Game Over, My Mr. Hockey

Chloe POV:

I walked down the wide spiral staircase, heading to the study to ask my husband about his plans for tomorrow. Tomorrow was our third wedding anniversary.

But in this cold house, I felt no sign of celebration. Despite always telling myself that he would remember.

A bitter smile nearly escaped my lips as I walked down the hallway. Three years. Three years in this gilded cage I called home, married to a man who was more of a stranger than a courier.

Bradly Gordon. The NHL superstar. My husband.

He was busy, buried in his work. I always told myself that. But it was a flimsy excuse, worn thin from overuse.

His study door was slightly ajar. A sliver of light spilled out, casting a strip of glow across the dark hallway. I heard his voice, presumably on the phone.

Three years of being his wife had taught me not to interrupt him when he was working. I held my breath and gently pushed the door open a little wider.

Bradly had his back to the door, sitting on the leather sofa. I couldn't see his face, but his voice was clear in the dark, quiet room.

"Don't worry, I'll come pick you up. Tomorrow, okay?"

His tone was unusually gentle. As an athlete or as my husband, I had never heard him speak to anyone with that tone. I couldn't make out the voice on the other end, but it seemed like a woman's coy murmur.

A sour taste rose in my throat. But I couldn't look away. I forced myself to keep listening.

"You don't have to worry about anyone else. I'll handle everything."

"... Of course, Chandler. I've always loved you."

I froze.

Chandler Morris. The widow of his late brother, Warren. My sister-in-law.

On the eve of our third anniversary, my husband was on the phone professing his love to another woman. And calling me "anyone else."

Cold flooded my veins. My body screamed at me to run, to retreat into the shadows. As I stepped back, my toe caught the leg of a bookshelf by the door.

A heavy leather-bound book fell from the shelf with a dull thud onto the thick carpet.

Bradly's head snapped toward the door. He saw me.

His eyes went wide, panicked, like a cornered animal. Shame and fear warred on his face before settling into anger.

He hung up immediately, shoving the phone between the sofa cushions. He stood, once again the composed captain of the ice.

"Chloe," he said, his voice low and gravelly. "Why didn't you knock? What did you hear?"

No guilt. Only accusation.

I looked at him, this man I had shared a surname with for three years, and a laugh bubbled up in my chest. I swallowed it down.

I didn't answer. I just stared at him as if seeing a complete stranger.

Then, a vibration. His phone was ringing.

Bradly's face stiffened. He shot me a glance, a silent plea mixed with a warning.

He answered the call, turning his back to me, walking toward the floor-to-ceiling window. His voice changed instantly.

"Chandler? Sorry, I got disconnected..."

It was Chandler again. She was calling to question him.

His tone remained gentle and patient.

And I was like a lowly intruder, eavesdropping on a happy family, listening to him soothe that woman on the other end.

My heart turned completely cold. I turned and walked out of the study, this time my steps silent.

Back in the bedroom, I closed the door. The click of the latch cut off his nauseatingly tender voice.

I pulled out my phone and dialed a number from my favorites.

The call was answered on the second ring. A sharp, crisp female voice cut through the line. "Chloe? It's late. What happened?"

"Sloane," I said, my voice eerily calm. "I've made a decision. I need you to draft the divorce papers."

When Bradly finally returned to the bedroom, I was sitting on the edge of the bed, calm and composed. He had a cold look on his face, as if everything that had happened tonight could be swept under the rug, like everything else.

He cleared his throat. "Chloe, about Chandler..." he began, his tone condescending, as if offering an explanation were a great favor. "She's been going through a difficult time. My mother and I discussed it, and we decided it would be best for her and her son to stay here for a while. That way we can take care of them."

He said it so casually. As if inviting his mistress to move into his wife's home was the most natural thing in the world.

I looked up at him, a slow smile spreading across my face.

"Sure," I said. "Of course. We're family, aren't we?"

Bradly stared at me, clearly surprised by my easy agreement. Relief washed over his face. "I'm glad you understand."

The next day, a moving truck pulled up in front of our villa.

Chandler, dressed in an immaculate white dress, walked in holding her five-year-old son Caleb's hand. She carried herself like she was already the mistress of the house.

She bypassed Bradly and came straight to me, pulling me into a brief, stiff embrace.

She whispered in my ear, her breath warm, her voice dripping with feigned sweetness.

"Thank you, Chloe. I'm sorry for the trouble."

The provocation made my stomach turn.

But now that my opponent was on my home turf, I was not about to go down without a fight.