Hope Corbett POV:​ I stared at the divorce agreement on the marble table, the embossed "Justice Sports Group" logo blurring in my vision. One day earlier, I had run into my husband's mistress, Anabel, at the escalator landing. I had no intention of dealing with her, but Anabel, in her arrogance, had tried to shove me. Then the escalator abruptly lost power—her stiletto heel caught, she lost her footing, and fell down the escalator, two lives extinguished in one body. My husband, Chadwick Justice, was convinced I had murdered his mistress. He threatened me with divorce—and with pinning the crime of murder on me. Now Chadwick stood over me, his tall, muscular frame blocking the only ceiling light in the VIP box of the TD Garden arena. As the superstar captain of Boston's premier NHL franchise and the heir to the Justice empire, he looked down at me with absolute authority. He snatched the heavy black fountain pen from the table and hurled it down in front of me. Dark ink splattered across my pale face. "Sign it," Chadwick commanded, his voice cold and gravelly, as if crawling up from hell. "Then get out of my sight. I don't want to lay eyes on you one more time." I forced my head up to meet his furious gray-blue eyes, my voice raspy. "I didn't push her, Chadwick. The escalator lost power and she missed her step." He let out a mocking laugh, leaning down to grab my jaw with a rough hand calloused from years of gripping a hockey stick. His fingers dug in so hard my bones ached. A sharp gasp escaped my lips. Tears pooled in my eyes from the sheer physical pain, though I bit my lower lip to keep them from falling, prying at his iron grip with both hands. Instead of letting go, he yanked me up from the leather sofa, the heavy scent of his cedarwood cologne suffocating me. Outside the VIP box door, two arena security guards whispered in the hallway. "The Captain is losing his mind today. Even the General Manager is staying clear of this floor. That woman is done for." Chadwick slammed my back against the cold glass wall overlooking the empty ice rink below. "Do you really think I'd believe a murderer's excuses?" he snarled. "Anabel was carrying my child!" With his free hand, he grabbed the thick divorce papers and slapped them against my chest. The stiff edge of the paper scraped across my collarbone, leaving a thin red mark. Looking down at the red streak on my skin, I felt as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped over my head, freezing me from the inside out. Fifteen years of loving this man shattered under the pure disgust in his eyes. I stopped fighting him. When he opened his hand, my body slid down the glass wall onto the freezing floor. Picking up the leaking pen from the carpet, I signed "Hope Corbett" on the bottom line with shaking fingers, while an invisible hand squeezed my heart so tightly I could barely breathe. Chadwick snatched the contract back without glancing at my signature and looked toward the door. "Drag her down to the memorial service." Two bodyguards in black suits stepped inside, grabbing my arms and hauling me out of the box as my feet stumbled over the threshold. They pulled me down the long, silent corridor under the glare of white fluorescent lights that made my head spin, then took the service elevator down to the main concourse. Chadwick walked ahead of us, the hem of his tailored black overcoat flaring out behind him. The ground floor lobby, usually packed with cheering hockey fans, was draped in black and white cloth, heavy with the suffocating smell of white lilies. In the center of the hall stood a massive black-and-white portrait of Anabel Osborne, the famous supermodel and Chadwick's cherished sweetheart, smiling with fake innocence. Outside the glass doors, a heavy autumn rainstorm pounded the pavement, thunder rumbling over the rapid clicking of dozens of camera shutters inside the lobby. Chadwick stopped in front of the memorial platform and turned to me, his gaze filled with revulsion. "Kneel and repent to her." My eyes widened, my legs stiff as lead. "I will never kneel to a liar," I whispered, my heart drowning in humiliation. Chadwick stepped forward and kicked the back of my knees without hesitation. Pain exploded through my joints as my knees crashed onto the marble floor with a dull thud, cold sweat drenching my back. When I tried to push myself up, a bodyguard pressed his heavy boot onto my calf, pinning me down in front of Anabel's portrait. Camera flashes blinded me from all directions as reporters surged forward against the ropes. "So that's the jealous ex-wife who killed Anabel? Shameless!" "How did the Justice family ever let a gold digger like her near the Captain?" Chadwick stood bathed in the flashing lights, watching me get torn apart by the press without saying a word. I bit down on my lip until the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth, my fingers curling into tight fists against the stone floor. Chadwick bent down, his lips brushing my ear so only I could hear him over the shouting crowd. "This is just the beginning of your hell, Hope."

