Divorcing The Arrogant Ice Hockey Star

On our fourth wedding anniversary, I spent all afternoon preparing my husband's favorite meal.

But Landon, a star hockey player, came home late, ignored the dinner, and rushed back out to comfort his ex-girlfriend.

When I begged him to stay, he coldly called me "unreasonable" and slammed the door.

Shortly after, I received a text message from an unknown number.

It was an ultrasound photo, along with a taunting text: Isabelle was pregnant with his child.

The sheer shock triggered a sudden, agonizing pain in my abdomen, making me collapse on the cold tiles.

I called Landon with my last ounce of strength, begging him to save me.

"Stop faking sick just because I went out. Don't cause more trouble for me. Get yourself an Uber."

He impatiently hung up to deal with his ex's PR crisis.

I was rushed to the ER with a ruptured ovarian cyst and severe internal bleeding.

I nearly died on the operating table, forced to sign my own surgery consent forms completely alone.

For four years, I had given up my dreams and identity to support his career, only to be treated like a disposable doll.

I couldn't understand how the man I loved could leave me to die while fiercely protecting another woman.

Waking up from the anesthesia, the pathetic woman who begged for his love was dead.

I didn't cry or wait for his apology.

Instead, I transferred my assets, packed my bags, and hired the most ruthless celebrity divorce lawyer in New York.

This time, I'm making him pay.