Cramps and Cheating: A Ski Trip From Hell

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."