The 18 Billion Wife He Abandoned

Emma Carter's butt had gone numb from sitting in the same cushioned seat for three hours. Not even the luxury boxes at Boston Arena had chairs comfortable enough for the marathon that was playoff hockey. The crowd roared as the final buzzer sounded—Boston Blades 3, Montreal 2.

She stood and stretched, watching as her husband Jack scored the winning goal in overtime. The fans stomped and chanted his name, their hero on ice. Emma smiled, genuinely happy for him despite everything else.

"Mrs. Reynolds? Would you like me to call your car?" the suite attendant asked, already gathering her empty water bottles.

"Not yet, thanks. I'm heading down to congratulate the team." Emma grabbed her purse, a simple leather tote that clashed hilariously with the designer outfits of the other hockey wives.

The attendant's smile tightened. "Oh, I believe there's a private team celebration tonight. Players only."

Emma's phone buzzed with a text from Jack: Don't wait up. Team party at Murphy's.

She read between the lines. Don't show up. Don't embarrass me. Again.

"Right. Of course." Emma forced a smile. "I'll take that car now."

Three hours and two unanswered calls later, Emma sat cross-legged on their king-sized bed, laptop open to a spreadsheet that tracked the household budget. Jack made millions, but old habits die hard. Her grandfather had taught her to watch every penny, even when you had billions of them.

The front door slammed downstairs. Emma closed her laptop and took a deep breath.

"Em? You still up?" Jack's voice echoed through their too-big house, slightly slurred.

"In the bedroom," she called back, slipping on her glasses like armor.

Jack appeared in the doorway, still in his game-day suit, tie hanging loose around his neck. At thirty-two, he was in his hockey prime—six-foot-two, shoulders like a coat hanger, jawline that could cut glass. He'd been gorgeous when they met in college. Now he was sculpted.

"Helluva game, huh?" He grinned, running a hand through his dark hair. "Did you see that last goal?"

"It was amazing." Emma smiled genuinely. "That spin move was insane."

"Coach said it's going on the season highlight reel." Jack loosened his tie further but didn't move to take it off. He just stood there, swaying slightly.

Emma's stomach knotted. Something was wrong.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Yeah. No. I mean—" Jack reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope. "I need to talk to you about something."

"What's that?" Emma nodded toward the envelope, though she already knew. The same dread she'd been feeling for months crystallized into something solid and cold.

Jack tossed the envelope onto the bed. It slid across the comforter and bumped against her knee.

"Divorce papers," he said, his voice oddly flat. "My lawyer drew them up last week."

Emma stared at the envelope. Her name was typed on the front in cold, official letters. She should cry, she thought distantly. She should be shocked. Instead, she felt like she'd been watching this train approach for miles.

"Were you going to discuss this with me first, or just throw legal documents at my face?" The words came out calmer than she felt.

Jack had the decency to look uncomfortable for about half a second.

"Look, we both know this isn't working." He gestured between them. "You're... you, and I'm..."

"You're what, Jack?"

"I'm Jack Reynolds now." He squared his shoulders. "I've got endorsement deals. Magazine covers. I need someone who understands this lifestyle."

Emma laughed, she couldn't help it. "This lifestyle? You mean the one where I've supported you through three team changes and two injuries? Where I've moved cities four times in six years? That lifestyle?"

"See, this is what I mean." Jack pointed at her accusingly. "You're always keeping score."

"I'm a numbers person. Sue me." Emma picked up the envelope but didn't open it.

"The thing is," Jack continued, pacing now, "I've met someone who gets it. She understands the demands, the spotlight."

Emma's laugh turned hollow. "Wow. So there's already a replacement. Who is she? Let me guess—one of those I*******m models who's been commenting on your photos?"

Jack's silence was answer enough.

"How long?" Emma asked.

"Does it matter?"

"It matters to me."

Jack sighed dramatically. "A few months. It just happened."

Emma stood, suddenly unable to have this conversation in the bed they'd shared for eight years. "Things don't 'just happen,' Jack. You make choices."

"Fine. I chose someone who makes more sense for me now." He threw his hands up. "I'm not the same guy who married you in college. I need..."

"More?" Emma supplied.

"Different." Jack softened his tone, as if that made it better. "You're smart, Em. Too smart for this world, honestly. But you don't fit anymore. You hide at games. You wear Target when everyone else wears Prada."

"I like Target," Emma said, knowing how ridiculous this argument was becoming.

"The settlement's fair," Jack continued, nodding at the envelope. "The house, a million cash, alimony for two years while you 'find yourself' or whatever."

Emma clutched the envelope tighter, crumpling it slightly. She thought about all the things Jack didn't know—about her family, her grandfather, the trust fund she'd never touched, the shares she owned in companies whose names would make his head spin.

Her phone rang, cutting through the tense silence. Her grandfather's photo lit up the screen.

Jack rolled his eyes.

Emma snatched the phone. "I should take this."

"Of course you should." Jack grabbed a duffel bag from the closet—already packed, she noticed. "I'll be at the Ritz until I find a place. My lawyer's number is in there. Don't make this messy, Em."

As Jack headed for the door, Emma called after him: "Jack?"

He turned, hand on the doorframe.

"Your career high record is twenty-eight goals in a season. My grandfather made twenty-eight million dollars last week." She smiled sweetly. "Just keeping score."

Jack's face contorted in confusion as she answered the phone.

"Hi, Grandpa," Emma said, watching her soon-to-be-ex-husband walk out. "Yes, I saw the game. Listen, I think I'm ready to take you up on that job offer after all."

The job Jack thought was just some entry-level position at Mitchell Industries—owned by her grandfather, Franklin Mitchell, billionaire and majority owner of the Boston Blades hockey franchise.

As the front door slammed shut, Emma finally opened the envelope. Beneath the legal jargon was one simple truth: Jack Reynolds had just made the biggest mistake of his career.