My Fiancé Destroyed My Family to Protect His Mistress

The plane's descent into Fairbanks was a nightmare of turbulence and icy winds. Through the small window, I watched Alaska's endless white landscape materialize—a frozen wasteland that would become our prison for the next three years.

"Remember who you are," my father whispered, his military posture intact despite the handcuffs they'd only removed minutes ago. "O'Briens don't break."

I nodded, trying to ignore the fear in my mother's eyes as she clutched Aubree close. My niece's small face was pale, her breathing shallow in the frigid cabin air.

The authorities didn't even have the decency to take us to an official facility. The van stopped in a narrow alleyway between two dilapidated buildings, the driver's face impassive as he opened the doors.

"This is as far as we go," he said, gesturing to the snowy street. "Town's that way. Good luck."

We stumbled out into the biting cold. No luggage—they'd taken everything. Just the clothes on our backs and a small bag of essentials my mother had managed to gather before our arrest.

"Amelia." My father's voice was steady despite everything. "Find shelter. We need to get out of this wind."

I nodded, pulling my thin jacket tighter around my shivering body. The temperature must have been twenty below. My breath formed clouds in front of my face as I scanned the desolate street.

"There!" I pointed to a weathered wooden structure at the edge of town. "It looks abandoned, but it might be better than nothing."

The walk was interminable. Aubree began to cry, her small body trembling violently as Marcus carried her. Imani's teeth chattered uncontrollably as she leaned against my shoulder.

"Almost there," I encouraged, though my own strength was fading.

By the time we reached the cabin, snow was falling heavily, obscuring our visibility. The door hung crooked on rusted hinges. Inside was barely better than outside—drafty walls, a broken window, and a rusted stove that might have been abandoned decades ago.

"It's not much," Marcus said, laying Aubree on a filthy mattress he'd found in the corner.

"It's better than freezing to death," my father replied, immediately beginning to inspect the premises with military efficiency.

I collapsed against the wall, exhaustion washing over me. But rest wasn't an option. "I need to find food and supplies," I said, forcing myself to stand.

"Don't go far," my mother warned, her eyes hollow with worry.

The blizzard hit harder as I stepped back outside. Visibility was nearly zero as I stumbled toward what looked like a store in the distance. My fingers and toes went numb within minutes. Twice I fell into snowdrifts, having to drag myself out with muscles screaming in protest.

When I finally reached the cannery, my lips were blue and my vision blurred. The foreman took one look at me and shook his head.

"Need work?" he asked, his accent thick.

"Desperately," I managed.

He pointed to a processing line where workers gutted fish in a cloud of steam and blood. "Start there. Pay's shit, but it's cash."

The work was brutal. Freezing water soaked through my clothes as I stood at the conveyor belt for twelve-hour shifts. My hands, already raw from the cold, soon bore fresh cuts from the sharp knives and fish bones.

"Careful," a coworker muttered as I winced in pain. "Those machines don't stop for bleeding."

She was right. When my hand slipped and the machinery sliced deep into my palm, the foreman barely glanced up.

"Wrap it yourself," he said, tossing me a filthy rag. "Or quit."

I didn't quit. I couldn't. The family needed every dollar for food and fuel.

That night, as I trudged back to our cabin in the darkness, clutching a small bag of groceries, I felt something shift inside me. The cut on my palm throbbed, blood seeping through the makeshift bandage. I looked down at the wound—deep and jagged—and knew it would scar.

Back in New York, Jefferson Perry stood in his private study, arrow nocked and drawn. The target across the room showed multiple bullseyes—evidence of hours of practice.

"Sir?" His assistant appeared in the doorway. "The files you requested."

Jefferson lowered the bow, his expression unreadable as he took the thick folder.

"The O'Brien case?" he asked.

"Yes. Everything we could gather. Including their current location."

Jefferson nodded, dismissing him with a gesture. Alone, he spread the documents across his desk—financial records, legal briefs, surveillance photos.

"Alaska," he murmured, tracing a finger over a map. "Fairbanks."

He reached for his phone, dialing a number that bypassed any official channels.

"I need a contact in Fairbanks," he said when the call connected. "Discreet. Reliable."

As he hung up, his gaze fell on a newspaper clipping—a photo of Amelia at our engagement party, smiling and radiant. He touched the image gently before turning back to his maps.

"Find them," he ordered his assistant who had reappeared at the door. "And make sure they get what they need. Anonymously."