High above, search and rescue drones circled, their lenses fixed on the snow-capped peak where Arthur had wrapped his black windbreaker tightly around Barbara. He’d shielded her in his arms, then lowered his head for a kiss.

It was lingering. Tender. As if they were lovers who had survived a life-and-death ordeal.

And I, Rebecca—Arthur’s official fiancée—became the biggest joke among Crestwood’s elite on the eve of our wedding.

**[Holy shit! I thought Arthur was allergic to women. Is Barbara some kind of miracle cure?]**

**[Feel bad for Rebecca for a sec. The real deal can't even beat a stand-in.]**

**[Stand-in? More like he got bored and wanted a change of flavor.]**

Every comment scrolling across my phone screen slapped me in the face.

I turned off the phone, covered the painting with a white cloth, and dialed a number.

"Jonathan, is our earlier discussion still on the table?"

A calm, steady voice came through, touched with concern. "Rebecca, my promise stands."

"Good." I took a deep breath. "Our wedding will proceed as scheduled."

When they brought Arthur to the hospital, he was barely clinging to life.

Not from the avalanche—but from a severe allergic reaction.

Horrifying red rashes covered his body; his breathing was shallow. They rushed him straight to the ICU.

Barbara, meanwhile, had only caught a mild chill. She was in a standard ward, weeping dramatically.

Walking into her room, I found her clutching the Chief of Staff’s hand, sobbing. "It’s all my fault. If it weren’t for me, Arthur wouldn’t be like this… What do I do? I can’t even give him a child now…"

I let out a cold laugh.

"Barbara, is it? Not bad on the acting. Your script could use work, though."

She flinched like a startled rabbit, tears speeding down her cheeks. "Miss Rebecca, please don’t misunderstand. Arthur and I—we’re innocent—"

"Innocent?" I raised my phone, the screen glowing with that high-definition photo of their passionate kiss on the mountain. "Was this some kind of soul communion?"

Her face flushed crimson.

Just then, the ICU doors opened. A nurse announced Arthur was awake—and asking for me first.

I stepped into the sterile-smelling room. Arthur lay on the bed, his face paper-white, each breath a faint rasp. When he saw me, something complex flickered in his dark eyes.

"Rebecca…" His voice was scraped raw.

I said nothing. Just watched him.

He struggled to sit up, but stopped under my cold gaze.

Gasping, he managed, "Barbara… she just wanted to have my child. She thought if she could conceive, it might cure my allergy for good. Please—don’t make things difficult for her."

In that moment, my heart turned to ice.

His first words upon waking weren’t an explanation. Not an apology. They were a plea for another woman.

He had even tacitly accepted her absurd, ridiculous reasoning.

"Arthur," I said slowly, deliberately. "Should our wedding be postponed?"

He avoided my gaze, speaking with difficulty. "Rebecca, once I’m better—"

"Fine." I cut him off, a strange smile touching my lips. "I understand."

With that, I turned and walked out without a backward glance.

Outside, in full view of Barbara, I addressed Arthur’s Chief of Staff. "Make the announcement. The wedding in one month will proceed as planned."

A flash of triumph crossed Barbara’s face. The Chief of Staff looked uneasy.

I looked at them and finished clearly:

"The groom has been changed."

My words exploded like a bomb in Arthur’s inner circle.

Everyone assumed I’d lost my mind, or was merely lashing out in anger.

I was Rebecca, after all. At sixteen, I began following Arthur, standing faithfully beside him as he clawed his way up from nothing to become the undisputed king of Crestwood’s underworld. For years, my name had been practically inseparable from his.

Leaving Arthur? Impossible. That was what everyone believed—Arthur included.

So, while he recuperated in the hospital, he dismissed my “joke” about changing grooms. Quietly, he let Barbara step into the role of “Mrs. Arthur,” overseeing his daily care and even beginning to meddle in his affairs.

As for me? I vanished completely from his world.

I halted all business with Arthur’s Group and withdrew every one of my people from his orbit.

The Rebecca family might have fallen from grace, but the legacy my mother Deborah left behind allowed me to walk away with my head held high.

Instead, I poured all my energy into my art exhibition.

It was my dream—and my mother’s final wish—to hold my own solo exhibition at Crestwood’s most prestigious art center and, on the day it closed, to have my wedding. I’d mentioned this to Arthur countless times.

He’d once promised me the grandest exhibition and wedding the world had ever seen.

Now, he’d probably forgotten all about it.

Thanks to Jonathan’s unwavering support, the exhibition preparations went smoothly.

Jonathan—the new fiancé I’d announced publicly, the CEO of Jonathan’s Group. We were old acquaintances, though never close, until we reconnected at a business gala half a year ago.