Hope Corbett POV:​ The throbbing pain in my kneecaps made my whole body shake on the marble floor, yet I kept my spine straight, refusing to bow my head toward that black-and-white portrait. Seeing my defiance, Chadwick's eyes darkened. He buried his fingers in my long hair and yanked my head back, forcing me to look at Anabel's smiling face. "Drop that disgusting pride of yours," he growled, his warm breath hitting my cold cheek. "Your worthless life doesn't even compare to a single strand of her hair." My scalp burned from the pulling as tears slid down my cheeks, yet I still glared right back into his eyes. "One day you'll pay for being blind, Chadwick." The bodyguard behind me bore down harder on my injured calf, wrenching a muffled groan from my throat as my upper body pitched forward. Losing my balance, I threw my hands out instinctively to catch myself before my face hit the stone. My fingers brushed the edge of the memorial table and closed around the heavy black velvet tablecloth buried under the white lilies. With a sharp rip of tearing fabric, the cloth tore free in my grip, dragging everything on the display platform down with it. Dead center on the table, the custom crystal urn slid down the tilted surface and crashed onto the marble floor. The crisp sound of shattering crystal echoed through the lobby, scattering white ash into the muddy rainwater tracked in by the press. Dead silence fell over the hall, the reporters freezing with their cameras held mid-air. Chadwick released my hair, his tall frame going rigid as he stared down at the wet pile of white powder on the floor. A second later, he seized the collar of my dress and hauled me clean off the ground with one arm. "How dare you!" he roared, veins bulging on his neck as his large hand clamped around my throat and slammed me against the concrete pillar. The air was crushed from my lungs in an instant. I clawed frantically at his wrist, my nails carving bloody welts across the back of his hand, yet his grip only tightened. Black spots danced across my vision, my chest burning for oxygen, until all I could see were his bloodshot, furious eyes. "Call arena security! Call the police right now!" Chadwick barked over his shoulder at the club's PR director. Trembling, the PR director fumbled out her phone and dialed the Boston Police Department, while waving a dozen security guards into the hall. Chadwick released my throat and let me collapse onto the floor carpeted with crystal shards. I clutched my neck, coughing, gasping for the cold air. A jagged shard of crystal sank deep into my right palm, my blood soaking into the white powder on the stone, though my hand had long gone completely numb. Security guards hemmed me in with retractable belt barriers, reporters shoving their microphones past the line toward my face. "Ms. Corbett, did you smash the urn out of hatred for the deceased?" "How can a sociopath like you still walk free?" I raised my bleeding right hand to block the blinding flashes, watching through my fingers as Chadwick stood behind his bodyguards, radiating murderous intent—as if those men weren't there to protect him, but to stop him from killing me. Police sirens pierced the rainstorm outside, red and blue lights flashing against the glass doors as patrol cars screeched to a halt at the curb. Four armed Boston police officers pushed through the main entrance, their heavy boots echoing all the way as they marched straight toward me. The lead sergeant pulled a pair of metal handcuffs from his belt, his face expressionless. "Hope Corbett, you are under arrest for suspected homicide and disturbing the peace." The officers wrenched my arms behind my back, the cold steel cuffs snapping shut around my wrists and scraping my raw, abraded skin raw. I didn't resist as they hauled me to my feet; my bruised knees left faint smears of blood on the floor with every step, a trail dragged all the way to the exit. Just before they pushed me through the glass main doors, I stopped and looked back at Chadwick across the sea of flashing cameras. Parting my cracked lips, I mouthed the words to him, silent and clear. "I'll never forgive you."

