The weather is -4 degrees Fahrenheit in Snow Park. The menstrual cramps are too much for me to handle, so I can only crouch beside the snow paths in order to rest.

The new beautiful ski instructor, Sandy Hatfield, who Owen Schultz has hired, skid to a stop all of a sudden. The flurry of ice and snow gets splashed onto my face as a result.

"Oh my, the snow quality here really is amazing! Unlike a certain someone, whose health is weaker than that of an average child…"

Sandy takes off her snow goggles before flipping the bird at me tauntingly.

"A dainty maiden like you should just go home and enjoy the heater. Don't take up precious space on the snow paths!"

Unable to take it anymore, I grab my ski pole and try to strike Sandy with it.

The next thing I know, Owen comes skidding in my direction on his snowboard and quickly shields Sandy from me. In doing so, he knocks me to the icy ground.

He frowns at me, his voice colder than the icy winds.

"Sandy is a professional athlete. What she did is a professional ski move. Can you stop being unreasonable?"

As I slump on the ground, I find myself staring at a pink turtle cushion hanging from Sandy's hip.

That was a cushion I’d sewn for Owen over three sleepless nights before this trip, with a safety charm hidden inside.. Back then, Owen thinks this charm is childish-looking and embarrassing, so he has tossed it into the boot without looking at it.

Sandy follows my line of sight and feels the turtle cushion near her hip. Then, she brushes the snow off the charm with a scowl on her face.

"Owen told me that this is a piece of garbage that's taking up space at home. So, it serves as my cushion now. I don't think even old ladies are prone to making such lame crafts nowadays, right Brooke?"

I lay face down in the snow, my stomach cramping so badly that I couldn't straighten up.

My body hurt, but what cut deeper was the chill in my heart.

Owen Schultz stood protectively in front of Sandy Hatfield, his voice dripping with disgust.

"Brooke Greer, can you stop being such a buzzkill? Sandy was just teaching me how to switch edges, and she got a little carried away. You're the one with a weak body who insisted on coming to the slopes, and now you're here faking an injury and playing the victim. Get up already. Don't embarrass us."

Playing the victim? I bit down on my lip.

I'd worked two extra weeks of overtime just to come to Winterley with him, because he said this trip was to celebrate our third wedding anniversary.

But the moment we got here, he hired Sandy, a pretty private instructor. For three whole days, he left me alone at the hotel while he tore down the advanced trails with her.

That day, I finally pushed through the pain and came out to find him, only to be met with a face full of snow and to be called a buzzkill.

I pointed a trembling finger at the turtle cushion strapped to Sandy's backside.

I said, "Owen, I sewed that protective cushion for you."

Owen was taken aback for a moment, then got even more annoyed.

"So what? That thing's hideous. I'd be embarrassed to wear it. Sandy didn't bring her protective cushion, so I gave it to her. At least it's being used."

Being used.

I had pulled three all-nighters, pricking my fingers on the needle more times than I could count. I had even made a pilgrimage to Mount Cloudview to get a protective charm and sewn it deep inside the turtle's belly.

Yet, in Owen's eyes, the turtle cushion was just an ugly, embarrassing piece of junk he could give away.

Sandy saw right through me. She covered her mouth in exaggerated shock, but her eyes sparkled with smug satisfaction.

"Oh my! So Brooke made this? I'm so sorry, Owen. I had no idea it meant so much to her. Even though the stitching is rough and the stuffing is all lumpy…"

She tugged at the turtle's strap, her expression one of disgust.

"And it's honestly pretty tacky. I should probably give it back to Brooke."

She pretended to unbuckle it.

Owen grabbed her hand immediately

"No way. Once I give something away, I don't take it back. Besides, if you gave it back to her, she'd just throw it in the trash. So, you might as well wear it. At least it'll cushion your falls while you practice snowboarding."

With that, Owen turned to me, his eyes as cold as ice.

"Brooke, if you keep this up, you can head back to the hotel by yourself. Don't mess up Sandy's lesson."

