Erie Dickson POV: I pushed the last cold plate of Beef Wellington to the edge of the long dining table, rubbing my right wrist as a dull ache radiated up my arm from hours of gripping a sketching pencil. I forced my stiff fingers to straighten the silver cutlery beside the porcelain plates. On the wall, the vintage brass clock ticked loudly, its heavy hands crossing midnight and turning my solo preparations for our third wedding anniversary into a complete joke. I picked up the crystal decanter, poured the dark Bordeaux into my goblet, and gulped it down, letting the burning alcohol slide into my stomach to numb the heavy throbbing in my chest, as if an invisible fist were squeezing my heart. Suddenly, the digital lock on the front door beeped, and my fingers tightened around the empty glass stem as a tall shadow fell across the foyer. Denver Dickerson, my husband of three years, the reigning NHL superstar captain and heir to a hundred-billion-dollar sports empire, pushed the door open, carrying the freezing chill of the Madison Square Garden ice rink with him, his black tailored suit jacket slung carelessly over his knuckles. He didn't even spare a glance at the glowing candles on the table, walking straight to the marble bar while his long fingers yanked his silk tie loose with the lazy arrogance of a man used to ruling every room. I took a deep breath, stood up from the barstool, and walked toward him, my high heels sinking softly into the Persian rug. He paused mid-pour, tilting his head as his deep blue-gray eyes locked onto me with pure mockery. "What little game is Mrs. Dickerson playing tonight?" That cold title washed over me like a bucket of ice water, freezing me from head to toe, yet I forced a flat smile and stepped within two feet of his towering frame. He frowned slightly, his massive athlete's build forcing me to tilt my chin up as the sharp scent of his aftershave mixed with locker room frost filled my lungs. I raised my hand and brushed my fingertips lightly across his stiff lapel, feeling the hard muscles beneath his shirt tense instantly. He clamped his hand around my wrist with bone-crushing force, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. "You're drunk, Erie." Riding the buzz of the wine, I didn't pull back, meeting his sharp glare with a soft, breathless whisper. "It's our third anniversary, shouldn't we do what married couples do?" Denver's pupils shrank, his Adam's apple bobbing as his grip on my wrist tightened and his breathing hitched. Catching him off guard, I twisted my wrist free and threw both arms around his broad shoulders, pressing my weight against his rock-hard chest. He let out a low grunt, his hands coming up to shove me away, only to freeze mid-air the second his palms brushed my waist, as if my skin had burned him. I stood on my tiptoes, letting my warm breath ghost across his sharp jawline while the pulse under his skin began to hammer wildly. Suddenly, his large hand gripped the back of my head, dark fire roaring in his blue-gray eyes. "You asked for this." The room spun as he slammed me back against the freezing marble bar counter, the chill biting into my spine before his burning body covered mine completely. His mouth crashed down on mine in a punishing, relentless kiss, stealing every bit of air from my lungs. I shut my eyes as a single hot tear slipped down my cheek, my fingers clutching his dress shirt tightly to match his loveless frenzy. A crystal glass was knocked off the counter, thudding onto the carpet just as his muscular arm scooped me up and carried me into the dark master bedroom. He threw me onto the king-sized bed and came down on top of me before I could even sit up, his heavy shadow swallowing me whole. He ripped his shirt buttons open, revealing the pale stitched scar from an old hockey skate beneath his left collarbone, radiating raw, suffocating heat. I turned my head away to dodge his mouth, though my fingers sank into the tight muscles of his broad back. Sensing my resistance, he paused and let out a cold laugh before his large hand tore my thin silk nightgown open. Skin met skin with scorching heat, and I bit my lower lip hard to choke back the broken sob rising in my throat. Displeased by my silence, he bit down hard on my collarbone, leaving a dark red mark before burying his face in the crook of my neck with ragged breaths. Lightning flashed outside the floor-to-ceiling window, illuminating the cold, detached lust on his face as I squeezed my eyes shut in total despair. The tangled madness of alcohol and desperation dragged on until he finally rolled off me, leaving only heavy panting in the dark room. I numbly pulled the duvet over my bruised body, listening to his breathing slow into deep sleep as the last trace of warmth inside me died out. Sliding out from under the covers, I placed my bare feet on the freezing hardwood floor and walked into the walk-in closet, my legs trembling with every step. I threw a loose trench coat over my battered frame and pulled a brown kraft folder from the very bottom drawer. Walking back to the bedside, I stood in the pale moonlight, staring down at the man who was my husband only on paper, ready to use this document to end his delusions of my greed once and for all.

