The Runaway Wife: Hiding His Secret Triplets

Avery POV:

I wasn't just a wife anymore. I was an obstacle. And tonight, I was done being in the way.

It had started with the rain.

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

The priest's voice was a low drone, barely audible over the relentless drumming of the rain against the black umbrellas. It was a cold rain, the kind that seeped through layers of wool and settled into the marrow of your bones.

I stood at the edge of the open grave, my heels sinking into the mud that threatened to swallow me whole. My black dress, soaked through within minutes of arriving at the cemetery, clung to my skin like a second, freezing layer.

I didn't shiver. I couldn't. My body had gone past the point of cold into a strange, numb paralysis.

I stared at the mahogany casket being lowered into the wet earth. It looked too small. My mother had been a force of nature, a woman who filled every room she entered with laughter and warmth. Now, she was just a box in the ground.

A clap of thunder rattled the sky, shaking the ground beneath my feet. It felt like the earth was cracking open, mirroring the fissure that had been widening in my chest for days.

I turned my head slightly to the left. The space beside me was empty.

Raindrops hit the empty patch of grass where my husband should have been standing.

Blake Knight. The NHL superstar. The man who had promised, in front of this very same priest three years ago, to cherish me in sickness and in health, in good times and in bad.

This was the bad. This was the worst. And he wasn't here.

"He's probably stuck in traffic, Avery," my cousin Megan whispered from behind me, pressing a dry tissue into my wet hand. The tissue dissolved instantly against my damp skin, becoming a useless ball of pulp. "You know how the city gets when it storms."

I didn't answer. I knew exactly how New York got. I also knew that Blake had a private driver who knew every shortcut from the arena to the cemetery.

I pulled my phone from my clutch. The screen lit up, harsh and bright against the gloom of the afternoon. No missed calls. No texts. Just a single news alert notification from TMZ.

My thumb hovered over it. I shouldn't look. I knew I shouldn't look.

I tapped it.

The screen filled with a live stream video. The banner at the bottom read: NHL Superstar Blake Knight Hosts Lavish Hotel Rooftop Bash.

The camera panned across a rooftop that dripped with fairy lights and golden drapery. The audio was a mix of upbeat music and the murmur of the elite. And there, right in the center of the frame, was Blake.

He was wearing his custom suit, the exact one I had picked out for him last month. He looked impeccable. Dry. Warm.

And he wasn't alone.

Claire Hayes was clinging to his arm. She was wearing a gold sequined gown that dipped low in the back, her head thrown back in laughter, her teeth white and perfect under the camera flash.

The headline updated in real-time: Knight & Hayes: A Power Couple Reunited? Rumors Swirl as Wife is Absent.

Absent.

I felt a sharp, twisting cramp in my lower abdomen. It was a physical punch, a reminder of the secret I was carrying. I dropped the phone back into my bag and wrapped both arms around my stomach, pressing hard.

Not now, I pleaded silently to the life growing inside me. Please, not now. I can't fall apart yet.

The service ended. The mourners filed past me, offering condolences that felt like stones being dropped into a well. They touched my shoulder, their eyes darting to the empty space beside me, their pity sharp and judging.

"So tragic," someone murmured. "To be alone at a time like this."

I walked to my car. The mud sucked at my shoes, pulling me down, making every step a battle. I got into the driver's seat of my modest SUV—Blake had taken the Maybach—and slammed the door, shutting out the sound of the rain.

I was shivering now. Uncontrollable tremors that started in my hands and worked their way up to my jaw. My teeth chattered.

I dialed Blake's number.

It rang. Once. Twice.

Please pick up. Tell me the video is old. Tell me you're on your way.

"You have reached the voicemail of Blake Knight. Please leave a message."

I hung up and dialed Leo, his agent.

Leo answered on the second ring. "Avery?" He sounded breathless, flustered.

"Where is he, Leo?" I asked. My voice was raspy, unrecognizable to my own ears.

"The... the franchise management meeting ran late," Leo stammered. "It's a high-level crisis with the roster. He can't step out. He feels terrible about missing the service."

In the background of the call, I heard it. The distinct, swelling beat of a party anthem. The clinking of champagne flutes. The high-pitched laughter of a woman.

"A team meeting," I repeated, deadpan. "With a DJ?"

"I... Avery, the reception is bad here in the conference room, I have to—"

The line went dead.

The lie didn't just cut; it eviscerated. It wasn't that he wasn't there. It was that he thought so little of my intelligence, so little of my grief, that he wouldn't even craft a decent lie.

A memory flashed—my mother's hand in mine, frail and paper-thin, just two days ago. Don't let him dim your light, Avery. You were the sun before you met him.

I looked in the rearview mirror. The woman staring back was a ghost. Pale, wet hair plastered to my skull, eyes rimmed with red, lips blue from the cold.

I started the car.

The drive back to our Upper East Side penthouse was a blur of red taillights and smeared rain on the windshield. I didn't feel the road. I didn't feel the steering wheel. I was operating on autopilot, the kind of dissociation that protects the mind from snapping completely.

I entered the penthouse. It was massive, spanning the entire top floor, decorated in cool greys and stark whites. It was beautiful. It was freezing.

I kicked off my muddy shoes at the door and walked into the living room. The silence of the apartment was heavy, pressing against my ears.

On the glass coffee table, sitting innocently next to a stack of architectural digests, was a gift bag. It was small, robin's egg blue. Tiffany's.

I stopped. My birthday wasn't for another six months. Our anniversary had passed two weeks ago, marked only by a text message from his PR team.

I reached out, my fingers trembling, and pulled the tissue paper aside.

A diamond necklace. A limited edition piece, delicate and insanely expensive.

But it wasn't for me.

Lying next to the box was a card, the envelope unsealed. I pulled it out. Blake's sharp, angular handwriting.

For C. To replace the one you lost. Happy Birthday.

Claire's birthday was today.

I looked at the necklace. It glittered under the recessed lighting, cold and hard. He had remembered his rumored ex-girlfriend's birthday. He had bought a gift. And then it was left here. A cold dread washed over me. This wasn't Blake's brand of careless cruelty; he was too calculated for such a clumsy mistake. This was a deliberate act of war. Claire's work.

The television on the wall flickered to life—it was set on a timer for the evening sports news.

The screen filled with the hotel rooftop coverage again. There was Claire, blowing out candles on a massive cake brought out by waiters. Blake was standing right behind her, leaning in close to whisper something in her ear. Claire blushed, a pretty, pink flush rising on her cheeks.

Blake was smiling.

I didn't scream. The sound that ripped out of my throat was guttural, ugly. I grabbed a heavy crystal vase from the console table—a wedding gift from his aunt—and hurled it across the room.

CRASH.

The glass shattered against the wall, shards exploding outward like shrapnel. The noise echoed in the empty penthouse, a violent punctuation mark to three years of silence.

I collapsed onto the sofa. The adrenaline drained out of me as quickly as it had come, leaving me hollowed out. I curled into a ball, pulling my knees to my chest.

My hand went to my stomach again.

"I can't do this," I whispered to the darkness. "I can't let you grow up in this cold house. I can't let you see me like this."