The sight of Owen defending her somehow made the ache in my stomach fade.

When the heart was dead, the body no longer felt pain.

I pushed myself up on my ski poles, staggering to my feet. Then, I brushed the snow from my knees.

I looked at Owen and calmly said, "Alright. I won't bother you two anymore. Have fun skiing."

Owen probably didn't expect me to let it go that easily. He frowned as if he wanted to say something, but Sandy was already tugging at his sleeve.

She said, "Owen, come on. I'll teach you the falling leaf drill."

Owen's attention was immediately drawn to her. "Okay."

He didn't look at me again and skied down the slopes with Sandy.

I stood there watching them leave.

The pink turtle protective cushion grew smaller and smaller in the wind and snow, until it became a glaring pink dot.

I took out my phone and dialed a number I hadn't contacted in a long time.

"Hello, Alfred Pace. It's me, Brooke. Check if the ski resort in Winterley is one of my family's properties. If it is, notify the manager that I want the place cleared out."

Back in the hotel room, I took a scalding hot bath. However, the chill deep in my bones just wouldn't go away, making me shiver.

My phone buzzed with a WhatsApp message from Owen. There was neither apology nor concern.

All I received was a bank transfer of 50 dollars and a cold, heartless message that read, "Go buy yourself something warm to eat. Stop being so dramatic about every little ache and pain. I won't be home for dinner because Sandy said she wants sizzling steak."

I looked at the screen and laughed. As I laughed, my tears splashed onto the screen.

50 dollars? That was like throwing scraps to a beggar.

I was the heiress of the most powerful family in Cruxby with a net worth of ten billion dollars.

To marry a penniless man like Owen, I hid my identity and lived with him in a rental for three years. To help him secure investment funds, I drank three bottles of white wine on behalf of Mr. Roland Duffy at a business dinner.

I ended up with gastrointestinal bleeding from all the drinking, which damaged my health. And ever since then, I'd suffered from menstrual pain every time I felt cold.

What did Owen say back then?

He held my frail body and cried like a child, saying, "Brooke, you are my life, and I owe you everything. If I ever make you suffer even a little, may I die a terrible death."

Now, I'd become his enemy, and our vows had turned into a joke.

After drying my hands, I ignored the money transfer and opened Instagram instead.

Sandy had posted an update half an hour ago. The post featured a nine-grid photo collage, including shots of the ski resort and sizzling steak. In the center was a photo of two hands overlapping to form a heart shape, and on the man's hand was the wedding ring I had given Owen.

The caption read, "Even though the weather is freezing, Owen makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. People with fragile health should just stay home instead of embarrassing themselves out here. Skiing is a sport for the brave, after all."

In the comments section, Owen replied with an emoji of a smiling face with heart eyes. His friends egged him on below his comment.

"Way to go, Owen! This instructor's body is fire!"

"Brooke didn't go with you? Oh, right—I forgot she gets winded after taking two steps."

"A sporty woman like Sandy is way more exciting!"

Owen replied to one of the comments, "Don't talk nonsense. She's just an instructor. But yeah, she's way more interesting than that boring prude at home."

Boring prude.

I cooked for him and went all out, taking shots for him. Yet, to him, I was nothing but a boring prude.

The doorbell suddenly rang.

I put on a bathrobe and went to answer the door.

Outside stood the hotel manager, Nelson Kern, followed by two rows of waiters pushing fully loaded carts.

Mr. Kern wiped the sweat from his forehead and bowed at a 90-degree angle.

"Ms. Greer, I had no idea you were gracing us with your presence. I'm so sorry I wasn't here to welcome you. This is all prepared by our best chefs—a seafood feast, plus fresh-off-the-plane black truffles and caviar. Would you like to give them a try?"

I stepped aside to let them in.

I looked at the lavish spread of delicacies filling the room and picked up a spoon to take a bite.

It tasted ten thousand times more delicious than anything I could buy with the 50 dollars Owen begrudgingly gave me.

