Blake POV:

The morning light hit my penthouse's floor-to-ceiling windows with a cruel brilliance. I woke up on the sofa in my study, my neck stiff, a sour taste coating my mouth.

I sat up, rubbing my face. The events of the night before came rushing back. The funeral for Avery's mother. Claire. The massive fight Avery and I had.

Guilt, heavy and cold, settled in my stomach. I had messed up. I knew I had messed up. I shouldn't have brought Claire here, but she had been so fragile, threatening to swallow a bottle of pills if I left her alone.

I stood up and walked into the hallway. The apartment was dead silent.

"Avery?" I called out.

No answer.

I walked to the guest bedroom door. I knocked. "Aves? Are you up? I ordered breakfast."

Silence.

I tried the handle. Locked.

"Avery, stop this. Open the door."

Nothing.

Panic began to prick at the back of my neck. I went to the master bedroom, grabbed the emergency key from my safe, and returned to the guest room.

I shoved the key in and turned it. The lock clicked. I pushed the door open.

The room was empty.

The bed was made. Not just made—it was pristine, the sheets pulled tight, the pillows fluffed. It looked like no one had slept in it.

The closet door was open. Empty.

"Avery?"

I pulled out my phone and dialed her number.

Beep-beep-beep. "The number you have dialed is disconnected or no longer in service."

I stared at the phone. Disconnected? Overnight?

I immediately dialed Leo.

"Find her," I barked the moment my assistant answered. "Track her phone. Check the credit cards. Now."

"Boss? What's wrong?"

"She's gone. Just find her!"

I didn't wait. I grabbed my keys and ran to the elevator, but not for the driver's seat. I slid into the back of the Maybach, slamming the door. "Go," I snarled at my driver. "Her favorite places. Central Park. The Met. The library. And get the NYPD commissioner on the phone." As the car tore through the morning traffic of Manhattan, I was already mobilizing every resource my hockey franchise and personal empire could afford, my voice a low growl as I issued rapid-fire orders to Leo over the car's speakerphone.

My phone buzzed. It was Leo.

"Boss, we got a hit on a black car service. Picked up from your building at 5:00 AM. Drop off was at a clinic in New Jersey. Horizon Women's Health."

My blood ran cold. I knew that clinic. It was whispered about in the league's locker rooms and elite circles. It was where high-profile problems went to disappear.

"Send me the address," I said, my voice shaking.

The Maybach executed a screeching U-turn, ignoring the blare of horns. I gripped the leather seat, my knuckles white, as we sped toward the Holland Tunnel. We pulled up to the nondescript brick building an hour later.

I stormed past the receptionist. "Avery Montgomery. Where is she?"

"Sir, you can't be back here!" a security guard stepped in front of me.

"I am Blake Knight! My wife is in this building!" I shoved my Black Card and my franchise ID into the guard's face. "Get out of my way!"

A nurse in scrubs appeared, looking calm but stern. "Mr. Knight? Please, lower your voice."

"Where is she?" I demanded, my chest heaving.

"Ms. Montgomery left about thirty minutes ago," the nurse said quietly.

"Ms. Montgomery?" The use of her maiden name stung. "What did she do? Why was she here?"

"I cannot discuss patient details due to privacy laws," the nurse said. "But she left this for you. She said you might come."

She handed me a thick manila envelope.

I took it. My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped it. I ripped the seal open right there in the lobby.

Three things fell out.

First, the divorce papers. Signed. Dated yesterday.

Second, a medical file. The header read Termination of Pregnancy - 12 Weeks. Emergency Procedure.

Third, a sonogram photo. It was grainy, black and white. A deliberately blurred image, the kind produced by older machines, just clear enough to show a developing fetus but too indistinct for detailed analysis.

The photo was torn in half.

I felt the air leave the room. My knees buckled, and I collapsed into one of the plastic waiting room chairs.

I read the medical file. The words swam before my eyes. Patient distress... non-viable... termination complete. The paperwork was terrifyingly thorough, impeccably detailed—a masterpiece of forgery I could only appreciate in my horror.

I looked at the torn photo.

"She was pregnant?" I whispered. The sound was strangled.

I hadn't known. I had been so busy with the Stanley Cup playoffs, with Claire's endless drama, with the team's charity gala... I hadn't noticed. I hadn't even noticed my own wife was three months pregnant.

And now...

I looked at the sticky note attached to the file. Avery's handwriting.

You were absent. Now we are too.

A roar built up in my chest, a sound of pure, animalistic agony. I stood up and punched the wall next to me. The plaster cracked under my fist. Pain shot up my arm, but it was nothing compared to the hole that had just been blasted through my soul.

"Find her!" I screamed at Leo, who had just run into the lobby, panting. "Shut down the airports! Close the ports! Find her!"

But it was too late.

Days turned into weeks. Private investigators combed the city, the state, the country. They found a trail that led to JFK, to a ticket bought with cash under a fake name, to a flight bound for a country with no extradition treaty.

And then, the trail went cold.

One month later, I stood in the nursery I had secretly started building in the penthouse's east wing. It was empty, just framed walls and sawdust.

I walked to the center of the room and fell to my knees. I clutched the torn sonogram photo to my chest and sobbed. Dry, racking sobs that tore at my throat.

I had killed them. My neglect, my arrogance, my blindness. I had driven her to this.

"I will find you," I whispered to the empty room. "If it takes a lifetime, Avery. I will find you."