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 Husband Returns

Zola left, leaving me alone in the vast apartment. I walked through the rooms checking everything one last time. The hidden cameras felt like silent guardians giving me strength.

Three days later, I drove to O’Hare International Airport to pick up Caspian right on schedule. The airport was bustling, a cacophony of announcements and the joyous sounds of reuniting families. I stood in a quiet corner near the international arrivals gate, my heart pounding not with anticipation but with the tension of someone about to walk into a tiger’s den.

I wore a loose-fitting dress and no makeup, my face genuinely gaunt and my eyes shadowed after several sleepless nights. A stream of passengers poured through the gates, and then I saw him. Caspian emerged looking dapper and distinguished pushing a large suitcase. He wore a long dark coat and a wool scarf, looking every bit the gentleman returning from a cold European winter. He wore sunglasses, but his trademark half-smile was unmistakable.

I noticed his skin was fair and his hands were smooth, showing no signs of the hardship of manual labor abroad. When his eyes met mine, his smile broadened. He let go of the suitcase and strode towards me with his arms wide open. I suppressed the wave of disgust rising in my gut and ran into his arms, bursting into tears like a heartbroken child finding solace.

He held me tight, patting my back gently, his deep voice murmuring in my ear, “I’m back, my silly girl. Don’t cry anymore. I’m here now. No one can hurt you.”

The scent of expensive cologne filled my nostrils, not the smell of sweat or distant travels. It was the same fragrance I had smelled on his mistress that day. It was the smell of betrayal, the smell of lies. I buried my head in his chest, not for warmth but to hide the cold, hard stare I fixed on the empty space behind him.

I whispered, “You’re really back. I thought I was dreaming. I’ve been so scared, Caspian. I was afraid I would die all alone in that house.”

Caspian gently pushed me back to look at my face, his eyes filled with fake pity. “Oh my god, look at you. Why are you so pale and thin? You’ve lost so much weight. I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault for being away for so long, for not being here to take care of you. But I’m back for good this time. I’ll make it all up to you. I’ll fatten you up until you’re my beautiful Sloan again.”

His words were as sweet as honey, but I could feel the cold, calculating assessment in his eyes as he scanned my frail appearance.

On the drive home, he chatted on about his long tiring flight, the difficult layover, and how much he missed home. He was so deep in character that if I didn’t know the truth, I would have fallen for his act all over again. I remained silent, merely nodding or offering a weak response, playing my part as the emotionally exhausted wife.

When we arrived at the apartment, he stepped inside and immediately scanned the room, his eyes sharp as a hawk’s. He noted the pill bottles on the table, the messy clothes, and the burnt pot I had left in the kitchen. He sighed, feigning sympathy. “It’s okay if the house is a little messy, honey. Your health is what’s most important. You go rest. Let me clean up. I’ll cook you a delicious meal. It’s been a long time since you’ve had my cooking, hasn’t it?”

I obediently nodded and dragged my feet into the bedroom. The moment the door closed, I straightened up, all traces of weakness vanishing. I tiptoed to my vanity and turned on the tablet connected to the camera system.

The Inspection

On the screen, I saw Caspian standing in the middle of the living room. He wasn’t cleaning up; he was standing perfectly still, listening for any sound from my room. Through the sharp black and white camera feed, I watched Caspian move around the kitchen with an expression entirely different from the one he wore at the airport. The warm smile and worried eyes were gone, replaced by a cold, calculating focus.

He opened the fridge, took out some groceries I had bought, but didn’t start cooking first. He washed his hands meticulously, then his safety inspection began. He crouched down and opened the cabinet beneath the gas stove where the main valve was located. He used his phone’s flashlight to carefully inspect every inch of the gas line and each connection point.

I held my breath, my heart pounding. He had no idea that just above his head, a tiny electronic eye was recording his every move. He reached out and tested the main valve, turning it on and off, checking its smoothness. He pressed his ear against the pipe listening, then stood up and walked to the stove, flicking the igniter.

A blue flame flared up. He adjusted it, watching the color and intensity. He turned it off but kept his hand on the knob, turning it just enough to release a tiny, almost imperceptible hiss of gas before quickly shutting it off again. His actions were not those of a man preparing a meal, but of a technician inspecting equipment, or a killer checking his weapon.

He looked up at the ventilation system and the kitchen window. He walked over and sealed the window shut, then drew the blinds. He muttered something the camera’s microphone couldn’t pick up, but from his lip movements I could guess he was calculating the room’s volume and how long it would take for the gas to fill the space.

A chill ran down my spine. He was rehearsing. He was preparing for a perfect gas leak, a fatal accident where the victim was his depressed, forgetful wife sleeping in the other room. He wanted to ensure that when he made his move, it would be flawless, leaving no suspicious traces.

Only after his inspection was complete did he begin to chop vegetables and prepare the meal, even whistling softly to himself. His calm, cruel composure was terrifying. He could plot his wife’s murder while simultaneously cooking her a loving meal. His psyche was twisted beyond comprehension.

An hour later, Caspian knocked on my door, his voice once again dripping with sweet concern. “Honey, dinner’s ready. Wake up and have something warm. I made your favorite soup.”

I quickly shut off the tablet, messed up my hair, and took a deep breath to regain my weary expression. I opened the door to see him standing there in an apron, holding a steaming bowl, smiling like a model husband. I looked at the soup then into his eyes, trying not to reveal the disgust churning in my stomach. I managed a weak smile.

“Thank you, Caspian. It smells wonderful. I feel like I’m dreaming, getting to eat a home-cooked meal from my husband again.”

He led me to the table, pulled out my chair, and lovingly served me. I picked up the spoon, my hand trembling slightly, wondering if this soup contained any other special ingredients besides fake love.