Faking Her Death to Ski with Him

Shortly after I hung up, my phone vibrated again. This time, it was my wife, Sonia Cervantes.

I answered the call, my voice instinctively softening. "Hey, honey?"

Her warm, steady voice came through the line. "I heard about the slope issue. Don't worry. I've already asked my assistant to handle it. With my influence, they'll definitely give us some leeway. You can ski whenever you want."

I smiled, the frustration in my heart dissipating like smoke. "No need for that. You just finished your meeting. Don't go through the trouble. Actually, I was thinking of spending a few extra days at the summit chalet, enjoying the snow views as an early relaxation period. Postponing the skiing a bit is no big deal."

"Alright," Sonia said, her tone filled with indulgence. "Have fun! I'll join you as soon as I wrap up here."

After the call, I turned around to find Hazel eyeing me curiously.

She seemed to have caught snippets of the conversation, a smug expression crossing her face. "What? Your so-called wife couldn't even secure a ski slope?"

She deliberately emphasized the word "wife". Her childishness made me laugh. "It's unnecessary."

I picked up my ski equipment, eager to leave.

"Mr. Barton, are you heading out?" Rory suddenly stepped in front of me, handing over an entry form for a ski competition. "Next Monday is the doubles ski race that Hazel and I are entering. Right on that diamond slope. You should join us."

His eyes shone with anticipation, but my face darkened.

Hazel quickly stepped forward, stammering with guilt. "Don't misunderstand. Rory has been through trauma, and the doctor said competitive activities could help rebuild his confidence. I'm just trying to make it up to him."

She paused, pulling me aside toward the exit to avoid the crowd. Lowering her voice, she said in what she thought was a deeply affectionate tone, "The race with Rory is just for show—to help his condition. Once he's better, I'll explain everything to him. Just wait a little longer for me, okay?"

Her words instantly transported me back to the past.

When my parents passed away and I locked myself in my room, refusing food or drink, she pleaded through the door over and over, "Clyde, open the door. I swear, from now on, I'll be your safe harbor. I'll always stay by your side."

Back then, her eyes were clear, her tone sincere. But now, she used that same sincerity to spout the most hypocritical lies.

"You truly disgust me," I said, shoving her away and storming out of the ski shop without a backward glance.

Not long after, I received another call from Hans. "Mr. Barton, good news! Mr. Newman contacted me and said he admires your skiing technique. He's sincerely inviting you to participate in the race."

I furrowed my brows. That was hardly good news. I rejected it outright, "I'm not interested."

"Oh, come on," Hans persisted, his tone turning mysterious. "I've looked into it, and the champion's prize for this race is something truly special."

"What is it?" I asked casually, not particularly caring.

Hans lowered his voice, brimming with excitement. "It's a one-of-a-kind antique ski pole, reportedly used by royalty in the early 20th century, with a sapphire embedded in the handle. It was restored and polished by a reclusive master craftsman. This master is notoriously grumpy, and hiring him is harder than scaling Everest."

He paused for effect and continued, "The resort owner pulled massive strings to get him involved. The best part? The master has promised to personally customize a complete set of ski gear for the winner, from the board to the suit. It'll be one-of-a-kind. You can even have your and your wife's initials engraved on it."