Emilia Norman POV: "Ma'am, stop right there. The VIP corridor is closed tonight." A burly security guard stepped in front of me, blocking the heavy glass doors of Montreal's Bell Centre. Freezing wind blew in from the street, making me pull my camel cashmere coat tighter around my shoulders. My fingers pressed gently against my flat lower belly through the thick wool. I pulled a laminated pass with the Boston Bruins family logo from my purse and held it out. "I'm here to see Bryant Norton," I said softly. The guard glanced at the pass and hesitated. "Captain Norton booked the private lounge ahead," he said, lowering his voice. "He gave strict orders that no one is to disturb him." I froze for a second, then forced a small smile. "Today is our seventh wedding anniversary," I explained. "I just flew in from Boston to give him a surprise." The guard looked at my pale face, sighed, and stepped aside. "Last door at the end of the hall, Mrs. Norton." I walked down the thick carpet. My heels made no sound. For seven years, I had lived in the shadows as the secret wife of the NHL's biggest superstar, working as a low-paid PR consultant and nutritionist for his team just to take care of him. My heart beat faster as I touched the warm ultrasound printout inside my pocket. We were having a second child—a baby girl. Reaching the double oak doors at the end of the hall, I raised my hand to knock. The door wasn't latched, leaving a narrow gap. Familiar cheers echoed from inside—several core Bruins roster players, followed by the pop of a champagne cork. I stepped closer and looked through the dim gap. My breath caught, and I stumbled back half a step, pressing my palm against the cold wall to steady myself. Bryant sat in the center of the leather sofa in a black custom shirt with the collar unbuttoned. The ruthless captain who wore the "C" on the ice was looking down at the woman beside him with a gentleness I rarely saw. Candice Robles wore an off-the-shoulder red couture dress. The beauty mark under her right eye gleamed under the crystal lights as she laughed and wrapped her fingers around Bryant's forearm. "Thank you for flying all the way to Montreal after the game just to celebrate my return to the States, Bryant," Candice said, her voice dripping with sweetness as she raised her glass. Bryant didn't pull his arm away. He clinked his glass against hers. "You deserve it," Bryant said in his low, gravelly voice. My stomach twisted violently. I clutched the ultrasound printout in my pocket so hard my knuckles turned white. Suddenly, a chubby little figure ran into my line of sight. It was my six-year-old son, Jaiden. Holding a piece of mousse cake, he threw himself straight into Candice's arms. Jaiden wiped his cream-covered hands on Candice's expensive dress and looked up at her. "Candice is ten thousand times better than Mom!" Jaiden yelled. "Mom is so annoying. She only forces me to eat disgusting healthy meals!" Candice stroked Jaiden's head with a look of fake pity. "Don't blame Emilia, sweetie. She just doesn't know how to make a little hockey prince happy." Watching this, Bryant didn't scold our son for his rudeness. Instead, he reached out, pinched Jaiden's cheek, and curved his lips into an indulgent smile. That smile felt like a bucket of ice water poured over me from head to toe, freezing the blood in my veins. Seven years of silent sacrifice crumbled into dust right before my eyes. Standing outside the door, listening to their laughter as if they were a real family of three, my eyes burned dry. Not a single tear came out. Coldness crept up from the soles of my feet. I slowly loosened my grip on the crumpled ultrasound paper and pushed it deep into my coat pocket. Footsteps sounded from the other end of the corridor. I turned around quickly, pulled up my coat collar to hide half my face, and walked fast toward the exit. The moment I stepped out of the Bell Centre, Montreal's blizzard slammed into my face. Icy snowflakes slid down my neck, waking me up completely. I pulled out my phone. The screen was empty. Not a single anniversary text from my husband. Opening Bryant's chat window, my frozen fingers hovered over the keyboard before deleting the pregnancy announcement I had typed out word by word. Looking down at my flat stomach in the howling wind, I whispered to myself, "Baby, we don't need him anymore." I hailed a taxi, gave the driver the name of the airport, and left the arena behind. The local sports radio played inside the cab, the host excitedly discussing Bruins Captain Bryant Norton's private party in Montreal tonight. Turning my head toward the blurry streetlamp lights outside, I opened an encrypted email app on my phone—the internal channel for Synapse Bio-Lab, the top international sports medicine laboratory I secretly owned. I typed in my password and looked at the mountain of research invitations piling up in my inbox, a faint, bitter smile touching my lips. I clicked on an email from my mentor, Dr. Christena Whitney, lifetime chairwoman of the International Sports Medicine Committee, and typed a brief reply. "I'm ready to come back." After hitting send, I put the phone on silent, locked the screen, and leaned back against the headrest with my eyes closed, keeping my hand over my belly. Just as the taxi approached the airport highway ramp, the dark phone screen suddenly lit up, flashing violently with an emergency landline number from our Boston penthouse.

