Chapter 3
On the day of the team-building event, I went out of my way to look good.
I wore a well-tailored long dress with a soft beige cardigan over it. My makeup was flawless, and my smile was warm and graceful.
When I showed up at the meeting point, arm-in-arm with Cheney, every eye in the place locked onto me.
Some looked stunned, some curious, but most were sizing me up in an unfriendly way.
I could feel people sneaking glances at me, murmuring behind my back.
That post on the company intranet had really made an impact.
Evan was in the crowd, too.
When he saw me, he looked like a startled rabbit. He immediately looked down and shrank back, wanting to hide but not daring to.
A few female colleagues around him stepped protectively in front of him, giving me wary, hostile stares.
It felt like I wasn't a guest at the event, but an evil queen inspecting her subjects.
I didn't let it faze me. I kept my composed smile and greeted Cheney's colleagues as if nothing was wrong.
On the bus, Evan picked the seat as far from us as possible.
He spent the whole ride whispering to his female colleagues, and every so often, I could hear him trying to stifle his sobs.
Those women kept consoling him, throwing dirty looks my way every now and then.
Cheney looked like he wanted to say something, but I stopped him with a look.
No need to rush. The real fun was just beginning.
When we got to Willow Springs Resort, the afternoon plan was a mountain hike.
I claimed I wasn't feeling well and skipped the hike, staying in our room to get some rest.
Cheney, worrying about me, stayed with me, too.
Lying in bed, I checked the surveillance feed from Willow Springs Resort on my tablet.
I'd made arrangements with the manager before we came, just in case.
Sure enough, Evan didn't disappoint me.
Halfway up the mountain, he "accidentally" twisted his ankle and collapsed to the ground with a moan, his face contorted in pain.
He was really selling it, sweat beading on his forehead.
His colleagues rushed over right away. "Evan, are you okay? Can you walk?"
Evan shook his head weakly and bit his lip, eyes red with tears. "Sorry for being a burden.
"You guys go ahead. Don't let me slow you down. I'll wait here for aid."
The more he tried to be considerate, the more his "caring" colleagues thought he was far too sensible for his own good.
One of the female colleagues stepped up and turned to Cheney, the team leader. "Mr. Carter, Evan twisted his ankle and can't walk. We need to find a way to get him down."
Another guy spoke up, "Yeah, we can't just leave him here alone."
Everyone's eyes zeroed in on Cheney.
This was emotional blackmail, plain as day.
If Cheney didn't help, he'd come off as a cold-hearted jerk.
But if he did, he'd be walking right into Evan's trap.
I watched Cheney's steady, unfazed expression on the screen and honestly, I wasn't worried at all.
Cheney took out his phone and dialed the front desk. "Hi, is this the front desk? We're at B-3, halfway up the mountain. One of our team members twisted his ankle. He needs medical attention and a stretcher."
He paused for a moment, and then added, "Yeah, his injury looks pretty serious, so please send help as soon as you can."
Once he hung up, he turned to everyone. "I've called the resort's rescue team. They'll be coming up with a stretcher and a first aid kit.
"Everyone, just stay put. Don't move Evan, or you might make things worse."
Cheney handled it like a total pro—cool, collected, and not giving anyone a single thing to nitpick.
The colleagues who were waiting for him to mess up were totally stunned.
Evan was still sprawled on the ground, his expression frozen awkwardly.
He was probably hoping for some dramatic "special treatment" from the superior, like Cheney carrying him down the mountain himself.
Too bad for him, Cheney directly called for a stretcher instead.
Soon, two staff members in uniforms came running up with a stretcher.
They examined Evan's ankle with practiced hands, and then turned to Cheney. "Sir, it's just a minor sprain. No broken bones. We'll apply a cold compress and stabilize it, and he should be able to walk down on his own."
Cheney nodded. "Thanks for your help."
Then he turned to Evan, putting on a look of concern. "Evan, did you hear that? The doctor says you can walk down by yourself.
"Come on, let me help you up. We'll take it slow."
Cheney made a show of reaching out, as if he was about to help Evan up.
Evan looked embarrassed.
If he claimed he couldn't walk, he'd be making a scene and embarrassing the professionals right in front of everyone.
But if he admitted he could walk, his earlier act would look ridiculous.
In the end, Evan could only grit his teeth and, with the support of two female colleagues, managed to stand up, limping awkwardly.
On the way down, he moved at a snail's pace, every step like he was stepping on knives, painful and slow.
Meanwhile, Cheney walked at the very front of the group, relaxed and carefree, never once glancing back at Evan.
I watched the screen, cracking up so hard that my stomach hurt.
Evan thought he could mess with my husband?
Not in a million years.