Corinne POV:

I locked myself in the bedroom.

Blake never came in.

I could hear the television in the living room, the tinny sound of cartoons punctuated by Blake's impatient voice.

"Keep it down, I'm working."

I sat on the edge of the bed, my phone in my hand, the screen lighting up and going dark.

No "Happy Birthday" text.

No missed call.

Maybe my husband and daughter had simply forgotten my birthday.

Or maybe they knew and pretended not to care.

I opened the closet.

It was filled with expensive clothes, most of them picked out by Blake's stylist for me to wear to his public events.

Each hanger felt like a bar on a gilded cage.

When did he stop even pretending?

In the beginning, he at least maintained a polite facade.

Now, even that was too much effort.

I crept to the partially open door and peered out.

Lily was on the floor, holding an iPad, video-chatting with Dayna.

"I can't wait to see you, Dayna. Mama's boring. She never plays with me."

A hand squeezed my heart, tight and vicious.

The pain made it hard to breathe.

To my own daughter, I was "boring."

At nine o'clock, a sharp rap on the door made me jump.

A tiny, stupid flame of hope flickered to life.

Maybe he remembered.

I opened the door.

He was wearing his jacket, car keys in hand. "I'm heading out. Lily's asleep, just keep an eye on things."

"Strategy meeting?" I asked, the words tasting like acid.

"Yeah," he grunted, not even looking at me before turning and walking away.

I watched his back disappear down the hall.

I went to check Lily's room — empty, blankets thrown.

Mrs. Hayes, the Carlisle family's housekeeper, stood in the hallway, awkward. "Lily said she didn't want to stay home with you tonight, ma'am. She said you were boring. Mr. Carlisle's driver just came and took her to meet him and Miss Nixon for dinner."

The flame sputtered and died, leaving nothing but cold ash.

I sat alone in the dark living room.

The TV was on the sports channel, commentators excitedly discussing the New York Titans' upcoming schedule.

Blake's team.

Blake's world.

My phone buzzed.

It was a link from a friend, no text, just the link.

I clicked it. The headline from TMZ, the celebrity gossip site, burned into my eyes.

"HOCKEY PRINCE BLAKE CARLISLE ENJOYS FAMILY DINNER WITH RUMORED FLAME DAYNA NIXON AND DAUGHTER."

The photo was brutally clear.

Blake, Dayna, and Lily, seated at a window table in an upscale Manhattan restaurant.

Blake was leaning over, cutting a piece of steak from his own plate and placing it onto Lily's.

The warm restaurant lighting softened the harsh lines of his face, making him look impossibly gentle.

Dayna was smiling, handing Lily a glass of juice, her posture intimate, proprietary.

Lily was beaming up at them, her face alight with pure joy.

I stared at the photo.

Was this for publicity?

Or was that warmth — the warmth I'd never received — real for them?

That thought hurt more than the first.

The blood in my veins turned to ice.

He canceled my birthday dinner for this.

My daughter didn't want to be with me.

It was the last straw.

Every self-deception, every sliver of hope I had clung to, was now a humiliating joke.

I didn't cry.

I didn't even feel anger.

Just a profound, bone-deep cold.

And then, relief.

I stood up and walked into the study.

I opened the bottom drawer of Blake's heavy oak desk.

Inside was the divorce agreement our lawyers had prepared when we got married.

A pre-nuptial document, just in case.

It had been sitting there for years, a silent prophecy.

My lawyer had told me this copy requires a wet-ink, handwritten signature to be valid in New York — no e-sign, no printed name, it had to be hand-signed on the last page.

I flipped to the last page.

Blake's signature was already there, a confident, arrogant scrawl.

I picked up a pen.

The tip hovered over the paper for a single, long second.

I thought of the first time I saw him on the ice.

A dazzling star.

I was twenty-two, sitting in the front row.

He was so bright.

Everyone screamed his name.

I worshipped him.

I thought of our wedding, his vows cold and formulaic.

I thought of all the nights I had waited alone in this silent apartment.

Then, I stopped hesitating.

With a steady hand, I wrote my name.

Corinne Sargent.

As of today, I was no longer Mrs. Carlisle.

I was just Corinne Sargent.

And I was going to take back everything that was mine.

Corinne POV:

The sun rose.

I hadn't slept, but my mind was sharp, unnaturally clear.

I placed the signed divorce agreement into a simple manila envelope, leaving it unsealed.

Before sealing it, I photographed every signed page for my own record, then made a second, unsealed copy.