Erie Dickson POV: Standing beside the bed, I stared at the sleeping man and slammed the brown kraft folder onto the nightstand right next to his head. The loud smack echoed through the quiet bedroom, making Denver's brows furrow before his sharp blue-gray eyes snapped open with heavy irritation. He propped himself up on one elbow, fresh scratch marks visible across his muscular chest as his dark gaze flicked from the folder to my fully dressed figure. I met his murderous glare without blinking, keeping my voice completely flat. "Sign it, Denver." He let out a cold scoff, his long fingers flicking the open flap of the folder with high-and-mighty mockery. "What, the monthly allowance isn't enough anymore, so you brought a new bargaining chip to negotiate?" Looking at his smug, know-it-all face made my stomach churn, and I cut him off coldly. "Read the words on the page before you lose your mind." With a sneer, Denver pulled the papers out and glanced at the header, his hand freezing mid-air as his pupils contracted violently. Across the bold black title of the Divorce Agreement, the clauses stating my voluntary waiver of all marital assets and "Zero-Alimony" glared back at him in plain English. His head snapped up, a rare flash of shock crossing his face before it was swallowed by pure rage, thick veins bulging on the back of his hand. "Have you lost your mind?" He roared through clenched teeth, hurling the agreement onto the floor. "There's a limit to playing hard to get, Erie!" Ignoring his outburst, I bent down, picked up the scattered pages one by one, and slapped them back onto the duvet in front of him. "I'm wide awake." I looked straight into his eyes. "I don't want your billion-dollar empire or your trust funds, I just want your signature so I can leave." Denver threw the covers off and stood up, his towering frame backing me into the corner of the wall as his voice dropped to a freezing chill. "Who gave you the guts to ask for a divorce? Those stupid tabloid articles from that idiot Ashlynn?" Hearing Ashlynn's name made my stomach turn violently, and I turned my head away in disgust. "Don't dirty my ears with her name, and if you won't sign, I'll see you in court." I shoved his stiff arm aside and strode out of the bedroom into the walk-in closet, leaving his darkening face behind. I dragged my pre-packed black suitcase out of the closet, the loud zip echoing through the empty room as I wheeled it into the living room. Denver was already standing in the foyer wearing only a pair of dark sweatpants, blocking the front door like a furious guard dog. He stared at my suitcase, his jaw clenched so tight it practically cracked. "If you walk out that door, don't expect to take a single cent from me." "That's the whole point." I walked past him with a blank face, grabbed the cold metal door handle, and pushed it down. Cold hallway air rushed in as the door opened, and his fist suddenly slammed into the doorframe beside my head with a deafening thud, halting my steps. Without looking back, I spoke into the empty corridor. "Don't make me look down on you, Denver." I pulled my suitcase out the door and stepped into the waiting elevator, watching the stainless-steel doors slide shut in front of his livid face. As the elevator dropped, my knees gave out and I slumped against the metal wall, gasping for air as hot tears finally spilled over the backs of my hands. Walking out of the lobby into the pouring New York rain, I flagged down a yellow cab and scrambled into the backseat. "Brooklyn, please." I gave the driver the address to my best friend Addison's apartment and wiped my face dry as the neon lights blurred past the wet window. Denver Dickerson POV: I stood in the empty foyer listening to the hum of the descending elevator, a suffocating fire burning in my chest that made me want to smash the entire penthouse to pieces. Stalking back into the bedroom, I kicked a slipper across the rug and stared down at the crumpled divorce papers on the floor. "Zero-alimony..." I forced out a cold laugh, running a hand through my messy black hair. "Using apathetic trick like this just to raise her price?" I snatched the papers off the floor and ripped them to shreds, tossing the white scraps into the air like snow. Walking over to the floor-to-ceiling window, I watched the yellow cab disappear into the rain below, my eyes narrowing dangerously. I lit a cigar from the humidor, inhaling the heavy smoke deep into my lungs, yet it did nothing to settle the strange panic clawing at my gut. She really seemed to think this would force me to cave and hand over a piece of the Dickerson fortune. I walked to the bar, poured a neat glass of whiskey, and downed the burning liquor in one gulp before heading into my study. Picking up my encrypted phone from the desk, I dialed my chief assistant Charlie's number and spoke in a freezing tone the second he answered. "Find out where she went tonight, and freeze every single supplementary black card under her name."