Hope Corbett POV:​ The freezing Boston rain drenched my thin dress the moment the officers pushed me outside, sweat mixing with the rain as it streamed from my forehead into my stinging eyes. Through the heavy curtain of rain and flashing police lights, my eyes stayed locked on Chadwick—standing inside the warm, brightly lit lobby. An officer shoved my shoulder to hurry me along, and I staggered against the wet, cold metal door of the squad car, the handcuffs biting deep into my wrists. Just before ducking into the back seat, I gathered the last shred of strength left in my chest and screamed into the thunder— "Chadwick, I will never love you again!" Inside the glass doors, Chadwick stopped dead in his tracks, his broad shoulders locking stiff. The officer slammed the car door shut, sealing out the roar of the storm. The engine thundered to life, and the squad car pulled away from the curb. I leaned my head back against the hard plastic seat, closed my eyes, and let the tears fall freely in the dark. The squad car tore across the highway overpass and stopped outside the towering concrete walls of a federal prison on the edge of the city. Guards marched me down a corridor lined on both sides with chain-link fencing, heavy iron doors clanging shut behind me one after another, each lock snapping into place. At the intake desk, a burly female guard confiscated my cheap wedding ring, tilting my chin up to shine a flashlight straight into my pupils. "Another puck bunny trying to sleep her way into a star player's money," she sneered. "You're going to have a real nice time in here." They stripped off my soaked dress and threw me a stiff orange jumpsuit, a serial number stamped across the chest. The guards shoved me into a tiny, windowless cell reeking of damp mold, then slammed the heavy steel door with a clang—claustrophobia swallowed me whole like a rising tide. I curled up on the cold iron bunk, arms wrapped around my knees, gasping for air in the suffocating darkness. Whistles and filthy jeers drifted in from the neighboring cells. Chadwick's reach had clearly already found its way to the inmates inside. As I cowered in the corner, shivering, a faint, almost imperceptible flutter pulsed deep in my lower belly. I went rigid. Withdrawing my hand from my knees, I pressed trembling fingertips against my flat stomach—and a horrifying realization struck me: My period had been gone for over a month. Fear and panic exploded in my chest, choking me: was I... pregnant? The instant panic clamped down on my throat, I bit my lip hard, refusing to let myself cry out in that dark cell. I couldn't help reliving the madness of that night. Anabel's favoritism had already wounded me to the bone, yet on the night he came home drunk, I still couldn't push away his embrace. The name he murmured into my hair as he pressed me down was Anabel's—clearly, unmistakably Anabel's—yet I still lay there, tears streaming, and accepted all of it. There was no denying it: this child carried Chadwick's blood. But right then and there, I swore my oath—the man who had thrown me into this hell would never learn that this child existed. Wiping my face with my rough sleeve, I held my belly and forced myself to breathe. For this child, I had to survive the guards' batons and the inmates' schemes. Five years of agony came to an end at last, in the echo of iron doors closing inch by inch. Those days were like rusted nails driven one by one into the boards of my memory—the laundry room, where steam never cleared all year long, the white fog of scalding irons hiding the hands that pinned me down. When the iron pipe came down, it made no sound of its own—only a dull crack from my own bones, like a winter lake splitting open. I lay sprawled beside the scorching dryer, counting the bursts of agony in my palm. I counted to seven—and then there was nothing. When I woke, my little finger had healed crooked into an angle no finger should have. No splint, no cast—only a prison medic's parting words: "It'll straighten out on its own." And then there was the underground clinic. Their "operating table" was a wooden plank covered in a filthy sheet, a light bulb overhead flickering on and off. They forbade me to scream—so I bit down on a towel folded eight layers thick, and in the moment my teeth tore through the fabric, I heard the sound of my own body being ripped apart. No anesthesia. Only the midwife's hands pinning my shoulders, and the only words she ever said to me: "Stay alive. The baby is waiting for you." I obeyed. For that cry not yet born, I swallowed every blow down—until, five years later, the prison's heavy iron gates groaned slowly open. Bright sunlight fell upon my pale face. Wearing the faded trench coat from five years ago, my crippled right hand buried deep in my pocket, I stepped onto the pavement and drew in a deep breath of Boston's cold air. Chadwick Justice POV:​ Five years ago, standing behind the glass doors of the TD Garden lobby, I watched the patrol car's red and blue lights vanish into the pouring rain while an invisible fist ground my chest to pieces. Her final scream in that storm still echoes in my ears, rattling the composure I had always prided myself on. I loosened my silk tie and forced a low, suppressed laugh from my throat. "Just another murderer's lie." Yet when I looked down and saw her bright red blood mixed into the muddy water and crystal shards on the marble floor, the fingers hanging at my sides were trembling. Remembering the dead, hollow emptiness in her eyes when my hand was around her throat, I couldn't breathe. Blaise Petersen, the club's General Manager, edged up cautiously, offering a clean white towel to wipe the blood from my knuckles. I slapped the towel out of his hand without a word and strode down the players' tunnel toward the locker room, never wanting to look at the blood on that floor again.