Florence POV: "Frankie, the doctor said it's just a mild sprain. You're worrying too much." The first thing I saw through the two-inch gap in the oak door was my husband Francesco Cannon’s hand—the same hand that broke jaws on the ice—He was at that moment stroking the ankle of the young and captivating heiress Candace Rich, as though she were made of glass and might shatter at any moment. Sitting alone on the leather bench in the VIP waiting room, my hand froze on my sixteen-week baby bump. My phone screen still glowed with the morning headline: Francesco Cannon, the star captain of New York's NHL team, had scored a hat trick at Madison Square Garden last night. Seeing that they were about to come out, I immediately stood up. I stood up too fast. A dull ache shot through my lower back, but I barely felt it. Dragging my heavy legs out of the waiting room, I stepped into the hallway corner and shrank behind a massive pillar. Candace leaned her head against Francesco's shoulder with a soft giggle. Francesco looked down at her, his ice-blue eyes—always so ruthless on the rink—filled with a warmth he had never once given me in two years of marriage. Candace tilted her head, her gaze catching the hem of my coat. She deliberately raised her voice. "Oh my, isn't that Auntie Florence?" Francesco's tall frame stiffened. He snapped his head around, his gaze locking onto me behind the pillar. Dropping his hand from Candace's waist, he strode over. The warmth vanished from his face, replaced by a cold scowl that made the air around us drop ten degrees. "What are you doing here?" he demanded, towering over me as if interrogating a stalker. I took a slow breath, digging my fingernails into my palms. "It's my sixteen-week ultrasound today. You promised last month you'd come with me." He furrowed his brow, looking like he barely remembered, then let out a short, cold laugh. "I'm busy, Florence. I don't have time to play house with you. Have the driver take you home." Candace limped over, covering her mouth in mock surprise. "Gosh, Florence, you look awful. Pregnancy really takes a toll on a woman's face, doesn't it?" I ignored her, keeping my eyes fixed on my husband. "So your 'busy' schedule means accompanying her for a twisted ankle?" Francesco took a heavy step forward, his sheer size forcing me half a step back against the wall. "Candace's family runs Rich Holdings, the team's biggest sponsor. This is a PR obligation. What do you know about business?" I was speechless. Before I became Francesco's invisible wife, I had been a graduate student at a top university—I'd even had the chance to pursue a doctorate—and now my own husband was insulting me in that tone. My gaze dropped to a single long, blonde hair clinging to his silk tie. My stomach churned violently, acid rising in my throat. No PR obligation required that kind of proximity. "Does a PR obligation require you to look at her like that?" I gritted my teeth, my voice trembling. "Enough, Florence. Put away your neurotic jealousy." He turned his back on me without another glance. "Don't embarrass me in public." He walked back to Candace, took her arm, and guided her into the VIP rehab room down the hall. I stood alone in the empty corridor until a nurse approached with my chart, quietly asking if I was ready. I nodded numbly and followed her into the exam room. Lying on the cold table, listening to the strong, rapid heartbeat coming from the fetal monitor, hot tears finally spilled over my cheeks. After the checkup, I didn't call the family driver. I flagged a yellow cab and rode back to our Upper East Side penthouse. When I pushed open the heavy front door, our housekeeper, Maria Foster, was lounging on the living room sofa sipping coffee. Seeing me, she didn't even bother to stand up. "Ma'am, Mr. Cannon won't be home for dinner tonight. The kitchen didn't prepare a portion for you," Maria said, rolling her eyes. My hand paused as I took off my shoes. Looking at a servant who felt comfortable trampling all over me in my own home, the last fragile illusion I held onto shattered completely. Instead of swallowing the insult in silence like I used to, I walked straight past her into the kitchen. I poured a tall glass of ice water and drank it down in one breath, letting the freezing liquid numb the ache in my chest. Resting my palm over my stomach, I stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the Manhattan skyline. I had to leave him, and I had to do it soon.

