Chapter 6

Bradley's POV

Three months had passed since the divorce papers were signed, and on paper, my life was exactly where it was supposed to be.

The media was obsessed with us. Everywhere I turned, there was another magazine cover, another sports blog headline, or another entertainment segment celebrating hockey’s newest celebrity power couple. When Rachelle and I walked down the red carpet at the league's charity gala last weekend, the flashing cameras were blinding. She looked breathtaking in a designer emerald gown, smiling beautifully for the reporters while clinging tightly to my arm. The fans loved it. The front office loved it. The sponsors were thrilled that the tabloid drama had finally settled into a perfect, marketable romance.

Yet, underneath the bright lights and the endless applause, a strange, suffocating restlessness had settled deep into my bones.

I couldn't explain it. I was finally free from the arrangement my grandfather had shackled me with. I had the championship ring on my finger, a fortune in the bank, and the woman I had spent years claiming I loved by my side. I should have been happy. But every single time I stepped through the front door of the penthouse after a grueling road trip, the victory felt flat.

Rachelle had redecorated the place almost immediately, swapping out the simple, warm textures Tabitha liked for high-end, minimalist marble and modern velvet. It looked like a luxury showroom now. But no matter how loud Rachelle turned up the music, or how many guests she invited over for cocktails, I couldn't shake the memory of the profound silence that had filled the apartment the day Tabitha left. It was like the soul of the place had walked right out the door with her, leaving behind an empty, freezing shell.

"Bradley, are you even listening to me?"

My mother’s refined voice snapped me out of my thoughts. We were sitting in the private lounge of the country club, the afternoon sun streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. She was elegantly sipping her tea, her dark eyes analyzing my face with that classic, unyielding strictness she had used on me my entire life.

I cleared my throat, shifting slightly in my tailored suit. "Sorry, Mom. Just thinking about the upcoming game against Toronto. What were you saying?"

She set her porcelain cup down with a soft click. "I asked if you have heard anything from Tabitha. Or if your legal team has any idea where she relocated."

I frowned, a familiar knot tightening in my stomach. "No. No one has heard from her. Why do you ask?"

"Your aunt mentioned she hasn't seen Tabitha at any of the charity committees, and her father's old business partners noted she liquidated her local accounts," my mother said, her brow furrowing slightly. "It's just unusual for someone from her background to vanish without leaving a forwarding address. I assumed she would at least stay in the city."

"She wanted a clean break, Mom," I muttered, looking down at my hands. "I gave her the settlement. She can live wherever she wants."

But the truth was, her complete disappearance bothered me more than I cared to admit. It wasn't just that Tabitha had vanished; she had cut every single tie to our world with a clinical precision that didn't match the gentle girl I thought I knew. I had tried calling her private number a few weeks after the signing, just to make sure she didn't need help transitioning out of the penthouse, but the line was disconnected. I had even swallowed my pride and tried calling Ava, her loud-mouthed best friend.

Ava hadn't just ignored my calls—she had actively blocked my number, and when my assistant tried reaching out from the team office, Ava told him to tell me to go to hell before slamming the phone down.

Tabitha didn't want to be found. She had taken the money, walked away, and erased herself from my life.

Later that afternoon, I was sitting in my private office at the team facility, trying to focus on a stack of sponsorship contracts before the evening practice. The room was quiet until my corporate lawyer, Marcus, walked in carrying a sleek leather briefcase. He looked slightly worn out, tossing a thick yellow folder onto my desk.

"Hey, Brad. I've got the final, certified copies of the divorce decree from the court," Marcus said, taking a seat in one of the leather chairs across from me. "Everything is officially wrapped up and filed away in the state archives. You're in the clear."

"Good. Thanks, Marcus," I said, reaching for the folder. I opened it absentmindedly, flipping through the endless pages of legal jargon, asset divisions, and signed waivers. It was just a routine check before I sent the files to my personal safe.

As I reached the very back of the folder, my fingers brushed against a piece of paper that didn't look like the rest. It wasn't the cream-colored legal bond paper the lawyers used. It was standard, thin hospital stationery.

"What's this?" I asked, pulling the crumpled page out from between the court documents.

Marcus glanced over, squinting at it. "Oh, that? One of my paralegals found it mixed up in the insurance paperwork Tabitha’s team submitted for the car accident billing. It was accidentally attached to the vehicle clearance forms instead of the medical insurance files, so it ended up in our final discovery packet. I figured we should keep it on file just in case there were any outstanding medical claims against the estate."

"Right," I murmured, unfolding the paper.

I scanned the top lines carelessly, expecting a list of charges for her concussion exam or the billing code for the emergency room room-rate. But my eyes froze the moment they hit the bolded headers near the middle of the page. It wasn't a billing statement. It was a formal laboratory diagnostic report from the hospital's obstetrics wing, dated the exact morning she came to my office to sign the divorce papers.

My breath caught in my throat.

The words on the page seemed to blur together before locking into a horrifyingly clear sequence.

Patient: Tabitha Dawson Norwood.

Test Type: Serum HCG Beta / Ultrasound Confirmation.

Status: Pregnancy Confirmed.

Condition: High Risk. Severe Uterine Trauma. Immediate Bed Rest Advised.

I stopped breathing. The air in the room suddenly turned into lead, pressing down on my chest until my lungs screamed for oxygen. My eyes raced down to the bottom of the form, my heart hammering a frantic, violent rhythm against my ribs.

Estimated Conception Date: Approximately six weeks prior to evaluation.

Prior to divorce proceedings.

The room began to spin. The paper in my hands started to tremble, the rustle of the stationery the only sound cutting through the deafening ringing in my ears.

Six weeks before the divorce. That was the week after we won the conference semifinals. The night we had stayed up late talking in the penthouse, laughing about the future, wrapped up in each other before the chaos of the finals began.

She was pregnant.

The day I stood in that hospital suite, holding Rachelle and telling Tabitha that she was nothing but an obligation... She was carrying my child. The morning she walked into my executive office, dead-eyed and silent, demanding the settlement money before dropping her wedding ring on my desk... she already knew. She was carrying my baby, alone, while I was busy transferring millions to buy her silence and rushing out to celebrate my freedom with another woman.

"Brad? You okay?" Marcus’s voice sounded miles away, muffled as if he were speaking to me from underwater. "You look like you've seen a ghost, man."

I couldn't answer him. I couldn't move a single muscle. I just stared at the words High Risk over and over again, my fingers shaking so violently the paper was rattling.

She didn't take the money because she was greedy. She took the money to protect my child from me.