I was on the hundredth entry in my diary.
Today was August 25th, our fourth wedding anniversary.
A few weeks ago, I casually mentioned a recipe from an Italian restaurant in Florence, saying I missed it. Silas had actually remembered. He came home at 3 PM, took off his suit jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and spent hours in our kitchen.
When I came back from taking Nova to the park, the penthouse had been transformed. The lights were dimmed, soft jazz floated from the speakers, and the dining table was covered in red roses and flickering candles. The air smelled of perfectly seared steak and truffles.
Silas stood by the bar, pouring two glasses of expensive vintage champagne. When I walked in, he looked up, his eyes incredibly tender.
"Welcome home, Nina."
It was a cliché romantic setup, but it was flawless.
Underneath my champagne flute were two first-class plane tickets.
Departure date: the day after tomorrow. Destination: Maui, Hawaii.
I looked at Silas, then down at the tickets, and offered a soft smile.
The antique clock on the wall chimed 8 PM. The atmosphere was perfect.
And then, his phone, resting on the marble counter, buzzed.
The caller ID was Serena.
Silas hesitated, but he picked it up anyway. In the quiet room, I could hear her frantic, choked voice.
"Si... I feel so sick," she sobbed, using the very nickname I had just given back to him. "I'm in so much pain, and I don't know anyone else in the city anymore. Please... can you come help me? Si, please."
The romantic music seemed to screech to a halt.
Silas looked up at me.
In that split second, I saw his decision. I knew exactly how tonight would end.
"Nina... I'm sorry," he said, his voice torn. "I'll take her to the ER and come right back. It'll be quick."
I stood perfectly still by the table. I looked at the roses, the champagne, the tickets.
"Could you... not go?" I asked softly.
Silas looked at me, his jaw tight. He didn't say a word.
The air in the room froze. His apologetic expression vanished, replaced by the cold, unapproachable CEO I had married four years ago.
He looked away. "I'll be right back. I promise I won't miss our anniversary dinner."
We were locked in a standoff. Eventually, I surrendered.
"Okay," I murmured.
He grabbed his coat and headed for the door. I stood in the middle of the living room, watching his retreating back.
Just as his hand touched the doorknob, he turned to look at me.
I offered a gentle, submissive smile. What a perfect, understanding wife.
"Drive safely," I said.
"I will," he replied, and walked out into the night.
The heavy door clicked shut. The jazz music continued to play, as if mocking my empty apartment.
I picked up the crystal champagne flute and hurled it against the wall. It shattered into a thousand glittering pieces, leaving a wet, jagged stain on the expensive wallpaper.
I turned and walked toward the bedroom. Silas wasn't coming back tonight. I knew that.
Serena had won the bet.
But I hadn't lost.
