Hatred Buried in That Winter

Genevieve gave me the silent treatment, all for her childhood friend. She left me stranded in a foreign country for three years.

I had a shattered leg. I was penniless and didn't speak a word of the language. My only means of survival was picking through trash.

More than once, I called her, begging. "Genevieve, I'm not going to make it out here."

Her only reply was a cold, distant dismissal. "If it wasn't for you, would Tristan have gotten hurt? I'll bring you home when you've finally shed that spoiled heir attitude of yours."

What Genevieve didn't know, or didn't care to know, was that in this country, you couldn't get a job without a permanent address. And without a job, you starved on the streets.

The winter was brutal. I was half-buried in a snowdrift when a stunningly dressed woman from high society found me and took me in.

Three years later, on a street in that same foreign city, Genevieve and Tristan blocked my path.

"Alistair, it's been three years. Haven't you gotten over that pampered attitude yet?"

I frowned, ignoring her. I pulled out my phone and called Isabelle.

"Darling, another woman's throwing herself at me. When you come to pick me up, bring the bodyguards. It's time to take out the trash."

The words had barely left my lips when Genevieve snatched the phone from my hand and ended the call.

"Alistair, when are you going to grow up? You've even learned to lie."

As she spoke, a light snow began to fall. Her eyes, filled with disappointment, met mine. The scene threw me back three years.

Genevieve and I were married young, a smooth transition from university sweethearts to husband and wife. The world saw us as the golden couple, a perfect match from powerful families.

Her promise to me had been absolute: "Alistair, you're the heir to a fortune, and I'm the darling of high society. We're made for each other. No one can ever tear us apart."

Her devotion made me give her everything, from my shares in the company to the deeds to our properties. She was my world.

In our first year of marriage, she wrestled control of my family's corporation from my stepmother, ensuring my late mothers portrait was hung in the main hall of the family estate.

In our second year, she scoured the globe for the best doctors to help me overcome the childhood trauma that still haunted me.

In our third year, she endured endless hospital visits and grueling rounds of IVF, determined to give me twins, a boy and a girl, so I could finally feel what it was like to have a real family.

Even on our wedding day, as I carried her over the threshold, she had bowed her head so I wouldn't have to bend mine.

"Alistair," she had said, "you are my husband. I want everyone to look past me and see you standing tall."

And so, wrapped in her love, I had been carefree and demanding.

I made her text me back instantly, even during board meetings.

I'd make her drive a thousand miles back from a business trip, just because I missed her.

Even when she was pregnant, my every mood was her priority. If I mentioned a craving, she'd drive across the city herself to get it for me.

That was Genevieve. My perfect wife.

And then Tristan appeared, and everything changed.

He was a childhood friend of hers. His family had moved away after going bankrupt years ago. When Genevieve found him again, he was being beaten by loan sharks on the street, the result of a disastrous affair with a married woman.

The familiar face from her childhood, now bruised and alone, looked so utterly pathetic.

Oh, and the night they met? That was the night she was out getting me a specific kind of takeout I wanted. I've hated myself ever since for wanting that damn food.

It was Tristan who recognized her first.

Two words were all it took to reignite a childhood crush.

"Genevieve."

And just like that, she brought him home.

I was waiting eagerly for my food, only to see her walk in with this sad, broken man trailing behind her.

"This is Tristan," she announced. "An old friend. He'll be staying with us for a while."

It was the first time she had ever brought another man into our home, and it was the first time I completely lost control in front of her.

I destroyed everything I could get my hands on in the villa. A shard of glass flew and cut Tristans face.

Genevieve rushed him to the hospital in a panic, completely ignoring me as the stress triggered my old leg injury. I collapsed on the floor, pleading with her.

"Genevieve, my leg it hurts."

As she helped Tristan out the door, she threw back one last line: "Stop pretending, Alistair."

So I went to the hospital alone.

I had just finished my examination when the doctor told me, "You were two minutes away from losing that leg for good."

Then, he handed me a file. It was Genevieves.

"Mr. Sterling, your wife is three months pregnant. You need to take good care of her."

The news washed away my anger. For the sake of our child, I could forgive her for tonight.

When I stepped out of the office, I ran right into her.

"Genny, you're pregnant."

Her face was a mask of indifference. "I'm getting rid of it. I owe Tristan my life. I have to pay him back first."

For Tristan, she was willing to abort our child.

"Genevieve, you dare. If you get rid of this baby, we're getting a divorce."

I thought the threat would work.

Instead, she slapped me. Then she tried to force me to apologize to Tristan.

