Chapter 3

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.