Chapter 1
I stared at myself in the mirror, the black evening dress wrapping around my body.
Tonight was the ski season opening gala, and everyone in town would be there, including investors and media.
I was Mrs. Winter, at least in public.
The sound of a car door closing came from downstairs. Zephyr was back.
I walked down the stairs in heels, seeing him standing in the living room, adjusting his cufflinks. The black suit made him look like a man who had stepped out of a magazine—tall, handsome, untouchable.
"Ready?" he asked, not even looking up at me.
"Always am."
This was our conversation pattern for the past three years. Business-like, polite, distant.
The main lodge of the ski resort was decorated like a fairyland. Champagne towers sparkled, and all the important people in town were here.
"You two look like a perfect match!" Mayor Tom approached us with his trademark booming voice.
I felt Zephyr's hand lightly rest on my waist—the perfect husband gesture. To anyone watching, we were a couple deeply in love.
"Thank you, Tom." I flashed a perfect smile. "Tonight's event is wonderful."
"It's all thanks to Zephyr," Tom continued, "without his investment, our ski resort would have been finished long ago."
Zephyr nodded politely, but I could feel his discomfort. Whenever someone mentioned him saving the ski resort, he always reacted this way.
Maybe because it reminded him why he married me.
Zephyr suddenly said, "I need to make a phone call."
His hand moved away from my waist, and that sense of loss almost made me stumble.
"Of course, of course!" Tom waved.
I watched Zephyr walk toward the bar area, feeling a bad premonition.
An hour later, I found him.
He sat at the bar counter in the corner of the lodge, with a half-empty bottle of whiskey in front of him. This wasn't something he would normally do. Zephyr was always controlled, always perfectly composed.
"Zephyr?" I walked toward him, my heels making crisp sounds on the wooden floor. "Are you okay?"
He looked up at me, his eyes somewhat hazy. "Avalon."
He murmured, "She's gone... she'll never come back."
My heart clenched. I knew who he was referring to.
"Zephyr, you've had too much to drink. Let's go home."
I reached out to support his arm. He didn't resist, but I could feel the weight of his body. In three years, I had never seen him lose control like this.
On the drive home, the snow was falling harder. Zephyr leaned against the passenger seat, his head resting against the window.
"Are you sure you're okay?" I asked, focusing on the snow-covered road.
"I'm fine." His voice was soft and tired.
Lying. But I wouldn't press him. Over three years, I had learned not to ask too many questions.
When we arrived home, snow had begun accumulating on the driveway. I turned off the engine and looked at him.
He looked at me, and in the dim car light, his gaze was strange.
I helped him walk into the house.
"I'll make coffee," I said.
"Don't."
I turned to look at him. He stood in the center of the living room, snow still clinging to his dark hair.
"Don't what?"
"Don't be so..." he paused, searching for words, "caring."
"I just want to help."
"I know. That's the problem."
He walked toward me, each step unsteady. I should have stepped back, but I didn't. In three years, we had never been this close.
Then his hands cupped my face.
His fingers were rough from years of outdoor work, but warm to the touch. My heart began beating wildly.
"I love you," he said softly.
I held my breath.
Then he kissed me.
This wasn't the kiss I had imagined countless times. This kiss was full of desperation, pain, and the taste of alcohol. His lips were hot and urgent, as if searching for something long lost.
I responded.
Three years of suppressed emotions exploded in this moment. My hands grabbed the lapels of his suit, pulling him closer. His fingers threaded through my hair, destroying the hairstyle I had spent two hours creating.
His kisses moved from my lips to my neck, and I could feel his warm breath. His hands began to unzip the back of my dress.
"Zephyr..." I gasped.
This was our first real intimate contact. In three years, we hadn't even really hugged.
His lips found mine again, this time gentler, more tender. I felt like I was melting.
Then I felt something wet drop onto my shoulder.
Tears.
He was crying.
"Celeste," he whispered in my ear.
I froze in his embrace, as if struck by lightning.
He thought I was her.
He thought I was Celeste.
"I'm not Celeste!" I pushed him away, my voice sharper than expected.
Zephyr blinked at me, confusion written across his face. The alcohol made his reactions slow.
"I'm Avalon," I said, trying to control my voice. My hands trembled as I straightened my disheveled clothes. "I'm your wife, Avalon."
We stood there, three feet apart, but it felt like three miles. The firelight danced on his face, making him look like a stranger.
"Avalon, I..."
"Don't." I raised my hand to stop him. "Just don't."
His eyes became clearer, the alcoholic haze dissipating. I could see him realize what had just happened.
"Just now... sorry, I had too much to drink." His voice returned to that cold, polite tone.
I wanted to laugh, but was afraid it would turn into crying.
"Yes," I managed to say, "you had too much to drink."
I sat alone in the living room, listening to his footsteps going upstairs. The sound of the bedroom door closing echoed in the quiet house.
My fingers lightly touched my lips. They were still slightly swollen from his kiss.
Celeste.
My best friend. The one who saved my brother's life but lost her own.
That afternoon from three years ago replayed in my mind. The sound of the avalanche, my brother's scream, the moment Celeste pushed him away and was swallowed by the snow.
She was the town's best ski instructor, the bravest rescue team member. She was beautiful, kind, selfless.
She was perfect.
And I was just... me.
Zephyr loved her, had always loved her. He married me only because he needed a wife to save the ski resort, and I happened to be the most convenient choice—the bankrupt Winter family heiress, a woman with no other options.
The tears finally came. They slid down my cheeks, falling onto the expensive black dress.
I remembered the feel of his fingers, the tenderness of his kiss, the sound of his voice when he said "I love you."
But none of it was meant for me.
It all belonged to a woman who had been dead for three years.
