Grace POV: My knuckles turned white as I gripped the New York Titans away jersey. A bright red lipstick stain smeared the collar, and the cheap scent of vanilla crawled up my nose, making my stomach churn—the last sliver of self-deception left in my eight-year relationship and four-year secret marriage to Keon Castillo, shattered just like that. Inside the bathroom, Keon hummed a tune over the running shower. My breathing grew heavy. I dropped the jersey into the trash can, pulled out my phone, and with trembling hands, photographed the jersey as evidence. I took a deep breath to force down the bile rising in my throat, walked out of the master bedroom into the study, and unlocked the bottom drawer of the safe to pull out the Special Marital Property Notarization Agreement. I still remembered when we had first gotten together—how tenderly Keon had handed me this agreement, promising we would be together for the rest of our lives. Back then, I had truly believed this document would never, ever be needed. By now, all of that was probably nothing more than my own pitiful fantasy. I bit my lip and opened the agreement. On the surface, it was nothing but a routine asset audit required by the NHL. But buried on page seven was a brutal morality clause: if Keon ever cheated, he would walk away with nothing and owe me a one-point-five-billion-dollar payout. The bathroom door swung open, releasing a cloud of steam as I walked back into the hallway. Keon stepped out with only a towel wrapped around his waist, water dripping from his cropped black hair, the black diamond stud in his left ear catching the light. He strode toward me and reached out to hook his arm around my waist—just like he always did after a road trip. I stepped to the side, dodging his touch, and pressed the folder against his damp chest. His brows drew together, irritation flashing across his face at my evasion. "Babe, I just played back-to-back road games. I'm exhausted. Can we not do the attitude tonight?" My eyes lingered on the fresh red mark on the side of his neck, and I pressed my lips together before speaking in my usual soft, accommodating tone. "It's the asset disclosure form the team's PR department asked for. It's due tomorrow morning. I just need your signature." I uncapped a fountain pen and held it out, keeping my gaze fixed on his wrist. He took the pen but didn't sign right away, flipping through the first few pages with a suspicious frown as he scanned the dense legal jargon. I picked up a glass of warm water from the side table and handed it to him, keeping my voice steady. "It's just a formality. Nathan said your new endorsement deals need this on file to clear tax compliance." At the mention of his PR assistant Nathan, the doubt in his eyes vanished. He scrawled his flashy signature across the bottom of the last page and tossed the folder back onto the table. Looking at the wet ink of his name, the last ember of warmth in my chest turned to ash. I closed the folder and tucked it under my arm. He yawned, turned toward the hallway, and spoke without looking back. "I'm sleeping in the guest room tonight. I have an early golf game with investors tomorrow. Don't wake me." I watched the guest room door click shut and let out a quiet scoff. Investors? More like Adrianna Sharpe, the spoiled heiress of the Sharpe conglomerate. Once I was sure his door was locked, I walked out onto the balcony and dialed my mother-in-law Enid Gonzales's private number. The line connected, and Enid's condescending voice came through the speaker. "Grace, I hope you're calling at this hour for an actual emergency, and not to whine about Keon staying out late again." The freezing Manhattan wind bit into my cheeks, leaving my voice completely flat. "He signed it. One point five billion in cash and equity. I want every cent." Dead silence hung on the other end for three seconds before Enid let out a sharp laugh. "One point five billion? For a woman from the slums, your appetite is disgusting." I gripped the cold iron railing. "That money buys your son's reputation across the league and keeps him from being ruined by a morality clause lawsuit. It's a bargain for the Castillo family." Enid's breathing grew ragged. "Take the money and get out of the hockey world for good! Don't you dare use this secret marriage to leech off Keon again!" I ended the call, walked back inside to toss my phone onto the sofa, and headed straight into the walk-in closet, dragging out a massive black suitcase. I unlocked the custom jewelry cabinet Keon had built for me and swept the diamond necklaces and luxury watches—every single piece a guilt gift after his late nights—into dust bags. I was no holier-than-thou heroine from a novel. Every single thing in here was what I, the betrayed one, was owed. Staring at the half-empty velvet drawers, I texted a high-end consignment broker I knew and scheduled a pickup for seven tomorrow morning. I sank onto the cold hardwood floor, looking out at the Manhattan skyline through the closet window. My phone screen suddenly lit up on the rug beside me, displaying a multimedia message from an unknown number: a photo of Keon tangled in a passionate kiss with a blonde woman inside a red sports car.