"You're so childish, Alistair. Tristan is the one who's hurt right now."

The pain of being compared to another man by the woman I loved was a knife in the heart.

I was forced to apologize.

I went back to my family's estate, expecting her to come and coax me back.

But in the end, I was the one who couldn't stand it. I caved first.

When I opened the door to our home, I found Tristan lying in our bed. He was wearing a pair of silk boxers, a gift shed given me.

The sight broke something inside me. I went mad.

I grabbed Tristan and tried to throw him out of the house.

But he fell down the stairs.

The fall landed him in the hospital. The doctors said he had a severe head injury and would likely be brain-dead.

It was a death sentence for him, and a life sentence for me.

She looked at me with that same, crushing disappointment. "You're a murderer, Alistair. Do you realize that?"

A murderer?

I didn't push him.

I tried to explain that the staircase wasn't that high, that he had slipped on his own.

She wasn't listening. She just kept accusing me.

"A pampered heir like you could never understand what Tristan has been through. In your world, his life is cheap, isn't it?"

I had nothing to say. Faced with this version of Genevieve, so fiercely protective of another man, the words wouldn't come. Silence and a bitter smile were my only defense.

She shoved me. "There you go again. You just shut down. You think this is funny?"

Then, she delivered the final blow.

"By the way, I had the procedure yesterday. The baby is gone. Consider it punishment for what you did to Tristan."

She threw the clinic report at me.

The baby was gone.

It felt like a million tiny threads were sewn into my skin, all pulling at once, trying to flay me alive. The pain was unbearable.

I pulled myself together enough to say one thing. "I see."

But my punishment wasn't over.

She sent me abroad.

"You can come back when Tristan wakes up. In the meantime, you can reflect on your attitude."

The final outcome of our "silent treatment" was this: she dumped me in a foreign country, stripped me of all my money, and cut off all my contacts. She left me with nothing and no one.

She said it was for my own good.

"Alistair, you need to feel what it's like to truly suffer, like Tristan did. Only then will you understand."

The snow in that foreign city was relentless.

The first day, I slept in the airport, my eyes glued to the entrance, praying she would come back for me.

The second day, security threw me out. They couldn't understand me, and I couldn't understand them. I had no money, no ID, nothing.

The third day, I lost all my dignity. I grabbed a stranger's leg and begged for money. He kicked me away, but then, perhaps out of pity, tossed a single bill on the ground and walked off.

I clutched the money like it was my last hope on earth and ran to a payphone, dialing the number that was burned into my memory.

She picked up quickly. I thought I could hear Tristans voice in the background, but all I could focus on was getting home.

"Genevieve, please, bring me home."

Her voice was strange, her breathing heavy, her words broken and gasping. "Genevieve, are you there?"

All she gave me were breathy murmurs. "Mmm yes"

I thought she had heard me. I walked all the way back to the airport, my feet blistered and bleeding, my body numb from the cold.

I waited for days. The pain in my leg grew worse. I remembered the doctor's warning and used the last of my moneymoney I should have used for breadto call her one more time.

She answered with an accusation. "Alistair, can't you handle a little hardship?"

"Genevieve," I said, my voice cracking, "my leg if I don't get treatment, they're going to have to amputate."

The line went dead.

I don't know if she heard me.

All I knew was the pain. My whole body ached. It hurt so much I could barely breathe. I just kept whispering her name.

Before, she would have appeared like a goddess, descending to save me from any trouble.

This time, I was cast into the abyss, and darkness swallowed me whole.

After that call, I collapsed. A kind stranger got me to a hospital.

The nurse delivered the diagnosis. The leg needed to be amputated. They required a signature from my next of kin.

I stared at my leg and cried.

The nurse tried to comfort me. "If your family is willing to pay, there is an alternative treatment"

"I don't have anyone," I said. "My wife is dead."

In that moment, all I saw in their eyes was pity.

Genevieve was dead to me. She died the moment she chose him over me. She died on her way to get that takeout. She died the night she sent me away.

The only person I had failed was myself.

She was right. I was a pampered heir. I had no idea how to survive on my own.

After that day, I never called her again.

Occasionally, she would try to reach me through others, but I refused every attempt.

Now, her voice cut through the memory, sharp and impatient.

"Alistair, have some respect. I'm talking to you. Are you deaf?"

I pushed her hand away. "Three years ago, did you ever listen to me?"

If she had, I would still have both my legs.

A bitter sting filled my nose. I took a step back and held up my hand, letting the diamond on my finger catch the light.

"Genevieve, I'm remarried."