Florence POV: After a restless night following that glass of ice water, I woke up to the empty half of the king-sized bed. The sheets beside me were completely flat, untouched. Francesco hadn't come home. On the nightstand, my phone buzzed against the wood. The screen flashed with the name "Dr. Edward Alexander." I paused, cleared my dry throat, and swiped to answer. "Good morning, Dr. Alexander." A calm, gentle voice came through the receiver, carrying a steadying warmth. "Florence, I hope I'm not waking you." "No, I'm up. What can I do for you?" I got out of bed and walked across the rug to pull back the heavy drapes. "I remember you mentioning a while back that once things settled down, you wanted to finish your PhD. A joint Ivy League program just opened up on my end." My heart gave a hard thud against my ribs, my fingers tightening around the phone. "An Ivy League program? But I've been on leave for almost two years..." "Your talent shouldn't be buried in domestic chores, Florence. Besides, my sports PR firm, Alexander Consulting, needs a capable assistant. You can manage both." Dr. Alexander had been my academic mentor before I gave up everything to become Francesco's invisible wife. I closed my eyes, flashing back to Francesco's icy glare at the clinic and Maria's sneer on the sofa. "Thank you, Dr. Alexander. I'll take the opportunity," I said, my voice firmer than it had been in years. "Wonderful. I'll email you the files. Come to my Manhattan office next Monday so we can talk details." After hanging up, I walked straight into the walk-in closet. Pushing aside the loose, shapeless maternity dresses, I pulled out a tailored business suit I hadn't worn since graduation. I sat at the vanity and applied light makeup to cover the dark circles under my eyes. The woman staring back from the mirror no longer looked like a pathetic appendage. When I stepped out of the bedroom, Maria was running the vacuum in the living room. She stopped dead, her eyes widening slightly at my outfit. "Ma'am, where are you going?" she asked, speaking to me first for once. I didn't look at her as I picked up my handbag. "Tell the driver to bring the car around. I'm going to the Cannon family estate." I took the private elevator down to the underground garage, where Francesco's driver waited beside the black Maybach. He opened the rear door, and as I ducked inside, a heavy scent of gardenia perfume hit my nose. Frowning, I glanced down at the crease of the leather seat. Wedged between the cushions was a tube of burgundy Tom Ford lip gloss. I pulled it out. It was Candace's signature shade—the exact color she had been wearing at the clinic yesterday. In the rearview mirror, the driver's eyes darted away nervously, and he let out an awkward cough. "Ma'am, that's—" "Save it," I cut him off coldly, tossing the lip gloss straight into the small trash bin by the console. "Just drive. To Long Island." The car pulled out of Manhattan and merged onto the highway toward Long Island. Watching the city blur past the tinted window, my chest felt strangely calm. An hour later, the Maybach rolled through the massive wrought-iron gates of the Cannon estate and stopped before the central fountain. The estate butler opened my door. Taking a deep breath, I stepped up the stone stairs in my low heels, pushed through the heavy oak doors, and walked down the long hallway toward the sunroom. The glass door to the sunroom stood slightly ajar. Low, tense voices drifted out. Francesco had arrived before me. I stopped outside, my hand resting on the brass handle. Through the gap, I saw Francesco standing before his grandmother, Victoria Cannon, his jaw set tight. "Grandmother, my mind is made up," Francesco said, his voice ringing clear through the glass. "I'm divorcing Florence. It's non-negotiable."

Florence POV: Standing outside the sunroom door, hearing Francesco say the word "divorce" didn't bring the sharp pain I had once feared. Instead, a heavy weight seemed to drop from my chest. Inside, Victoria Cannon slammed her teacup down onto its bone china saucer with a sharp crack. As the iron-fisted matriarch of this Old Money family, she never tolerated defiance. "Absurd!" Victoria snapped. "Francesco, do you think a Cannon marriage is like your hockey gear, something you can just swap out whenever you please?" Francesco braced both hands on the back of a wicker chair, his shoulders rigid. "She doesn't belong in my world. Candace is the partner I need by my side." "Candace Rich? That spoiled girl from Rich Holdings?" His grandfather, Arthur Cannon, let out a cold snort from the corner sofa. I took a slow breath, pushed the glass door open, and stepped inside. My heels clicked crisply against the hardwood floor, cutting off their argument. All three heads turned toward me. The instant Francesco saw me, his ice-blue eyes darkened with fury. "What are you doing here? Who told you to come?" He strode over, stepping right in front of me to block his grandparents' view. Looking past his broad shoulder, I nodded calmly to the elders. "Good afternoon, Grandmother. Grandfather." Victoria's sharp gaze swept over my tailored suit before pausing on my stomach. Her stern expression softened by a fraction. "Sit down, Florence." Francesco grabbed my wrist, his fingers squeezing hard enough to bruise. "I asked you a question. Are you following me now?" I yanked my arm out of his grip and met his glare evenly. "This is the Cannon estate, Francesco, not your private locker room. Why shouldn't I be here?" His jaw tightened. He clearly hadn't expected his usually submissive wife to talk back in front of his family. Victoria tapped her silver-headed cane against the floor. "Enough! Francesco, sit down." Swallowing his anger, he shot me a warning glare and dropped onto the leather sofa. Victoria turned her commanding gaze on me. "Florence, I assume you heard what Francesco just said." "I did," I replied evenly, sitting in the armchair across from him. "Since he wants a divorce, I agree." Francesco's head snapped up, his eyes wide with disbelief. Even Victoria narrowed her eyes slightly. "You agree?" Francesco sneered. "You're willing to give up the limitless credit cards and the Upper East Side penthouse?" "Francesco, shut your mouth!" Arthur barked, before turning to me. "Florence, the Cannon family will not tolerate a scandal right now." Victoria leaned forward, resting both hands on her cane. "You are carrying Cannon blood. Until that child is born and Francesco finishes this NHL season, not a single word of divorce will reach the press." I frowned slightly. "You want us to keep pretending to be a happy couple?" "It is not a request. It is an order." Victoria slipped a heavy emerald bracelet off her wrist and pushed it across the glass table toward me. "Consider this your compensation." Francesco shot to his feet. "Grandmother! I can't live under the same roof with her anymore. The media will eventually catch me and Candace—" "Then tell Candace to behave herself!" Victoria cut him off sharply. "If your contract's Morality Clause is triggered and tanks our team's stock value, I will personally strip you of your captaincy!" Francesco's hands balled into tight fists, the veins bulging on the backs of his hands. Breathing hard, he forced his rage down, glaring daggers at me. I looked at the priceless emerald bracelet on the table without reaching for it. Lifting my chin, I looked straight at Victoria. "I can cooperate with the family's PR, Grandmother. But I have two conditions." "Speak," Victoria said, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. "First, during this period, Francesco cannot interfere with my personal schedule or my work. Second, the day the baby is born, I want ten million dollars in settlement, and we sign the divorce papers immediately." With a furious roar, Francesco kicked the glass coffee table over. "Florence, you're finally showing your true, greedy colors!"