Chapter 1Frozen Hearts Do Not Thaw

When the avalanche hit, the rescue helicopter only had room for two more people.

My husband, Elliott, guided Bella onto the rope ladder. He didn't even look back when he tossed the words over his shoulder:

"Bella is fragile. You’ve always been strong, Norah. Wait for the next lift."

I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to tell him that my leg, ruined three years ago when I searched for him in a freezing blizzard, couldn't handle the cold. Not anymore.

But he was already gone, ascending into the gray winter sky without a backward glance.

Before my consciousness faded in the biting cold, a desperate, foolish thought clung to me: If he comes back for me, I’ll reject the transfer to Charleston. I’ll stay by his side.

I waited all night. Nobody came.

When I finally opened my eyes in a sterile hospital room, my first instinct was to check my phone. It was a pathetic habit—every time he let me down, I’d still hope to find a missed call, a message, some proof that I mattered.

Naturally, there was nothing. Instead, my feed refreshed to show Bella’s latest Instagram post.

The photo showed a tiny, superficial scratch on the back of her hand, framed by a very familiar wool sleeve. Her caption read: Someone was making a mountain out of a molehill. He refused to close his eyes all night.

Looking at that sleeve, the last lingering ache of hope inside me withered away.

She had a paper-cut-sized scratch, and he kept vigil. I spent the night buried in a freezing snowdrift, and he couldn't even send a text.

In the past, this would have made my chest ache, and I would have made excuses for him, telling myself to hold on a little longer. Not this time. Like someone who had been out in the frost too long, I had simply gone numb.

The nurse walked in and asked if she should notify my family. I quietly locked my screen.

"No," I said, my voice empty of emotion. "There’s no one to call."

Looking out at the stubborn snow on the hospital window sill, I messaged my lawyer:

Don't hold onto the divorce papers anymore. Let's start the process.

Then, I logged into my company portal and hit the button to confirm my transfer to Charleston.

* * *

I dragged my left leg, encased in a heavy medical brace, out of the cab.

The driver handed me my crutches, taking in my pale, drawn face. "You need help getting upstairs, miss?"

"No, thank you. I've got it."

Leaning against the elevator wall, I sent Elliott a text.

I’m out of the hospital. My leg is in bad shape. The doctor said I absolutely cannot expose it to the cold.

I stared at the screen, counting thirty seconds. He replied with a single letter:

K.

I let out a dry laugh and slipped the phone into my pocket.

As I unlocked the front door of our apartment, soft laughter drifted from the living room. Sitting in the entryway was a pair of cream-colored leather flats.

I limped in on my crutches. Elliott was kneeling in front of the sofa, a cotton swab in hand, meticulously dabbing ointment onto the faint pink scratch on Bella's hand.

The coffee table was cluttered with antiseptic, gauze, sterile pads, and adhesive bandages. An entire medical kit, as if he were treating a life-threatening wound.

Bella flinched, letting out a soft whimper. "Ow, it hurts..."

"Just bear with it for a second. Don't move," he said, his voice dropping into that gentle, soothing register he reserved only for her. "I'll be quick."

I stood by the doorway, gripping my crutches, my braced leg stiff, still wearing the oversized grey hospital fleece. Neither of them even looked up.

He hadn't asked a single question about the leg I had nearly lost in the avalanche. Yet here he was, treating her minor scrape like a tragedy.

"All done," Elliott murmured, smoothing down the bandage. He finally raised his head and saw me.

He froze for a fraction of a second.

His gaze flicked from my face down to the heavy brace, and then to the crutches. I saw his throat bob as he swallowed.

But he didn't get up.

"You're back?" his tone was flat. "What happened to your leg?"

"Frostbite," I replied. "The doctor said I need three months of bed rest."

"Right." He looked back down, packing away the ointments. "Bella's scratch is a little inflamed, so I wanted to get it cleaned up first. Go on and get some rest yourself."

Once again. Bella always came first.

Bella finally acknowledged me, her face shifting into a perfectly practiced mask of concern.

"Norah! Oh my gosh, are you okay? Your leg looks terrible! Last night was so scary..." She paused, biting her lip. "Elliott stayed by my side all night. I kept telling him that you were in a much worse spot, but he said you’ve always been tough. He was sure you’d be fine..."

Always tough. Sure to be fine.

In the past, those words would have pierced me. I would have felt the sting of hot tears, crying privately where he couldn't see. This time, I felt nothing but a hollow, cool breeze passing through my chest.

"Right. Thanks for looking out," I said.

Then, turning on my crutches, I made my way toward the bedroom.

Behind me, the room fell dead silent.

I knew Elliott was staring at my back. He was waiting.

Waiting for me to slam the door, to demand answers with tear-stained cheeks, to scream, Why do you always do this to me?

But I didn't.

I closed the door quietly, sat on the edge of the mattress, and pulled out my phone.

The transfer status read: In Review. Estimated processing time: 3 business days.

I opened my calendar app and marked a countdown. Three days left.

Bella left around nine.

The apartment fell into a heavy quiet, and the pain in my leg flared up. The frostbite, combined with the old fracture, had turned my knee into a swollen, throbbing mess. The pain shot deep into the marrow of my bones. I bit my lower lip to keep from making a sound.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway. Elliott paused right outside my door.

My heart skipped a beat.

If he opens the door now, if he just asks if I need to go to the hospital...

The silence lingered for a beat or two. Then, his footsteps moved away.

Soon, the muffled sound of his voice floated through the thin drywall. He was on the phone, his words perfectly clear:

"Bella? Did you make it home okay? Is it cold out? I'll drive you to your follow-up tomorrow. Make sure you don't get that hand wet..."

I closed my eyes.

My phone screen lit up with a message from my attorney: The divorce agreement is ready. Shall I mail it over?

I typed back: Send it.