Cultured, steady, reliable—he was unlike any man I’d ever known. He never asked about my past, yet always appeared exactly when I needed him.

“I’ve had the gallery lighting adjusted to the optimal color temperature for oil paintings,” he said over the phone, his voice as reassuring as ever. “And the invitations have been designed to your specifications. Would you like to see them?”

“Thank you, Jonathan.” I meant it sincerely.

“Between us, no thanks are needed.”

After hanging up, I looked around the studio at the paintings ready for display, a complex mix of emotions churning inside me.

These works chronicled the ten years I’d loved Arthur. Every brushstroke had once been saturated with deep affection. Now, they would bear witness to a grand farewell.

On opening night, Crestwood’s elite flocked to the gallery.

Standing by my side as host, Jonathan deflected every probing glance and veiled insinuation.

“Miss Rebecca certainly moves quickly. To land a catch like Mr. Jonathan so soon—quite impressive.”

“Indeed. I wonder what expression Mr. Arthur will have when he finds out.”

I ignored them, maintaining a polite smile.

Then Arthur and Barbara arrived.

He looked thinner, his face still pale, but the bespoke black suit accentuated his tall, imposing frame. The moment he entered, the air in the gallery seemed to freeze.

Barbara clung to his arm, her eyes wide and darting nervously as if expecting a threat.

Arthur’s gaze cut through the crowd and fixed directly on me. In those fathomless eyes, dark currents swirled—emotions I could no longer decipher.

“Rebecca, enough of this.” He stopped before me, his tone brooking no argument. “Come home with me.”

As if nothing had happened. As if I were just a child throwing a tantrum.

I smiled, raised my glass, and turned to Jonathan beside me. “Jonathan, let me introduce you. This is Arthur. My… former fiancé.”

I emphasized the word *former*.

Jonathan extended a hand politely. “Mr. Arthur. I’ve heard much about you.”

Arthur didn’t even glance at him. His eyes remained locked on me, his voice icy. “Rebecca. Say that again.”

“I said,” I met his gaze, enunciating each word, “Mr. Arthur, we are over. My wedding will be with my current fiancé, Jonathan.”

The tension in the air instantly thickened.

Barbara chose that moment to tug gently at Arthur’s sleeve. “Arthur, don’t be angry. Miss Rebecca might just be confused. We… we shouldn’t disturb her.”

Her show of magnanimity only poured fuel on the fire.

Storm clouds gathered in Arthur’s expression. He grabbed my wrist, his fingers biting in with bruising force. “Rebecca, you think finding another man will get to me? Don’t forget—you’re mine. You always will be!”

Jonathan stepped forward, his hand closing around Arthur’s wrist, his voice turning cold. “Mr. Arthur. Release my fiancée.”

Two equally powerful men, their gazes clashing in mid-air. The force of their presence made the onlookers instinctively step back.

Just then, an ill-timed video began to play on a loop across the gallery’s main display screen.

It was me.

Me, years ago, captured by Arthur’s rivals after I’d tried to save him. Cornered by several men, my clothes disheveled, my face a mask of humiliation and tears. Though key areas were blurred, the despair and shame were magnified for all to see.

The crowd erupted in shock.

My blood ran cold. I felt plunged into an icy abyss.

This video was the deepest, sharpest thorn buried in my heart. Back then, after Arthur rescued me, he swore he’d destroy every copy, burying the incident forever.

Yet now, it had been dragged into the light in the most degrading way possible.

My eyes snapped to Barbara. She was holding her phone, a fleeting, triumphant smirk on her lips.

It was her.

“Arthur,” she gasped, hastily stuffing her phone away and throwing herself against his chest. “It wasn’t me! I don’t know how this happened…”

Arthur’s body went rigid. He looked at the screen, then at Barbara in his arms, conflict flashing in his eyes.

As for me, after the peak of shame and heartbreak, only a vast, hollow coldness remained.

I wrenched my wrist from Arthur’s grasp and asked him, each word deliberate, “Arthur. Was this your doing?”

Arthur offered no reply.

His silence was the cruelest answer. Perhaps he simply had no words left. He couldn’t believe Barbara would do such a thing, yet he couldn’t explain the video either.

And I no longer needed his explanations.

I looked at him, at the woman trembling in his arms and playing the innocent, and suddenly felt the past ten years were nothing but a long, absurd joke.

For him, I had transformed from the sheltered Rebecca family heiress into a woman who could handle his dirty work, who could take a blade for him. I thought I was thawing a heart of ice, only to discover it was stone, all the way through.

"Fine. Just fine."

I turned and walked to the center of the exhibition hall, picking up the microphone.

"Ladies and gentlemen, my apologies for the spectacle."

