Twenty-Six receipts of betrayal Novel novel Chapter 70

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

As a Contributing Photographer for National Geographic, I was here at Denali to shoot the cover story.

Halfway up the climb, I started feeling short of breath and lightheaded, my temples pounding with a sharp pain.

I immediately reached for my backup oxygen canister, taking a deep gulp.

But the moment the gas hit my lungs, I knew something was wrong.

I whipped around to face my fiancé beside me:

“What the hell is this?!”

The words that came out of my mouth were high–pitched and distorted–I sounded exactly like that famous Disney duck.

My voice sent my fiancé and his little assistant into fits of hysterical laughter:

“Quack Quack?! Hahaha! Oh my God, you sound like Donald Duck! This is killing me!”

They doubled over with laughter, and Lyra even dramatically pounded the snow with her fists.

So they’d replaced my life–saving oxygen with helium?!

I struggled to speak to Cassian:

“…oxygen… backup oxygen… give it to me!”

Cassian wiped the tears from his eyes, waving me off dismissively:

“Oh come on, Lyra’s not feeling well–I gave her all the backup oxygen!”

“You’re tough as nails. Just push through it.”

I didn’t waste energy arguing with him. With trembling hands, I pulled out my satellite phone and dialed the Editor–in–Chief Kincaid:

“Thaddeus? Cassian deliberately switched my spare oxygen! I’m experiencing severe altitude sickness. Please send a rescue team immediately.”

The moment I finished speaking, Cassian lunged forward and snatched the satellite phone from my hands.

He stared at the emergency signal I’d already sent, his face flushing red with anger before letting out a disdainful snort:

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Twenty Six Receipts of Betrayal: My Silence Was the Countdown to His Eternal Regret

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“Really, Isolde? Don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic here?”

“It’s just a harmless prank with some helium gas. You really need to call in a rescue team?”

“Do you

have any

idea how long we’ve been planning this shoot? You can’t handle a little altitude sickness?”

He raised his arm, preparing to hurl the satellite phone toward a distant ice crevasse.

I grabbed his wrist with both hands, the severe headache and nausea from altitude sickness making my vision blur.

Both he and his little assistant Lyra were wearing oxygen masks, carrying full backup oxygen tanks on their backs, their faces glowing with healthy color.

Only I stood there, uselessly clutching that ridiculous, heavy helium canister.

Lyra walked over to me, her voice dripping with fake concern:

“Oh Isolde, please don’t be mad at Cassian! It’s all my fault for being such a weakling–I could barely make it tiny hill…”

up this

“Cassian said you’re an experienced high–altitude photographer, so this elevation should be nothing for you…”

She took a satisfied gulp of oxygen and raised her eyebrows at me in challenge.

That oxygen–it was military–grade, high–concentration stuff. I called in favors with former contacts from a high–altitude unit just for this cover shoot.

It was supposed to help me!

Now it was strapped to Lyra’s back.

Cassian reached over to adjust her backpack straps, his voice gentle:

“Don’t mind her, Lyra. She’s just drunk on her own hype–throws a tantrum the second things don’t go her way.”

When he turned to look at me, his eyes practically overflowed with irritation:

“Stop the act, okay?”

“I looked it up–altitude sickness is mostly psychological. Just tough it out with some willpower. It’s not that serious.”

“That fancy oxygen tank of yours is just a placebo anyway, heavy as hell.”

“Lyra is the future star of our studio. If she’s unwell and it affects the shoot, the loss to the team is way bigger than yours.”

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With trembling hands, I fumbled for the emergency altitude sickness medication in my backpack’s outer pocket, only to find it completely empty.

Cassian seemed to suddenly remember something and pulled out my pill bottle from Lyra’s jacket pocket, shaking two

tablets into her mouth:

“Oh, almost forgot~ Keep these for Lyra too. Look, you’re still standing there fighting for the phone—you’re not that

weak.”

“What, you think being published by National Geographic makes you untouchable? Too good to rough it like the rest

of us?”

His self–righteous attitude was more suffocating than the thin mountain air.

My custom oxygen, my emergency medication–everything was just supplies for his precious assistant now.

The rest of the crew kept their eyes glued to their equipment, pretending not to see what was happening.

I was like a patient whose oxygen tube had been ripped out–left to struggle alone on the edge of survival.

“Cassian! Acute altitude sickness causes pulmonary edema, cerebral edema… I could die from this!”

I practically hissed the words through gritted teeth.

“Oh, really? Who the hell are you trying to scare?” Cassian rolled his eyes.

Lyra shrunk back behind him in perfect coordination:

“I know you’ve never liked me, Isolde… But Cass said you’re a pro. You can handle this, right?”

She even threw up a V sign at the GoPro clipped to her collar.

Watching her smug performance, I nearly blacked out from pure rage.

“Enough!”

I lunged forward, trying to grab back my oxygen tank.

Cassian shoved me hard, and I stumbled backward, almost falling:

“What the hell is wrong with you! If something happens to Lyra, can you live with that responsibility?!”

Lyra immediately clutched her chest, her voice turning fragile:

“Cassian, I think I’m feeling sick again…”

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Twenty–Six Receipts of Betrayal: My Silence Was the Countdown to His Eternal Regret

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“Maybe I shouldn’t come… Does Isolde think I’m stealing her spotlight?”

“You did nothing wrong–she’s the selfish one!”

Cassian quickly steadied her, his voice gentle:

“She’s just spoiled rotten, thinks the whole world revolves around her.”

The wind and snow seemed to intensify, blurring my vision.

They huddle together like the perfect couple, completely ignoring me–his supposed fiancée.

Extreme rage and the near–death sensation from oxygen deprivation crashed together.

I suddenly hurled the helium canister in my hands against the nearby ice rock and roared:

“That’s it, Cassian! We’re done! The engagement is OFF!”

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Twenty Six Receipts of Betrayal: My Silence Was the Countdown to His Eternal Regret