Emilia Norman POV: Staring at the flashing number from our Boston penthouse while the taxi sped toward the airport, I hesitated for two seconds before sliding the answer button. Our nanny's frantic voice came through the speaker immediately. "Mrs. Norton, thank goodness you picked up! Master Jaiden just smashed all the toys in his room! He's throwing a huge fit, screaming for Miss Candice, and refuses to calm down!" I took a slow breath, my voice so calm it surprised even me. "I'm not in Boston. Call Bryant." The nanny paused, stammering in panic. "Sir's phone won't go through! And the team's PR manager said Sir isn't available to take family calls right now!" The image of Bryant indulging Candice and Jaiden in the VIP lounge flashed through my mind. "Then let him smash things," I said coldly. "Put the damages on Mr. Norton's tab." I hung up before she could reply. Still, out of a final shred of habit, I dialed Bryant's private number. The automated system rang out before transferring me straight to voicemail. I called three times in a row. Three times, the cold mechanical tone cut me off, extinguishing my last bit of hesitation. Just as I was about to put the phone away, a voice message popped up on the screen. It was sent from Bryant's phone. I tapped play. Jaiden's shrill, demanding voice blasted into the quiet cab. "Mommy Candice! Hurry up! I want Mommy Candice to fly back to Boston with me and buy the newest Lego set!" Right after that came Candice's soft, triumphant giggle, followed by Bryant's low voice in the background. "Sure. Go buy it." Hearing my own son call another woman "Mommy" without a trace of guilt felt like a heavy hammer smashing into my temples. A wave of dizziness washed over me. I leaned against the freezing car window, gasping for air to push down the rising nausea in my throat. My trembling hand slipped into my coat pocket and touched the folded ultrasound printout. Pulling the thermal paper out, I looked at the tiny, blurry gestational sac under the dim passing streetlights. Every trace of warmth in my eyes vanished. I gripped the edges of the ultrasound printout with both hands and tore it in half without hesitation. The crisp ripping sound echoed clearly in the cabin. Folding the pieces together, I tore them again and again until the paper that held the last hope of my seven-year marriage was reduced to tiny shreds. I rolled down the window. Freezing wind mixed with snow roared into the car. I opened my palm and let the gale sweep the paper shreds out into the dark Montreal night. Rolling the window back up, I unlocked my phone, scrolled to the bottom of my contacts, and dialed Arthur Hayes, the most ruthless divorce attorney in Boston. He picked up on the second ring. "Emilia?" Arthur's steady, professional voice came through. "It's past midnight. Is there an emergency?" Watching the snowstorm outside, I spoke clearly. "Arthur, I need you to draft an uncontested divorce agreement. As fast as possible." Arthur went silent for a beat, clearly shocked that the famously obedient NHL superstar's wife was asking for a divorce, but he recovered quickly. "What are your demands regarding marital asset division?" "I'm walking away with nothing," I said without pausing. "I don't want a single cent of his money, the Boston properties, or his team shares." I paused, took a deep breath, and continued. "Also, draft a special supplemental agreement. I am voluntarily giving up all custody and visitation rights to my son, Jaiden Norton." Arthur sucked in a sharp breath on the other end of the line. "Emilia, giving up custody of your firstborn son in a high-net-worth divorce means cutting off all leverage and ties completely. Are you sure?" My fingers brushed over my flat belly, a cold, mocking smile curving my lips. "That's exactly what I want," I said. "I want to erase every trace of his father from my future." "Understood," Arthur said solemnly. "I'll have the drafts ready by tomorrow afternoon. You should prepare to vacate your current residence immediately." After hanging up, the taxi pulled to a smooth stop outside the departure hall of Montreal-Trudeau International Airport. I paid the fare, pushed the door open, and walked into the brightly lit terminal, heading straight to the ticketing counter to buy the earliest red-eye flight back to Boston. Sitting on a metal bench at the boarding gate, I glanced up at the overhead TV screen. A sports entertainment channel was airing blurry paparazzi footage of Bryant outside a Montreal nightclub earlier tonight. On the screen, the tall man used his wide trench coat to shield the woman in his arms from the cameras. Even without seeing her face, I recognized Candice's red dress instantly. I looked away calmly, as if watching a complete stranger. My chest didn't even ache. The boarding announcement echoed through the terminal. I stood up, smoothed the wrinkles on my coat, and walked straight down the jet bridge with my back straight.

