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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.
Contents
Divorcing The Arrogant Ice Hockey Star Chapter 1
Chloe POV:
The truth I'd been too afraid to face for four years finally caught up with me on today-our anniversary: only then was I certain my husband had never been mine.
I had spent four years loving a man whose heart had always belonged to another woman.
I took a deep breath, forcing a smile onto my lips in the reflection.
On the dining table, the Wellington steak I had spent all afternoon perfecting was resting, its pastry shell a perfect golden brown. Beside it, a bottle of '82 Lafite. A gift from the team owner after Landon led the New York Rangers to their Stanley Cup victory last year.
The clock on the wall ticked past eight. An hour late.
My heart sank a little with each tick of the second hand.
Then, the sound of a key in the lock.
My heart leaped. I plastered on the smile I'd practiced and hurried to the entrance.
Landon's tall frame filled the doorway. He brought the scent of sweat and the cold winter night in with him. His blue eyes, the color of a frozen lake, flickered with a faint surprise when he saw me.
As if he'd forgotten.
"You're home," I said, my voice a little dry. "I made your favorite..."
He cut me off, tossing his jacket, the one with the team crest, onto the sofa with a hint of impatience. "I'm taking a shower."
He walked straight to the bathroom without a second glance at me or the table.
I stood frozen, the carefully prepared words lodged in my throat. The only sounds were the rush of water from the shower and the frantic, fading beat of my own heart.
Silently, I moved the steaks to the oven to keep them warm.
He's just tired from practice, I told myself. A lie I'd repeated countless times over the past four years.
When he came out, a towel was slung low on his hips, water droplets tracing paths down the hard lines of his abs. He was built like an athlete, every inch of him radiating power.
He walked straight to the bar and poured himself a whiskey, not to the dining table.
I went to him, trying to wrap my arms around him from behind, pressing myself against his damp, warm back. "Landon, we..."
His body tensed. He sidestepped my embrace without making it obvious, taking a sip of his drink.
"I'm tired, Chloe," he said finally, his voice flat.
A knot of suffocation tightened in my chest. I pointed to the table, my voice trembling slightly. "I made dinner. At least... at least have a glass with me? Happy anniversary."
His gaze swept over the table, a slight frown on his face as if he were enduring a tedious ritual. But he picked up his glass and gave me a perfunctory toast.
We ate in silence, the clinking of our forks against the plates unnervingly loud. He ate quickly, his eyes constantly darting to his phone on the table.
"How was practice?" I tried. "Did Coach say anything?"
"The usual," he answered, his eyes still on the screen.
Later, maybe because of the alcohol, maybe just out of routine, he lifted me into his arms and carried me to the bedroom.
His kiss was cold. His movements were mechanical, like he was completing a task. I closed my eyes, forcing myself to feel something, anything, but there was only a vast, hollow ache.
When it was over, he pulled away immediately. No warmth, no tenderness. I lay on the messy sheets, feeling like a doll that had been used and discarded.
He went back to the living room. I heard him on the phone, his voice low, but I could still catch the fragments.
"... don't worry... I'll be right there..."
My heart seized.
I knew who was calling. Isabelle Sterling. His ex-girlfriend, the model the media called his "the best beautiful woman."
I padded barefoot to the bedroom door and saw him pulling on his clothes, his movements quick and decisive.
"Where are you going?" I asked, my voice shaking.
He didn't turn around. "Isabelle has a situation. I have to go."
"Today..." The words were a choked sob. "It's our anniversary."
Landon finally turned to look at me, his eyes as cold as the ice he skated on. "Chloe, don't be unreasonable."
"She just needs me. Why can't you be more understanding?" he threw at me, grabbing his car keys.
I stared at him, all the strength draining from my body. The man I had loved for four years, the man I had given up everything to support, was calling me "unreasonable" on our anniversary because he was leaving to be with another woman.
I didn't say another word. I just watched him.
My silence seemed to irritate him, or maybe it pricked some tiny, annoying sliver of guilt. He stopped looking at me and strode to the door.
The door slammed shut with a deafening bang, closing out the sounds of New York City and extinguishing the last flicker of light in my heart.
I walked slowly back to the dining room. I looked at the barely touched wine, the cold steak.
My marriage, like this leftover meal, was a complete failure.
I didn't cry. Not this time.
I walked to the study, opened the drawer, and took out the marriage certificate that had been sitting there untouched for four years.
I looked at the smiling faces in the photo, then placed it next to my phone on the desk. From this moment on, I would start collecting every piece of evidence. I would no longer be the fool who silently endured everything.
I picked up my phone and typed the first line in my notes: "Landon Miller, affair, Isabelle Sterling."
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