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

My words exploded like a bomb in Arthur’s inner circle.

Everyone assumed I’d lost my mind, or was merely lashing out in anger.

I was Rebecca, after all. At sixteen, I began following Arthur, standing faithfully beside him as he clawed his way up from nothing to become the undisputed king of Crestwood’s underworld. For years, my name had been practically inseparable from his.

Leaving Arthur? Impossible. That was what everyone believed—Arthur included.

So, while he recuperated in the hospital, he dismissed my “joke” about changing grooms. Quietly, he let Barbara step into the role of “Mrs. Arthur,” overseeing his daily care and even beginning to meddle in his affairs.

As for me? I vanished completely from his world.

I halted all business with Arthur’s Group and withdrew every one of my people from his orbit.

The Rebecca family might have fallen from grace, but the legacy my mother Deborah left behind allowed me to walk away with my head held high.

Instead, I poured all my energy into my art exhibition.

It was my dream—and my mother’s final wish—to hold my own solo exhibition at Crestwood’s most prestigious art center and, on the day it closed, to have my wedding. I’d mentioned this to Arthur countless times.

He’d once promised me the grandest exhibition and wedding the world had ever seen.

Now, he’d probably forgotten all about it.

Thanks to Jonathan’s unwavering support, the exhibition preparations went smoothly.

Jonathan—the new fiancé I’d announced publicly, the CEO of Jonathan’s Group. We were old acquaintances, though never close, until we reconnected at a business gala half a year ago.

Cultured, steady, reliable—he was unlike any man I’d ever known. He never asked about my past, yet always appeared exactly when I needed him.

“I’ve had the gallery lighting adjusted to the optimal color temperature for oil paintings,” he said over the phone, his voice as reassuring as ever. “And the invitations have been designed to your specifications. Would you like to see them?”

“Thank you, Jonathan.” I meant it sincerely.

“Between us, no thanks are needed.”

After hanging up, I looked around the studio at the paintings ready for display, a complex mix of emotions churning inside me.

These works chronicled the ten years I’d loved Arthur. Every brushstroke had once been saturated with deep affection. Now, they would bear witness to a grand farewell.

On opening night, Crestwood’s elite flocked to the gallery.

Standing by my side as host, Jonathan deflected every probing glance and veiled insinuation.

“Miss Rebecca certainly moves quickly. To land a catch like Mr. Jonathan so soon—quite impressive.”

“Indeed. I wonder what expression Mr. Arthur will have when he finds out.”

I ignored them, maintaining a polite smile.

Then Arthur and Barbara arrived.

He looked thinner, his face still pale, but the bespoke black suit accentuated his tall, imposing frame. The moment he entered, the air in the gallery seemed to freeze.

Barbara clung to his arm, her eyes wide and darting nervously as if expecting a threat.

Arthur’s gaze cut through the crowd and fixed directly on me. In those fathomless eyes, dark currents swirled—emotions I could no longer decipher.

“Rebecca, enough of this.” He stopped before me, his tone brooking no argument. “Come home with me.”

As if nothing had happened. As if I were just a child throwing a tantrum.

I smiled, raised my glass, and turned to Jonathan beside me. “Jonathan, let me introduce you. This is Arthur. My… former fiancé.”

I emphasized the word *former*.

Jonathan extended a hand politely. “Mr. Arthur. I’ve heard much about you.”

Arthur didn’t even glance at him. His eyes remained locked on me, his voice icy. “Rebecca. Say that again.”

“I said,” I met his gaze, enunciating each word, “Mr. Arthur, we are over. My wedding will be with my current fiancé, Jonathan.”

The tension in the air instantly thickened.

Barbara chose that moment to tug gently at Arthur’s sleeve. “Arthur, don’t be angry. Miss Rebecca might just be confused. We… we shouldn’t disturb her.”

Her show of magnanimity only poured fuel on the fire.

Storm clouds gathered in Arthur’s expression. He grabbed my wrist, his fingers biting in with bruising force. “Rebecca, you think finding another man will get to me? Don’t forget—you’re mine. You always will be!”

Jonathan stepped forward, his hand closing around Arthur’s wrist, his voice turning cold. “Mr. Arthur. Release my fiancée.”

Two equally powerful men, their gazes clashing in mid-air. The force of their presence made the onlookers instinctively step back.

Just then, an ill-timed video began to play on a loop across the gallery’s main display screen.

It was me.

Me, years ago, captured by Arthur’s rivals after I’d tried to save him. Cornered by several men, my clothes disheveled, my face a mask of humiliation and tears. Though key areas were blurred, the despair and shame were magnified for all to see.

The crowd erupted in shock.

My blood ran cold. I felt plunged into an icy abyss.

This video was the deepest, sharpest thorn buried in my heart. Back then, after Arthur rescued me, he swore he’d destroy every copy, burying the incident forever.

Yet now, it had been dragged into the light in the most degrading way possible.

My eyes snapped to Barbara. She was holding her phone, a fleeting, triumphant smirk on her lips.

It was her.

“Arthur,” she gasped, hastily stuffing her phone away and throwing herself against his chest. “It wasn’t me! I don’t know how this happened…”

Arthur’s body went rigid. He looked at the screen, then at Barbara in his arms, conflict flashing in his eyes.

As for me, after the peak of shame and heartbreak, only a vast, hollow coldness remained.

I wrenched my wrist from Arthur’s grasp and asked him, each word deliberate, “Arthur. Was this your doing?”