Hatred Buried in That Winter Chapter 1

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 mother’s 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."