Grace POV: Sitting on the cold closet floor, I stared at the screen. The background of the photo was the VIP underground garage at Madison Square Garden, and the red Aston Martin was the birthday gift I had bought Keon last year with my own bonus. A text sat right below the image. "Your man is mine now." It didn't take a genius to know it was from Adrianna Sharpe. I didn't reply. Instead, I forwarded the screenshot to my best friend and lawyer, Jetta Hill, with a short note. "Evidence plus one. Speed up the asset liquidation." At seven the next morning, the consignment brokers arrived at the penthouse. I stood by the door with my arms crossed, watching them pack millions of dollars worth of jewelry into armored cases, turning eight years of hollow apologies into wire transfers headed for my offshore account. By afternoon, a torrential downpour hit New York, turning the sky the color of lead. My work phone buzzed with an urgent notice from the Titans PR department, calling me into Madison Square Garden to handle a sudden media leak. I took the elevator down to the penthouse garage, drove to the arena, and parked in the staff lot. Carrying my black umbrella as I walked toward the VIP section to take the shortcut, the headlights of a familiar red Aston Martin flashed in the corner. My footsteps slowed. Through the rain-streaked windshield, Adrianna was straddling Keon's lap in the passenger seat, her hands tangled in his hair. I walked over, gripped the cold metal handle, and yanked the car door open. Wind and rain blew into the cramped cabin, and the two of them scrambled apart. Keon's shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest. Panic flashed across his face when he saw me, quickly replaced by a scowl as he raked a hand through his black hair. "Grace? Are you stalking me now?" I looked past him at Adrianna, who was smirking as she wiped her smeared lip gloss, and kept my voice even. "Leave the keys. The title of this car is under my pre-marital assets." Adrianna let out a shrill laugh and wrapped her arms around Keon's neck. "Keon, why is your ex-girlfriend acting like a beggar? Who asks for a birthday present back?" Keon yanked his tie loose, his voice dropping into a warning growl. "Grace, stop making a scene here. Save us both some embarrassment." Rainwater dripped from the edge of my umbrella onto my trench coat. I looked straight into his eyes. "Let's get a divorce, Keon. Tomorrow morning." Keon froze for a second before letting out an annoyed bark of laughter. "A divorce? What kind of hard-to-get game are you playing now? Stop embarrassing yourself and go home." He didn't believe a word I said. He slammed his thumb onto the ignition button, pulled the door shut, and gunned the engine, the Aston Martin roaring out of the garage and splashing muddy water across my calves. I stood alone in the empty concrete lot, wiped a drop of dirty water from my cheek, and pulled out my phone to call a real estate agent. "Find me a high-security apartment in Brooklyn or Long Island. Ready for immediate move-in." Hanging up, I walked back to my SUV, got inside, and turned on the heater. Catching my reflection in the rearview mirror, I smoothed back my damp hair, my eyes hard. When I drove back to the empty penthouse that night, Keon wasn't there, and my phone was completely devoid of any texts from him. I walked into the study, plugged in the heavy-duty shredder, and fed every love letter, postcard, and diary entry from the past eight years into the blades. The machine whirred loudly, reducing my twenties into a pile of unreadable paper strips. It felt like hours had passed, and yet like only a moment. By the time I had packed everything and came out of the study, I glanced up at the clock—it was already two in the morning. I let out a cold laugh. Good. He wasn't home, so at least he wouldn't be in my way. Carrying a heavy black trash bag, I went back to the walk-in closet and stuffed in every tight, revealing dress Keon had ever bought to show me off like a trophy. I changed into a sharp black tailored pantsuit and zipped up my remaining suitcases. Just as I set the last box down by the front door, the electronic lock beeped abruptly—someone was punching in the keypad code from outside.

