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For seven years, I lived in the shadows as the secret wife of NHL superstar Bryant Norton, sacrificing my brilliant medical career to be a low-paid nutritionist for his team. On our seventh anniversary, I flew in to surprise him with my pregnancy ultrasound, only to find him intimately celebrating with Candice. My six-year-old son threw himself into Candice's arms, wiping cake on her couture dress. "Candice is ten thousand times better than Mom! Make her my real mom!" Instead of scolding him, Bryant smiled indulgently, letting my son call another woman mother. When I went to his office to hand in my resignation, Bryant hurled a heavy metal clipboard in a blind rage, violently striking my pregnant belly. As I collapsed in agonizing pain, he rushed past me to comfort Candice, who had merely stepped on a piece of plastic and faked a twisted ankle. "Stop pretending to be hurt to get my sympathy! Security, throw her out!" He cut off my credit cards, assuming a penniless housewife would crawl back begging in three days. He didn't know that the "genius patents" Candice used to climb into his bed were just discarded drafts I threw in the trash during college. Seven years of silent devotion had been reduced to a pathetic joke. I tore up the ultrasound, signed the divorce papers, and permanently waived all custody rights to my ungrateful son. Then, I logged into the encrypted channel of the world's top bio-lab. It was time for the real genius to take her life back.
Contents
The Arrogant Captain's Regret: Chasing My Ex-Wife Chapter 1
Emilia Norman POV:
"Ma'am, stop right there. The VIP corridor is closed tonight."
A burly security guard stepped in front of me, blocking the heavy glass doors of Montreal's Bell Centre. Freezing wind blew in from the street, making me pull my camel cashmere coat tighter around my shoulders. My fingers pressed gently against my flat lower belly through the thick wool.
I pulled a laminated pass with the Boston Bruins family logo from my purse and held it out.
"I'm here to see Bryant Norton," I said softly.
The guard glanced at the pass and hesitated.
"Captain Norton booked the private lounge ahead," he said, lowering his voice. "He gave strict orders that no one is to disturb him."
I froze for a second, then forced a small smile.
"Today is our seventh wedding anniversary," I explained. "I just flew in from Boston to give him a surprise."
The guard looked at my pale face, sighed, and stepped aside.
"Last door at the end of the hall, Mrs. Norton."
I walked down the thick carpet. My heels made no sound. For seven years, I had lived in the shadows as the secret wife of the NHL's biggest superstar, working as a low-paid PR consultant and nutritionist for his team just to take care of him. My heart beat faster as I touched the warm ultrasound printout inside my pocket. We were having a second child-a baby girl.
Reaching the double oak doors at the end of the hall, I raised my hand to knock. The door wasn't latched, leaving a narrow gap.
Familiar cheers echoed from inside-several core Bruins roster players, followed by the pop of a champagne cork.
I stepped closer and looked through the dim gap. My breath caught, and I stumbled back half a step, pressing my palm against the cold wall to steady myself.
Bryant sat in the center of the leather sofa in a black custom shirt with the collar unbuttoned. The ruthless captain who wore the "C" on the ice was looking down at the woman beside him with a gentleness I rarely saw.
Candice Robles wore an off-the-shoulder red couture dress. The beauty mark under her right eye gleamed under the crystal lights as she laughed and wrapped her fingers around Bryant's forearm.
"Thank you for flying all the way to Montreal after the game just to celebrate my return to the States, Bryant," Candice said, her voice dripping with sweetness as she raised her glass.
Bryant didn't pull his arm away. He clinked his glass against hers.
"You deserve it," Bryant said in his low, gravelly voice.
My stomach twisted violently. I clutched the ultrasound printout in my pocket so hard my knuckles turned white.
Suddenly, a chubby little figure ran into my line of sight. It was my six-year-old son, Jaiden. Holding a piece of mousse cake, he threw himself straight into Candice's arms.
Jaiden wiped his cream-covered hands on Candice's expensive dress and looked up at her.
"Candice is ten thousand times better than Mom!" Jaiden yelled. "Mom is so annoying. She only forces me to eat disgusting healthy meals!"
Candice stroked Jaiden's head with a look of fake pity.
"Don't blame Emilia, sweetie. She just doesn't know how to make a little hockey prince happy."
Watching this, Bryant didn't scold our son for his rudeness. Instead, he reached out, pinched Jaiden's cheek, and curved his lips into an indulgent smile.
That smile felt like a bucket of ice water poured over me from head to toe, freezing the blood in my veins. Seven years of silent sacrifice crumbled into dust right before my eyes.
Standing outside the door, listening to their laughter as if they were a real family of three, my eyes burned dry. Not a single tear came out.
Coldness crept up from the soles of my feet. I slowly loosened my grip on the crumpled ultrasound paper and pushed it deep into my coat pocket.
Footsteps sounded from the other end of the corridor. I turned around quickly, pulled up my coat collar to hide half my face, and walked fast toward the exit.
The moment I stepped out of the Bell Centre, Montreal's blizzard slammed into my face. Icy snowflakes slid down my neck, waking me up completely.
I pulled out my phone. The screen was empty. Not a single anniversary text from my husband.
Opening Bryant's chat window, my frozen fingers hovered over the keyboard before deleting the pregnancy announcement I had typed out word by word.
Looking down at my flat stomach in the howling wind, I whispered to myself, "Baby, we don't need him anymore."
I hailed a taxi, gave the driver the name of the airport, and left the arena behind.
The local sports radio played inside the cab, the host excitedly discussing Bruins Captain Bryant Norton's private party in Montreal tonight.
Turning my head toward the blurry streetlamp lights outside, I opened an encrypted email app on my phone-the internal channel for Synapse Bio-Lab, the top international sports medicine laboratory I secretly owned.
I typed in my password and looked at the mountain of research invitations piling up in my inbox, a faint, bitter smile touching my lips.
I clicked on an email from my mentor, Dr. Christena Whitney, lifetime chairwoman of the International Sports Medicine Committee, and typed a brief reply.
"I'm ready to come back."
After hitting send, I put the phone on silent, locked the screen, and leaned back against the headrest with my eyes closed, keeping my hand over my belly.
Just as the taxi approached the airport highway ramp, the dark phone screen suddenly lit up, flashing violently with an emergency landline number from our Boston penthouse.
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