I set down the spoon and evenly said, "Mr. Kern, I heard that someone has booked the private VIP night skiing pass tonight."

Mr. Kern quickly nodded. "Yes, it's Mr. Schultz. He said he wanted to train with a private instructor. It's only because he's your husband that we gave him the session for free and granted him the highest access privileges."

I nodded and wiped my mouth with a napkin.

I then said, "Revoke the access and notify resort security that there will be a fire drill tonight. All unauthorized personnel are to leave the premises."

Mr. Kern was taken aback. A moment later, realization dawned on him, and his expression turned sharp.

"Understood, Ms. Greer. And what about Mr. Schultz?"

I walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window and gazed out into the dark night.

"He likes skiing, right? Then let him ski to his heart's content. Stop the ski lift and make him walk down on his own."

When Owen's call came, I was lying on a massage chair with a facial mask on. I let the phone ring three times before I leisurely answered it.

"Brooke, where the heck are you?" Owen's roar carried on the wind, sounding especially pitiful.

"Why did the ski lift stop? Sandy and I are stranded halfway up the mountain! There's not even a single light in this godforsaken place, and you're not answering your phone. Are you trying to freeze us to death?"

I adjusted the massage chair's intensity and let out a contented sigh.

"Why are you calling me about the ski lift? Owen, aren't you supposed to be in great shape? Isn't skiing a sport for the brave? Just walk down. A little trek shouldn't be anything for a star athlete like you, right?"

Owen was completely thrown off. He'd never heard me talk like this before. Back in the day, I'd panic if he so much as sneezed.

"Brooke, have you lost your mind? Sandy's barely wearing anything. Her lips are already turning blue! Call the hotel and tell them to send a snowmobile up! You're a VIP here, so they'll listen to you!"

I laughed softly. So, he knew that I was a VIP here. And he was using the points from my card, no less.

"Sorry, I just checked with the front desk, and they said there's a fire drill tonight. So, no vehicles are allowed up the mountain."

I paused, then added coldly, "Besides, isn't Sandy wearing that turtle cushion on her butt? It has the protective charm inside that I got from Mount Cloudview. With the universe protecting her, I'm sure she won't freeze to death."

Owen was beside himself with rage on the other end of the line.

"Brooke, you're just jealous and petty! That stupid turtle cushion is useless! If anything happens to Sandy because of the cold, I'll make you pay!"

Just then, Sandy's tearful voice came through the phone. "Owen, I'm so cold. It feels like my leg is cramping. Is Brooke angry? It's all my fault. I shouldn't have worn that protective cushion. You shouldn't be too hard on Brooke. She probably just cares about you too much."

He was truly a master of playing the victim. The stench of her fake sweetness wafted through the phone, giving me a headache.

Owen, predictably, grew even more frantic.

"Sandy, don't be afraid. I'll carry you. Brooke, I'm warning you for the last time—send someone to get us right now! Otherwise, when I get back, we're getting a divorce!"

He had never brought up divorce before. Yet, he now said it with such conviction, all for a ski instructor.

I watched the snow fall outside the window, feeling not a ripple of emotion.

"Fine. Let's get a divorce. Owen, you're the one who wanted it," I replied serenely.

With that, I hung up and blocked his number.

Divorce? Nothing would make me happier.

But before that, there were some accounts to settle.

I sent Alfred a message, "Freeze every supplementary bank card under Owen's name, including the one he set up for Sandy. After that, pull out the angel investment I made in Owen's company."

Once that was done, I turned off the lights and slipped under the warm covers.

That night, I slept more soundly than ever—until the next morning, when frantic pounding on my door woke me.

Outside stood Owen, covered in snow and looking utterly miserable. He was holding a shivering Sandy in his arms.

The moment he saw me standing at the door in my silk pajamas, looking completely relaxed, his eyes turned bloodshot with fury.

He handed Sandy off to a waiter behind him and stormed inside. Then, he raised his hand to deliver a violent slap right across my face.