The Bet on the Cruise

Three days until the wedding anniversary, and Yale Shawn suddenly said he wants to take me on an overseas cruise. I was clutching my cell phone, venting to my best friend just yesterday—he hates the salty, fishy smell at the seaside, especially when it sticks to clothes and won't come off. I dialed his number; the receiver carried the sound of the sea breeze and faint laughter. "Didn't you say you hated the seaside smell? So why suddenly want to take a cruise?" I tried to keep my tone steady. There was a brief silence on the other end, then he said, sounding casual but a bit annoyed, "Wasn't it you who casually mentioned wanting to see the sea last month? Now I'm going with you, and you're asking all these questions? If you don't want to go, I'll just cancel." I was momentarily stunned—maybe I had said that sometime before. Feeling a bit unsettled, I quickly said, "I want to go," afraid he might actually cancel the plans. Within two minutes of hanging up, a stranger's number sent a video. In a smoke-filled private room, several men holding chips cheered: "I'm betting ten million! Three days from now on the cruise, Yale will propose to Vivian Lincoln in front of Serena Scott! I'm betting she'll cry faint!" A sudden chill ran through my fingers, and the cell phone nearly slipped from my hand. A man moved closer to Yale Shawn and said, "Yale, let's make it exciting—have six-month-pregnant Serena Scott put on a swimsuit and jump into the sea. I'll raise it by 20 million!" Amid the sounds of betting, Yale Shawn hooked a cigarette between his lips and smirked, "Alright, I bet..." I didn't catch the rest, so I hit pause. Still in the hospital corridor, having just received the 'Baby is healthy' prenatal report, I now slumped onto a bench, the paper crumpled in my hand. Vivian Lincoln? He mentioned her once—his distant relative's cousin, studying abroad. The phone buzzed again, this time with an earlier video. Still in that private room, someone asked, "You fly overseas every week to see Vivian Lincoln, and Serena Scott doesn't suspect? How do you hide the marks?" Yale Shawn leaned back on the sofa, crushing his cigarette butt in the ashtray. "That's why I let her get pregnant—no need to sleep with her for a whole year, so how could she find out?" The last word hit me hard; my stomach churned wildly. Covering my mouth, I dashed into the bathroom. Acid mixed with porridge surged up, making my throat burn and taste bitter. The woman in the mirror had red, swollen eyes and messy hair—nothing like her usual self remained. Married three years, I always thought he was just busy. Turns out, he was rotten to the core. Numb, I left the hospital and went back to the villa. The living room lights were off. I sat on the sofa, watching the moon move toward the middle of the sky. I don't know how long I waited before Yale Shawn came in, carrying the smell of alcohol and unfamiliar perfume. He wrapped his arms around me from behind, resting his chin on top of my head. The perfume stung my nose, making it ache. "Serena, has the baby been good today? I've arranged everything for the cruise. I'll take you to watch the sunrise." His voice was still as soft as ever, but I felt like I was being coiled by a poisonous snake—the bet from the video still ringing in my ears: making me wear a swimsuit and jump into the sea, watching me cry and faint. "Three years, and you still get so easily flushed?" He chuckled softly, handed me a pink box, then turned and went into the bathroom. With the sound of running water in the background, I opened the box—it held two mango-flavored pastries, a new release from 'Sweet Times.' Tears streamed down at once. Three years, and he still can't remember that I'm severely allergic to mango. Last time I accidentally took a bite, I almost couldn't breathe and had to be on IV fluids at the hospital for three hours. I threw the pastries into the trash and opened the bottom drawer of the wardrobe. Inside the black velvet box was the Agreement Grandpa Shawn gave me before he passed away. He is my grandfather's lifesaver. He said that if Yale Shawn ever wronged me, once I signed, 60% of the Shawn Group's shares and his properties would become mine. At the time, I even laughed, saying that day would never come. Now it seems I was just too naive. I picked up the pen and signed my name.