I packed a small carry-on, taking only a few of my own outfits, my laptop, and my personal effects.

The closet full of designer gowns, I left untouched.

I sent a text to my lawyer.

"I signed. I'm sending the original to you by courier today. File it with the court immediately. I'm leaving a notice copy with the housekeeper for Blake — he'll have it, but I want it filed regardless."

I walked to the living room.

Lily was still asleep.

I pushed her door open a crack and stood there for a long time, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest.

She was smiling in her sleep, probably dreaming of her "family dinner."

For a second a flash came — Lily's first steps right here on this rug, tumbling into my arms, Blake coming home from a home game win, still in his half-gear, smelling like ice and sweat, lifting her up so high she squealed.

I thought I had the happiest family.

The star husband, the sweet daughter, the safe home.

It was all fake.

A pang of pain shot through me, but I knew I couldn't turn back.

I closed the door softly.

Mrs. Hayes, the housekeeper, was already in the kitchen.

She'd worked for the Carlisle family for decades, had watched Blake grow up, and had watched me marry into this life.

"Good morning, Mrs. Carlisle. Shall I prepare breakfast for you?" she asked, her voice respectfully neutral.

"No, thank you, Mrs. Hayes." I handed her the copy."Please make sure Blake gets this personally. It's important."

She took it, her expression clouded with a slight confusion as she glanced from the envelope to the suitcase at my feet. "Of course. Are you... going somewhere?"

"I have some business back in Boston," I said calmly, offering no further explanation. "I'll be there for a while."

Mrs. Hayes was a discreet woman. She didn't press. "Very good, ma'am. I'll let Mr. Carlisle know. Have a safe trip."

I took one last look at the place I had called "home" for five years.

Then, without a shred of regret, I turned and walked out the door.

As the elevator descended, I caught my reflection in the mirrored walls.

I looked pale, but for the first time in a long time, I felt light.

I took a cab to the airport and bought a ticket for the first flight to Boston.

As the plane lifted off, I watched the New York skyline shrink until it was just a hazy line on the horizon.

Goodbye, Mrs. Carlisle.

Blake POV:

I didn't get home until three in the morning.

A few drinks with Dayna and some team sponsors.

My head was throbbing.

The apartment was dark.

Corinne was probably asleep.

I didn't think much of it, heading straight for the guest room I'd been sleeping in for the past year.

The next morning, my agent woke me with a call, nagging me about a commercial appearance.

I hung up on him, annoyed.

I walked out of the room to find Mrs. Hayes tidying the living room.

"Good morning, sir."

"Morning." I rubbed my temples. "Where's Corinne?"

"Mrs. Carlisle left for Boston. She said she had business and would be there for a while," Mrs. Hayes reported. Then she handed me a manila envelope. "She asked me to give this to you personally."

I took the envelope.

It was thin, weightless.

I figured it was a shopping list or some household bill she wanted me to look at.

Just as I was about to open it, my phone rang.

It was Dayna.

Her voice was sweet, a little breathy from being on air prep.

"Blake, are you awake? Thanks again for last night. Lily was perfect. Though TMZ already got us. 'Family dinner with rumored flame' — they loved that shot of you cutting steak for her."

"It was just dinner."

"I know," she laughed, low. "But I have to go on in ten minutes and break down your PK. My producer wants me to say you looked soft last game because you were distracted. Were you distracted, Captain?"

"My PK wasn't soft."

"No? Shepherd's line is going to overload your right side in Boston, you know that. You were thinking about something else on the ice last game, not just the zone exit."

Her tone was all professional, but the words were flirty, intimate.

Like we had a secret.

"Don't worry, I'll tell them you were saving all your intensity for where it counts. You always are. But don't forget — you have afternoon training. You're not going to miss it, are you?"

"Of course not. I'll be there."

My attention had completely shifted from the envelope.

I tossed it onto the console table by the door.

"I'll be at afternoon training on time."

"I know you will," she said, soft. "See you at film."

We hung up.

My heart was pounding, still thick with the haze of last night's drinks.

I barely registered the manila envelope on the console table as my eyes swept past it — my mind was already on the ice, on the afternoon practice waiting for me, on the headache I'd earn before I even stepped onto the rink.

Mrs. Hayes came over with the duster, nodding at the console. "Sir, the envelope on the table — some file to organize? Shall I file it?"

I didn't even look. "Not important. Toss it or keep it wherever, I don't care. I'm busy, no time for that now."

I grabbed my keys and rushed out.