My voice, amplified, echoed clearly through the space. The room fell silent, every eye fixed on me.

I took a deep breath, my gaze locking directly on Arthur. "Yes, the person in the video is me. I was twenty. To save the man I thought I could trust with my life, I nearly destroyed myself. But I don’t regret it. It was my choice."

My eyes shifted to the painting veiled by the white cloth.

"Today, here, I want to put a final end to my own foolish past."

I walked over and yanked the cloth away.

The painting captured a sunny day. A young Arthur and a teenage Rebecca sat side by side on the grass, smiling, carefree. It was where our love began.

Arthur’s body trembled violently. He stared at the painting, his eyes filled with shock and anguish.

"Rebecca, don’t..." he rasped.

I ignored him. Picking up a nearby can of turpentine, I flung its contents over the canvas without hesitation.

The pungent smell filled the air instantly.

"Rebecca! How dare you!" Arthur roared, trying to charge forward, but Lu Jonathan stopped him.

I picked up a utility knife. Under the horrified gazes of the crowd, I slashed the painting—slashed my ten years of youth and love—into pieces.

"Arthur," I said, my voice steady. "From today on, we are finished. Consider every bond between us broken."

I dropped the knife, turned, and walked away.

Behind me rose Arthur’s heart-rending roar and Barbara’s shrill wails. "Arthur! Look at her! She’s insane! How could she destroy your memories?!"

Memories?

Mine had died the moment he charged into the blizzard for her.

Lu Jonathan followed close behind. At the door, he took off his suit jacket and draped it over my shoulders, shielding me from the chaos.

"It’s over," he said.

I nodded, tears finally spilling uncontrollably.

Yes. It was over.

But I had underestimated Arthur’s madness.

The next day, my studio was trashed.

Every one of my paintings, including my mother’s final works, had been splattered with paint and torn to shreds.

The floor was a ravaged wasteland, littered with the casualties of my life’s work.

And Arthur sat on a sofa in the center of the ruins, idly playing with a sharp dagger.

Barbara stood behind him. Her eyes, fixed on me, gleamed with a victor’s smugness.

"Rebecca, you destroyed one of our paintings," Arthur’s voice was ice-cold. "So I destroyed everything of yours. Are you satisfied now?"

I looked at the carnage, at my mother’s most cherished landscape painting ripped in two. A wave of nausea and grief hit me so hard I couldn’t breathe. It was all I had left of her.

"Arthur..." My voice shook. "You went after my mother’s things?"

"You left me no choice."

He stood and started toward me, slow and deliberate. "Just come back. Apologize. I can pretend none of this happened. I’ll hire the best restoration experts in the world to fix every single painting."

I looked at him and suddenly laughed, the laughter turning to tears.

"Apologize? Arthur, what gives you the right?"

I lunged forward, mustering every ounce of strength, and slapped him across the face.

"That’s for my dead love!"

He took it.

"That’s for my destroyed dreams!"

He took that too.

"And this one—" My hand flew up again, but he caught my wrist.

His eyes were bloodshot, like a provoked beast.

"Rebecca, haven’t you caused enough trouble!"

"Not enough!" I screamed. "Arthur, you’re nothing but a bastard!"

Barbara shrieked and rushed forward. "Don’t you dare insult him! Rebecca, you crazy woman!"

She tried to shove me. I slapped her back, hard.

"You don’t get to speak here. Get out!"

Clutching her face, Barbara stared at me in disbelief, then threw herself into Arthur’s arms, wailing dramatically. "Arthur! She hit me... my face hurts so much..."

Arthur looked at the weeping Barbara in his arms, then at my eyes filled with pure hatred. His last shred of reason snapped.

"Rebecca, it seems I’ve been far too lenient with you."

He shoved me to the ground. Shards of broken frames sliced into my arm.

He picked up the dagger, walked over, crouched down, and grabbed my hand.

"You once promised this hand would paint only for me," he said, his voice terrifyingly gentle.

Then, to the soundtrack of Barbara’s triumphant shriek, he drove the dagger down—hard—straight through the palm of my right hand, pinning it to the floor.

Agony exploded through every nerve.

My body convulsed with the pain, but I gritted my teeth, not making a sound. I just looked at him, mustering every last bit of strength to twist my lips into a bleak smile.

"You win, Arthur."

"From now on, this hand will never paint again."

"And I will never, ever love you again."

My blood seemed to shock him back to his senses.

He stared at my hand, nailed to the floor, and flinched violently. A flicker of panic, of regret, flashed in his eyes.

But it was far too late.

I looked at him, then slowly closed my eyes.

This heart that beat for you for ten years… in this moment, it finally stopped.