His Final Betrayal Was My First Move Chapter 04

His Final Betrayal Was My First Move Chapter 04

The car arrived quickly. I didn’t look at Griffin or Daphne again as I opened the door and got in. The driver asked for the destination, and I gave him the Beacon Hill address, the place I had once believed would be my home for life.

In the rearview mirror, Griffin’s figure grew smaller. He stood frozen, looking a little lost. Daphne, meanwhile, looped her arm through his, as if declaring a long-delayed victory.

After that night came Aspen’s annual charity ski event. As the hostess of the Whitaker Family Foundation, I had to attend.

I was skiing slowly down an intermediate slope, trying to let the biting wind clear the fog from my head. But Daphne followed me like a ghost, catching up from behind until she was level with me.

“Amelia, you ski too slowly.” She lifted her goggles, revealing a brilliant smile. “Here. This is my VIP lounge pass. There’s hot cocoa and a fireplace inside. You’ll probably need it.”

She slipped a card into my jacket pocket with the intimacy of a true best friend. “Don’t be mad at Griffin. He’s just like that. It’s so easy to lead him on. After all, I was the one who ‘lent’ him to you. So, how was the user experience?”

I stopped hard, my skis scraping sharply across the snow. “Daphne, I’m not interested in playing your games.”

“Oh? But you’re already in the game, aren’t you?” She smiled and leaned closer, her skis nearly tangling with mine.

In that instant, an out-of-control beginner came screaming down the slope from above us. I couldn’t dodge in time, and with Daphne so close, she was knocked down as well. We rolled together like two puppets with their strings cut, crashing into the cold, hard snow.

A sharp pain shot up from my left ankle. I could almost hear the faint crack of bone shifting out of place.

“Ah! My leg! My leg is broken!” Daphne’s scream tore through the quiet of the mountain. She clutched her calf, crying with theatrical exaggeration. “Oh my God, I can see the bone! It’s sticking out!”

Almost at the same moment, a familiar figure came flying down the slope.

It was Griffin.

Like a missile locked on its target, he shot past me as I lay in the snow, unable to move from the pain, and rushed without a flicker of hesitation toward Daphne.

“Daphne! Are you okay? Don’t be afraid, I’m here!” He knelt in the snow, carefully lifted her, and anxiously checked her “injury.”

I sat in the snow several yards away, cold sweat beading on my forehead from the pain in my ankle. I watched him. Watched him urgently unfasten Daphne’s ski boot. Watched him call for rescue on his radio. Watched him take off his own coat and wrap it around her, soothing her in a gentle voice.

From beginning to end, his gaze never once landed on me.

It was as if I were nothing more than an irrelevant rock in the snow.

Only when the ski patrol arrived and carried us both down the mountain on a sled did he finally seem to notice me, an appropriate look of surprise appearing on his face.

At the clinic at the base of the mountain, the doctor treated my badly sprained ankle. Not even the chill of the ice pack could numb the cold in my heart.

The door to the exam room opened. Griffin walked in, his face a mask of concern.

“Amelia, how are you feeling? The doctor said it’s a serious sprain.”

I looked at his concerned face and found it unbearably ironic. The image I’d seen just before losing consciousness—his instant, unthinking choice—was truer than any words he could say.

“I’m fine.” I took a shallow breath, my voice hoarse. “Go take care of Daphne. Isn’t she dying?”

Griffin froze, then hurried to explain, “She’s fine. Just some scrapes and a scare. You’re hurt this badly. Of course I’m staying here to take care of you.”

I was too tired to listen. I took my earbuds from my pocket, put them in, turned the music all the way up, and closed my eyes.

Griffin didn’t bother me again. He covered me with a blanket, poured me a cup of hot water, and thoughtfully slipped a second paper cup around it so I wouldn’t burn my hand. Then he took a call, said something urgent had come up with the foundation, and left, promising to come back tomorrow.

A nurse came by on her rounds. Seeing everything neatly arranged on the bedside table, she said with a touch of envy, “Your husband treats you so well. So considerate. You don’t see that much anymore.”

I said nothing.

My phone vibrated. I picked it up. Daphne had sent me a screenshot of her Instagram Story.

The photo was taken in the top restaurant at the Aspen resort, with the magnificent snow-capped mountains visible outside the window. Griffin was leaning over, his head bowed in concentration as he iced and massaged her swollen calf. I knew those hands all too well.

The caption read: “A little scare, but thank goodness my personal knight was by my side.”

I stared at it for a few seconds. Then I opened the reply box and typed a single emoji.

“👍”

Over the next few days, Griffin came to the clinic once a day, usually in the morning. He would bring my favorite magazines or a croissant from the best café in town, sit for ten minutes, and then leave in a hurry.

Daphne’s Instagram, meanwhile, provided a real-time, serialized drama of their movements.

He took her to the mountaintop hot springs, where they drank champagne under the stars.

He coached her on the beginner slope, laughingly picking her up whenever she fell.

He took her shopping at the town’s luxury boutiques and bought her the newest ski outfit.

The difference between being loved and not being loved could be so clear, so cruel.

Looking at those dazzling photos on my phone, I felt grateful for the first time. Grateful that I had agreed to that bet. Grateful that every empty seat, every lie, every abandonment had forced me to see the truth.

After the doctor’s final examination, he handed me the prescription and discharge forms.

“You’re all set. Go home and rest. Have your husband settle the insurance bill and complete the paperwork.”

I took the papers. My voice was as flat as if I were discussing the weather.

“He’ll pay the bill. But I’ll handle the paperwork myself. He’s already my ex-husband.”

Just as I finished speaking, the door to the ward opened.

Griffin walked in carrying an insulated food container, his usual gentle smile on his face. But that smile froze the instant he heard me.

He looked at me, then at the doctor, his expression stunned. His voice was laced with disbelief.

“Ex-husband? Amelia, what are you talking about? Since when am I your ex-husband?”