Chapter 2

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.