Divorcing The Arrogant Ice Hockey Star

Chloe POV:

Then,my thumb finding the Instagram app. I pulled up Isabelle Sterling's profile.

Her latest post was from three hours ago. A picture of her in a sexy dress at some lavish party. The caption: "A lonely night."

I was seized by an absurd urge to laugh. Her "lonely night" was about to be comforted by my husband.

Just then, my phone screen lit up. An iMessage from an unknown number.

My heart skipped a beat. A dark premonition gripped me. I opened it with a trembling hand.

There were no words. Just a picture.

An ultrasound.

A tiny, grainy shape. In the top right corner, the gestational age was clearly marked.

A second message came through immediately. This time, with words.

"Don't worry, Landon will handle things with us. After all, he's going to be a dad."

It was like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over my head. I was frozen solid. The ultrasound and those words were two sharp knives, plunged directly into my heart.

I stared at the image. The date on it was from two days ago.

Isabelle Sterling was pregnant. With Landon's child.

The phone slipped from my numb fingers, landing with a soft thud on the rug. I scrambled to the bathroom, heaving over the toilet, but only dry, painful retches came out.

My stomach churned, but a sharper pain was building in my abdomen. A stabbing, twisting agony erupted from my lower right side.

I curled up on the cold tiles, a cold sweat drenching my nightgown. The pain was so intense I could barely breathe.

I crawled back to the bedroom, fumbling for my phone. The screen was still lit up with Isabelle's taunting message. My fingers automatically dialed the number I knew by heart.

Landon's.

The phone rang for a long time before he picked up. The background was filled with loud music and laughter.

"Chloe? What is it?" His voice was impatient, annoyed at being interrupted.

I squeezed the words out of my throat, using every last bit of my strength. "My... stomach hurts... It hurts so bad... Come... help me..."

There was a pause on the line. Then, his voice, even more irritated. "What kind of game are you playing now? Faking sick just because I went out?"

"I'm not... It really... hurts..." My vision was starting to spin.

"Enough, Chloe." His voice was merciless. "Isabelle has a bit of a PR problem, TMZ reporters caught us. I'm dealing with it. Don't cause more trouble for me. Get yourself an Uber to the hospital."

He paused, then added, "And stop calling."

The line went dead. The dial tone buzzed in my ear like a funeral bell.

A PR problem. Dealing with his and Isabelle's mess. Don't cause him more trouble.

My husband, while I was possibly dying, was worried about protecting his ex-girlfriend and their scandal.

Despair washed over me like a tidal wave. I gave up on him. With my last ounce of strength, I dialed 911.

The minutes waiting for the ambulance felt like an eternity. The pain was making me black out, but my mind was terrifyingly clear.

I remembered our wedding vows. "In sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part."

How ironic.

When the paramedics broke down the door, I was already losing consciousness. The last thing I heard was their urgent shouts.

In the emergency room at Mount Sinai, I was diagnosed with a ruptured ovarian cyst and severe internal bleeding. I needed emergency surgery. Immediately.

A kind nurse, Ms. Knight, held out the consent forms. "Where is your family? Do you need us to contact them?"

I looked at her sympathetic eyes and shook my head.

"I don't have any family," I whispered.

From now on, I only had myself.

I signed my own name on the form: Chloe Sullivan. The letters were warped and shaky from the pain.

As they wheeled me into the operating room, I watched the sterile white lights pass overhead, my four-year marriage flashing before my eyes.

Love, hope, expectation—all of it had been crushed to dust tonight.

As the anesthesia entered my veins, I made a decision.

This marriage was over.