Emilia Norman POV: Morning sunlight filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Boston penthouse as I walked off my red-eye flight and pushed open the master bedroom door. The air still carried the cold cedarwood cologne Bryant always wore. I didn't bother opening the walk-in closet filled with expensive couture gowns his PR team had bought to dress me up when needed. Instead, I crouched down and pulled a battered black suitcase from the bottom drawer. I packed only a few basic sweaters I had bought with my own money and my toiletries, leaving the jewelry boxes bearing the Norton family crest untouched on their velvet trays. Walking over to the marble vanity, I looked at my pale, resolute face in the mirror and slowly slid the heavy seven-year anniversary diamond ring off my ring finger. I set the diamond ring and the penthouse keycard side by side on the cold marble surface, pressing my Bruins staff pass underneath them without leaving a single note. Dragging my suitcase into the living room, I passed Jaiden's closed bedroom door, which was covered in Bryant's hockey posters. I stopped for three seconds, staring at the wood panels. Then I turned away without knocking and walked straight to the foyer. As the private elevator doors slid shut, cutting off the gilded cage that had trapped me for seven years, my lungs expanded with a deep, easy breath. Outside the building, I hailed a cab and headed to a quiet estate in the Boston suburbs—the private residence of my mentor, Dr. Christena Whitney. After I rang the bell, the butler led me into the glass sunroom. Christena sat in a rattan chair, reading thick medical journals through her reading glasses. I placed the sugar-free oat latte I had bought on the way onto her table. "Professor, I'm back," I said quietly. Christena looked up, her sharp eyes examining me over her rims. "Seven years ago, you threw away a brilliant career in regenerative medicine to play housewife for a hockey player," she said sternly. "And now you just waltz back in?" "It's fine, it's in the past," I said softly, offering no excuses. I reached into my bag, pulled out a basic data model on soft-tissue regeneration I had written on the plane last night, and slid it across the table. "I paid the price for that mistake. Now, I want to take back everything that belongs to 'Luna.'" Christena's gaze fell on the equations. Her stern expression softened as she picked up the pages and read through them carefully. Sighing, she took off her glasses and looked at me. "Synapse Bio-Lab has kept your top-level clearance open all these years, Emilia. Come back and prove to the world that the genius hasn't rusted." I nodded firmly, blinking back the sudden heat in my eyes. Leaving the estate an hour later, I checked into a discreet business hotel downtown, sat at the desk, and logged into the Bruins' internal OA system on a new burner laptop. Bryant Norton POV: I rubbed my throbbing, hungover temples as I walked out of the bedroom of my Montreal hotel suite. Candice's welcome party had lasted until three in the morning. Picking up my phone from the leather sofa, I glanced at the screen. It was completely blank. There was no customary good-morning text from Emilia, nor any nagging call asking when my flight back to Boston was landing. I let out a cold laugh and tossed the phone back onto the table. She was obviously throwing a tantrum because she saw me with Candice and Jaiden yesterday. A knock sounded at the door, and my personal assistant stepped in with today's schedule. "Mr. Norton," the assistant said cautiously, "stadium security mentioned that Mrs. Norton came by the Bell Centre VIP corridor last night." My hands paused while tying my silk tie. My brows furrowed slightly before my face hardened. "Leave her alone," I said dismissively. "With her docile temper, she'll get over it in a couple of days." "Should we send someone to check on her?" "Order a limited-edition diamond necklace from Tiffany's and have it delivered to the penthouse," I instructed, buttoning my cuffs. "That'll be enough to make up for her little grievance when I get back." The assistant hesitated, looking down at his tablet. "Sir, the nanny called earlier saying Mrs. Norton isn't at the penthouse, and her personal phone has been turned off since midnight." Irritation flared in my chest. I pinched the bridge of my nose, my voice dropping an octave. "I don't have time for her tantrums. Freeze all her supplementary credit cards immediately. Let's see how long a housewife with no income can last outside on her own." Grabbing my suit jacket, I strode out the suite door toward the training rink.