Erie Dickson POV: Dragging my dripping suitcase into the foyer of the Brooklyn apartment, I shivered uncontrollably as wet strands of hair clung to my freezing cheeks. Addison Lucas, my fiercest best friend and an ace PR manager in the cutthroat NHL sports circle, rushed out of her bedroom in silk pajamas and gasped, throwing her arms around me. "Oh my god, babe, what happened to you?" Her warm embrace shattered my last bit of composure, and I buried my face in her shoulder, my voice raw and hoarse. "I gave him the divorce papers." Addison wrapped a thick, dry bath towel around my shoulders, cursing through gritted teeth as she led me into the living room. "That dog Denver! He actually let you walk out in the middle of a storm?" I shook my head, sinking into the sofa and wrapping my numb fingers around the mug of hot cocoa she handed me. "I left on my own, I couldn't stand another second in that icebox." Staring at the steam rising from the mug, my mind flashed back to yesterday afternoon when Ashlynn Salazar, a tabloid model desperate to climb into Manhattan's elite circle, had barged into my home studio in stilettos. That brainless woman had slapped a crumpled ultrasound printout right onto my sketching pad, her bright red fingernail tapping the blurry gestational sac on the paper. "Do you see this clearly, Mrs. Dickerson?" Ashlynn's shrill voice still echoed in my ears. "It's Denver's baby, so a barren, cheap ornament like you needs to get out of the way." Because of his illegitimate childhood, Denver had always guarded against having children, yet looking at that hospital stamp on the printout, I had no choice but to believe he had broken his own rule for her. That ugly truth didn't just end our fake marriage; it ripped open the bleeding scar of the real baby I had lost in a pool of blood three years ago. I squeezed my eyes shut to push the memory down, then looked at Addison's worried face. "I walked away with nothing, I didn't ask for a dime." Addison blinked, then slapped her thigh hard. "Hell yes! That's how you slap that arrogant bastard in the face and show him we don't care about his filthy money!" She reached under the coffee table and pulled out a thick stack of business cards and PR files, sliding them toward me. "Since you're making a clean break, it's time to get back to business—the chief designer spot at Aurora Atelier is still open, and their editor-in-chief Vivian has been looking for you." Staring at my old alias "Nova" printed on the file, the design dream I had buried for three years sparked back to life in my chest. I set the mug down on the table, my eyes clearing with sharp determination. "Help me set up a meeting with Vivian for tomorrow afternoon." Denver Dickerson POV: Sitting in the leather chair on the sixty-eighth floor of the Empire Sports Entertainment building, I stared out at the waking Manhattan skyline with a dark scowl. My chief assistant and executive vice president, Charlie Moody, pushed the door open in an immaculate gray suit, carrying an urgent investigation folder. He placed the file respectfully on my mahogany desk and pushed his titanium-framed glasses up his nose. "Boss, Madam went to Brooklyn last night, to Addison Lucas's apartment." I let out a cold laugh, my long fingers tapping restlessly against the polished wood. "Running to that loudmouthed PR manager? Looks like she's planning a media circus to force my hand." Charlie lowered his head slightly, keeping his voice completely flat. "Also, all of Madam's supplementary black cards have been frozen, but the system shows she paid for her cab last night with a standard debit card that has less than two hundred dollars left on it." My tapping fingers froze, my brows knotting tightly. "She didn't touch a single cent from my accounts?" "No, Boss." Charlie hesitated for a second before adding quietly. "And the suitcase she took didn't contain a single piece of the haute couture clothing or jewelry you bought for her." A heavy weight seemed to slam into my chest, a wave of unfamiliar panic mixing with irritation as my control over her slipped into thin air. "Just an act." I ground the words out between my teeth and yanked open the bottom drawer on my right. Deep inside sat a dark blue velvet box holding a one-of-a-kind star-diamond necklace I had flown to Paris last month to have custom-made for our third anniversary. Staring at the box, all I could see was her cold, detached face when she slammed those divorce papers down last night. I snatched the priceless velvet box and hurled it straight into the trash can beside my desk like a piece of garbage. The heavy thud made Charlie's eyelids twitch, though he wisely kept his mouth shut. "Go check on what that idiot Ashlynn has been up to lately." I pressed the tip of my tongue against my back teeth, my voice dropping to a lethal chill. "If she tries anything stupid, cut off every single resource she has immediately." Once Charlie left the room, I picked up my phone and clicked on the contact labeled "Mrs. Dickerson," staring at the empty chat screen. Locking the screen with a cold sneer, I tossed the phone onto the desk and spun my chair toward the window, forcing my mind onto the upcoming NHL playoffs while waiting for her to crawl back and beg.