frame carefully wrapped in dark red velvet. She handed it to me, her eyes red and welling with tears. “Look, this is my daughter. Her name was Dalia. She was beautiful and smart, just like you are now.”

I took the frame and looked at the young woman smiling brightly in the photograph. Her smile was as clear as the morning sun, full of life and hope. But when my eyes shifted to the man standing next to her in the picture, my heart stopped and the blood in my veins turned to ice.

The man was a few years younger than he was now, a bit thinner, but that half-smile and those flirtatious eyes were unmistakable. It was Caspian. The husband I had cherished and been so proud of, the man who had just video called to wish me a happy holiday a few minutes ago.

“This man…” I stammered, my voice catching in my throat, my trembling finger pointed at the man in the photo.

Zola nodded, tears rolling down her hollow cheeks and falling onto her wrinkled hands. “Yes, that’s him. The one who killed my daughter 5 years ago. On a night just like this, right before the holidays.”

Zola began to recount the tragic story of her life, her voice low and broken by choked sobs. “That year, Dalia also received a surprise gift from her boyfriend for Christmas. He claimed it was sent from far away to be romantic. My girl was so excited to open it, and then… a loud explosion. A chemical fire that engulfed her small apartment and took the life of my only child.”

The police at the time ruled it an accident caused by a compressed aerosol can in the package exploding due to a temperature change. There wasn’t enough evidence to charge anyone, and Caspian… he quickly collected the life insurance policy Dalia had taken out not long before and vanished without a trace.

Zola knew it was murder. She knew her daughter had died unjustly, but as a poor working-class woman, how could she fight against such a cunning and ruthless man? She had spent the last 5 years searching for him, wandering through big cities, working any job she could find to survive and to keep the hope of revenge alive. That was until she started working as a janitor in my office building and happened to see Caspian picking me up on a rainy day.

She recognized him immediately, even though he was fatter and looked much more prosperous than before. “I’ve been waiting for this day for a long time, Miss,” Zola said, gripping my hand, her eyes blazing. “I couldn’t let him harm another good woman. I had to save you, and I have to make him pay for what he did to my Dalia.”

The 2 Million Dollar Motive

The two of us, one old, one young, one prosperous, one poor, clasped hands before the photo of the deceased, making a silent vow in the middle of a stormy Christmas Eve.

Leaving Zola, I drove back to my luxury apartment as the clock struck midnight, marking the beginning of a new day. The spacious, well-appointed home that I once considered a happy sanctuary now felt cold and terrifyingly empty. Every object in the apartment—the matching mugs on the counter, the wedding photo on the wall, the decorative items Caspian had picked out himself—seemed to mock my foolishness and blindness over the past 3 years.

I didn’t dare turn on the main lights, letting only the dim yellow glow from a living room lamp cast flickering shadows on the walls. I remembered Zola’s careful instructions before I left: “You have to find proof. See what he prepared for your death, especially the money trail.”

I took a deep breath, trying to calm my panicked mind, and walked quickly to my home office to turn on my personal computer. My head spun with a thousand questions. Why did Caspian want to kill me? We never had any major conflicts. I always provided for him financially, even taking care of his family back home.

I started digging through my digital files, searching for anything related to finances and insurance. And then I froze, staring at a PDF file saved in a hidden folder named “Future Plans”. It was a $2 million life insurance policy signed exactly one year ago. The insured person was me, and the sole beneficiary was none other than Caspian.

The memory flooded back like a slow-motion film. I recalled the day Caspian called, his voice filled with worry and concern: “Honey, I’ve noticed you haven’t been feeling well lately. We should get a life insurance policy just in case. It’s also a way to save for our future children.”

At the time, I was drowning in a major project at work. His words sounded so reasonable, and I thought he was just being a responsible, forward-thinking husband. So I agreed without a second thought. Caspian sent me the link to the e-contract, urging me to sign quickly to get a promotional rate.

I had signed my own death warrant just like that, all because I believed in the love and responsibility he had so expertly manufactured. $2 million. Was that the price he put on my life? I laughed a bitter, hollow sound as tears streamed down my cheeks. It turned out that in the eyes of the husband I loved with all my heart, I was just a golden goose, and I was most valuable to him dead, leaving behind a massive fortune.