Betrayed Wife: Pregnant With The Ice Hockey Prince

Alyse POV:

I sat on the leather sofa in the private waiting room of a high-end fertility clinic, feeling like a prisoner awaiting a verdict. The air, a sterile mix of antiseptic and expensive lavender, churned my stomach.

For the seventeenth time, I glanced at my phone. The screen showed a photo of Jase and me in front of Niagara Falls. He was still smiling back then. Now, he couldn't even be bothered to send a "good luck" text.

My fingers traced the wedding band on my ring finger. It felt loose, just like our three-year marriage. I kept telling myself that a baby would fix everything. It had to.

The door opened. Dr. Evans walked in, his face wearing that professional, sympathetic smile that made my heart plummet into my shoes.

He sat across from me, his hands clasped on the desk. "Alyse, I'm so sorry," he said, his voice gentle, the same tone I'd heard twice before.

A roaring silence filled my head, as if the world had hit a mute button. His lips were moving, but I couldn't hear a thing. I could only read the shape of one word: "failed."

This was the third time. All my hope, all our money, all my dignity, had been reduced to that single, cold word.

I don't know how I managed to stand, or how I squeezed out a smile. "Thank you, Doctor. I know you did your best." The voice that came out wasn't mine.

I floated out of the office like a ghost. The bright hallway lights stabbed at my eyes.

Leaning against the cool wall, I struggled to breathe, a heavy stone pressing on my chest. I pulled out my phone, my thumb hovering over Jase's name. I had to call him, to tell him our last hope was gone.

Just then, the screen lit up with an Instagram notification. It was from my sister, Sienna.

My finger mechanically swiped it open. A photo leaped into view: two champagne flutes clinking elegantly against a backdrop of Chicago's glittering skyline.

The caption read: "Celebrating our brilliant future!"

My gaze froze on the corner of the picture—on the man's hand holding one of the glasses.

On his wrist was a watch. A Patek Philippe, rose gold case, dark brown alligator strap.

The air caught in my throat. That watch. I had spent my bakery's entire profit from the first half of the year to buy it for Jase on our last anniversary.

I zoomed in. The hand wearing the watch was resting intimately over another. Sienna's hand.

A violent wave of nausea surged through me. I bolted for the nearest restroom.

I knelt on the cold tiles, retching, but nothing came up except the bitter acid that burned my throat.

In the mirror, I saw a woman with a deathly pale face and hollow eyes. Was that me? A failure at fertility, a fool betrayed by her husband and her own sister.

My phone buzzed again. A text message from Jase, arriving a second before I could have called him.

It was just one sentence. "Sienna's pregnant. We need to talk about a divorce."

The words blurred, spinning into a vicious vortex before my eyes.

I felt no anger, just a vast, crushing emptiness, as if the world had completely abandoned me.

I slid to the floor, my back against the cold partition, and a broken, animal-like sob escaped my lips.

I opened Sienna's Instagram profile. She had just updated her bio.

"Jase Hobbs's future Mrs."

My eyes landed on another photo from a few days ago. She was in a tight dress, her hand resting gently on a slightly rounded stomach.

So, the whole world knew. I was the only one, the wife, left in the dark.

Slowly, I pushed myself up, wiped my tears, and walked out of the restroom.

I didn't go home. I walked out of the clinic's main entrance, letting the cold Chicago wind whip against my face.

I needed an explanation. No, I didn't need an explanation. I needed to see it with my own eyes.

I hailed a cab and gave the driver the address of the private club Jase always went to.

In the car, my mother, Fiona, called. I didn't answer. I knew what she would say.

My world had shattered in thirty minutes. Now, I was going to pick up the pieces, even if they sliced my hands to ribbons.