The Snow Mountain Lie Can’t Be Mended, Iodine Coolness Weaves into the Strings

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.