Grace POV:​ Standing in the foyer surrounded by packed boxes, I watched the heavy front door swing open. Keon stumbled inside, reeking of scotch and cheap vanilla perfume, and stopped dead when he saw the luggage. He kicked the nearest cardboard box out of his way and lunged forward to grab my arm. "What the hell is wrong with you at two in the morning? Put this garbage away!" I stepped back, pulling my sleeve out of his reach, my voice cold. "These are my personal belongings. I'm taking out the trash." Assuming I was still throwing a tantrum over the garage incident, he scoffed and shoved past me toward the master bedroom. "Do whatever you want. There's a team party at the Titan Club tomorrow night. You're coming with me, and you better not embarrass me." The bedroom door slammed shut. I looked at the dented box on the floor, a cold smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. A party at the Titan Club? That was the exact stage I needed. The next evening, I slipped into a minimalist navy blue couture gown, took a cab to the Titan Club in Midtown, and walked past the crowded dance floor up the stairs to the second-floor VIP lounge. Before I reached the heavy oak doors, loud laughter echoed through the crack. "Keon, are you seriously keeping that boring old housewife around? Adrianna is ten times hotter." That was Mark, a backup defenseman on the Titans who survived entirely by kissing up to Keon. Keon's lazy, arrogant voice drifted out over the clinking of glasses. "Grace is like a house pet. She can't survive without me. Toss her a few Hermes bags and she rolls right over. Adrianna is for fun." Another roar of locker-room laughter erupted inside. My fingers curled around the brass door handle until my knuckles ached. Chloe, the team owner's wife, walked down the corridor from the restroom and froze when she saw me standing there, her face paling as she hurried over. "Grace, don't listen to them, they've had too much to drink..." I gave Chloe a small, polite nod, raised a finger to my lips, and shoved the oak door wide open. The heavy wood slammed against the wall with a loud bang. The music and laughter died instantly, every pair of eyes in the room snapping toward me. My heels clicked against the floorboards before sinking into the thick wool rug as I walked straight up to the center leather sofa, looking down at a stunned Keon, who was holding a glass of whiskey. Keon recovered quickly, straightening his posture and putting on his authoritative husband act in front of his teammates. "Why did you come straight in? Didn't I tell you to wait for me downstairs?" I didn't say a word. I reached down, picked up a tall glass of vodka on the rocks from the table, and flicked my wrist, splashing the entire drink straight into his face. Ice cubes and freezing liquor hit his custom suit and dripped down his chin. Keon gasped, wiping his eyes in panic, while Mark and the other players sucked in sharp breaths into the dead silence. "That's for your cheap loyalty and your pathetic acting." I slammed the empty glass down onto the glass coffee table. Cracks spiderwebbed across the surface, making the woman sitting next to Mark flinch. I turned to leave, but Keon chased me out and slammed me against the hallway wall, his grip terrifyingly strong. "A divorce?" He laughed like I had just told the joke of the year, no panic in his eyes—only offended fury. "Stop acting, Grace. Without me, you're nothing. Take away the Mrs. Castillo name and who would even spare you a glance? The penthouse, the designer clothes—every bit of it is my charity. You think you can go back to living in the slums?" I looked at him and suddenly wanted to laugh. "Then let's find out, Keon. Nine tomorrow morning. Court." I shook off his hand and walked out of the club without looking back. Behind me came Keon's scornful sneer: "Go on then. Let's see who spoils you the way I do once I'm gone. When you come crawling back on your knees, don't say I didn't warn you." Stepping out of the club's main entrance onto the Manhattan sidewalk, the night wind cooled my burning cheeks as I pulled out my phone and texted Jetta. "It's done." I walked to the curb and raised my hand to hail a cab, but a sleek black Maybach glided to a silent stop right in front of me. The rear window rolled down, revealing the sharp, shadowed profile of a man in the backseat. Even hidden in the dark, I recognized him at a glance.