The Cruise He'll Regret Chapter 1

Married for three years, and now, finally, a positive pregnancy test. My hands trembled as I stared at the two faint lines, a joy so fierce it almost hurt. This was the baby I had fought for, enduring countless hormone injections and heartbreaking disappointments.

I was about to call my husband, Simon, to give him the surprise of his life, when a text message lit up my phone. It was a shared notification, a booking confirmation from Royal Caribbean cruises.

"Dear Mr. Jones, your waterbed service has been upgraded to a swing waterbed. We wish you a pleasant stay."

A sweet smile touched my lips. Of course. It had to be a birthday surprise for me.

But that evening, when Simon came home, he held me close, his eyes filled with an apology that felt all too real. "Sweetheart," he murmured, "I have to go on a business trip. I won't be back for your birthday."

The light in my eyes died. I hid my shock, my hand slowly falling from my belly. The words "I'm pregnant" caught in my throat and stayed there.

* * *

After dropping the bomb, Simon disappeared into the bathroom.

Maybe it was my imagination, but ever since we started trying for a baby, his touch had become less frequent, more hesitant. Sometimes, he would just look at me and say, "Sweetheart, have you lost weight?" or, "Why don't you get a facial? I thought all women liked that stuff."

All these little moments, these seemingly innocent comments, now flooded my mind, each one a tiny, sharp piece of glass.

In the middle of the night, some unseen force pulled me toward his phone. I opened his Amazon app.

Order after order of condoms and sex toys stared back at me. I clamped a hand over my mouth to stifle a sob, my body wracked with tremors.

The earliest order… it dated back to the second year of our marriage.

In the darkness, I looked at the man sleeping soundly beside me. Only one thought echoed in the sudden, silent void of my mind.

He had someone to compare me to.

Simon Jones was cheating on me.

The next morning, Simon left with his suitcase. I hailed a cab and followed him at a distance.

Ding. A text from him.

"Sweetheart, I'm almost at the airport. About to take off. You go have fun with your friends, okay? It's on me."

"Sweetheart, I miss you already."

A wave of nausea rolled through me.

Fifteen minutes later, I watched his car pull up to the Port of Miami. The massive, colorful sign seemed to mock me. I felt the world tilt on its axis.

I saw him take a picture with his phone, then make a call. The expression on his face—a soft, sweet tenderness I, his wife, had never seen—was a knife to my heart.

The cab driver, startled by my deathly pale face, practically shoved me out of his car.

I hid behind a large decorative pillar and watched my husband, the man who was supposed to be on a "business trip," board the cruise ship.

Then, another text. It was a video.

"Sweetheart, it's so hot here. Missing you every second."

I saved the video and clicked on the 'details' tab. The recording date was from a week ago.

He had lied to me. Again.

In that moment, I was almost grateful for his old-fashioned habits. He only used text messages, never social media. It made getting the raw, unedited footage so much easier.

A sharp, stabbing pain shot through my abdomen, a chill that had nothing to do with the July heat. But the physical pain was nothing, not even a fraction of the agony ripping through my heart.

I sank to the ground, watching the crowds of happy people ebb and flow around me. My hand trembled as I dialed his number.

As always, he answered almost immediately. "What's wrong, baby? You miss me already?"

His voice was always so gentle, like a soft breeze. But now, it felt like a silken blade, each word a fatal cut.

"Simon," I whispered, my eyes fixed on the distant cruise ship, unfocused and devoid of light. "Do you love me?"

He paused for a second, then answered without hesitation. "Of course, I love you, sweetheart. Why would you ask that?"

But he didn't know that I could hear it. The soft rustle of clothes, the friction of skin on skin. It was faint, but it was there.

I didn't speak again. In a fit of self-torture, I listened to the muffled groans and heavy breathing on the other end of the line, my heart twisting into a tight, painful knot.

The sky, clear just moments before, suddenly darkened, the clouds heavy with unshed rain. I pressed a hand to my stomach, unable to tell if the moisture on my face was from the sky or from my own eyes.

"It's nothing," I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. "Simon, when you get back, I have a gift for you."

He grunted a distracted "mm-hmm," and then, as if he couldn't hold back any longer, he hung up.

On the way to the hospital, I scheduled an abortion.

Lying on the operating table, I could feel a life, a tiny spark I had wanted so desperately, being extinguished.

When the anesthesia wore off, I searched for the Royal Caribbean's port schedule. It had departed from Miami, with stops in Nassau and Cozumel, before returning.

Then, I called my sister.

"Your husband… didn't he invest in one of Royal Caribbean's projects?"

"Yeah, he did. Why? What's wrong?"

My fingers tightened into a fist. "The cruise that left Miami today… can you get me on board when it docks in Nassau in two days?"

My sister's voice sharpened with concern. "Of course. But, Anna, what are you going to do?"

The trembling I had been suppressing finally broke through.

"I'm going to catch a cheater."