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Divorcing My Superstar Husband: Watch Me Shine

Maui

5.0

Romance

10 Chapters

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I was bound in a two-year contract marriage to NHL superstar Beckett Carlisle to save his ruined reputation. I foolishly thought time might change things, until his childhood sweetheart sent me a photo of him at a bar. "He's with me. -C," the text read. When he came home drunk, reeking of her perfume, he smashed my phone against the marble table just because I ignored him. The next morning, when I handed him our prenuptial agreement and demanded a divorce, his icy eyes darkened. "We have a duty to fulfill spousal obligations," he sneered. He pinned me to the bed and brutally forced himself on me while I sobbed, using his strength to remind me who was in charge. Later, when his grandfather had a heart attack, his mother publicly humiliated me in the hospital hallway. "A Puck Bunny who tried to trap my son deserves to talk to me about respect?" Candice stood right beside him, parading around as if she were the real wife, telling me I was just in the way. I had spent two years playing the perfect, invisible Mrs. Carlisle, swallowing my pride, only to be treated like a pathetic, disposable joke. My heart died completely in that cold hallway. I stopped asking for his permission. I took the limitless black card he had given me, went straight to Fifth Avenue, and bought a new laptop. Since he refused to let me go, I was going to use his money to build my own career and leave this gilded cage on my own terms.

Divorcing My Superstar Husband: Watch Me Shine Chapter 1

Hailey POV:

My phone buzzed against the velvet sofa cushion just as the antique grandfather clock struck midnight. I did not reach for it right away. Sitting alone in this massive Manhattan townhouse in the dark was my nightly routine, and late‑night messages never brought good news.

It vibrated again, insistent and cruel. I finally snatched it up and unlocked the screen. A multimedia message from an unknown number. I tapped the image, and the air left my lungs.

The photo showed a dim, neon‑soaked bar. My husband, Beckett Carlisle-the franchise center and captain of New York's NHL team-stood near the counter, head tilted back, laughing.

Even from a side angle I knew the broad cut of his shoulders, the careless way he slouched into a room as if he owned it. In this city, he did.

Before I could lock the screen, a second message popped up. "He's with me.-C."

My fingers went ice‑cold. That single letter belonged to Candice Burnett. I could picture her sweet, innocent smile and the gold B necklace she wore around her collarbone-the one she still used, even after marrying Beckett's teammate, to remind everyone in the hockey circle of their college history.

Two years she had orbited him, and tonight she had finally grown bold enough to send me proof.

My muscles tensed to hurl the phone into the marble fireplace. Instead I sucked in a slow breath and slapped it face‑down on the cushion. Giving Candice a reaction meant letting her win.

Cursing under my breath, I walked into the kitchen and drank a glass of cold water in three fast gulps. It did nothing to cool the burning in my chest. In the dark windowpane above the sink I caught my reflection: pale skin, tight lips, hollow eyes. Being Mrs. Carlisle was the biggest joke in New York.

A low roar echoed from the underground garage. He was back. I hurried to the sofa and fixed my eyes on the flickering television so he would not know I had been waiting up.

The heavy oak door swung open and slammed shut. A tall figure stumbled into the archway.

Beckett's charcoal suit was wrinkled, his tie yanked loose, his dark‑blonde hair in messy spikes, a flush of alcohol coloring his cheekbones.

Even from ten feet away, the stench of aged whiskey rolled across the rug, tangled with a cloying vanilla perfume. Candice's signature scent. My stomach churned.

His gaze landed on me and his lips twisted into a mocking smirk. "Well, look at that. Still awake, my dutiful little wife?"

I said nothing, staring at the television. My silence wiped the smirk off his mouth. He stalked across the rug and blocked the light from the screen.

"I'm talking to you, Hailey." He braced a hand on the back of the sofa and leaned in, hot whiskey breath washing over my cheeks. Up close, his ice‑blue eyes were bloodshot, the jagged scar across his right eyebrow-a souvenir from a skate blade in his rookie season-standing out white against his flushed skin.

"You're drunk, Beckett."

"Drunk?" He scoffed. "I'm wide awake. What I want to know is whether you're having fun playing the devoted housewife in the dark." His hand shot out and gripped my chin, forcing my head up. "Or are you just cooking up some new sob story to run to my grandfather and complain about me?"

Mentioning Theodore Carlisle-the head of the family and the only person under this roof who treated me like a human being-made something snap. I wrenched my head free and glared at him. "Don't touch me."

Beckett froze, his hand hovering. For two years I had swallowed his coldness and kept my head down. My sudden hostility made his mockery harden into dark irritation. He spotted my phone on the cushion and snatched it up.

"Let's see what's giving you so much attitude tonight." He tried to punch in a passcode. The screen flashed red. He tried again, jaw tightening when it stayed locked.

My heart jumped into my throat. If he saw Candice's text, he would know I was stewing over them. I lunged for his wrist. "Give that back!"

He shoved me back with his forearm. I stumbled as he raised the phone higher. His grip faltered-the phone slipped through his fingers and slammed screen‑first onto the pointed corner of the marble coffee table.

Crack. The sharp snap echoed through the room. A web of silver cracks split the glass from edge to edge, the screen completely dead.

Beckett looked down at the ruined device, then at me. Not a trace of apology. He rubbed a hand over his tired eyes with a grunt of annoyance. "What a pain in the ass." He turned and staggered up the grand staircase.

I stood frozen until his boots faded down the second‑floor hallway. Slowly my knees gave out. I crouched beside the table and slid my trembling fingers under the shattered phone, the jagged glass biting into my skin. At one corner the cracked screen still glowed faintly, just enough for me to read the last line before it died.

"He's with me.-C."

I closed my eyes.