All Chapters of Divorced by the Hockey Captain: Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

Tabitha's POVThe smell of the downtown precinct hit me the second the glass doors hissed shut behind us: burned drip coffee, damp woolen coats, floor wax, and that unmistakable, sour tang of nervous human sweat.It made my stomach heave. Every muscle along my ribs clamped tight around my baby, my instincts screaming at me to turn around and walk straight back into the cold drizzle outside."Breathe, Tabby," Ava muttered under her breath, hooking her arm firmly through mine. She had swapped her trench coat for an impeccably tailored navy blazer, her leather briefcase clutched like a battering ram in her free hand. She was in full trial-lawyer mode, chin lifted, heels clicking against the scuffed linoleum with the precision of a metronome. "Nobody interrogates you today. You're a witness and a protected complainant. If anyone so much as raises their tone, I shut the room down."Behind us, Maya dragged her feet, her boots scraping the floor. She had her hood pulled low over her scarred

Tabitha's POVThe inside of Ava's SUV smelled like leather cleaner, cold rainwater, and stale adrenaline.My knuckles were bone-white where I gripped the phone against my ear. Through the tinted passenger window, the gray afternoon traffic of the city blurred past in jagged streaks of red brake lights, but my focus was pinned to the low rhythm of Bradley's breathing on the other end of the line."Bradley, listen to me before you say anything," I forced out, my voice raspy and thin. "I am not accusing your family of anything. Do you hear me? I'm not saying your grandfather or your father did this. I'm just telling you what Detective Miller had on that table.""Tabby, take a breath," Bradley rasped back. His voice sounded raw, stripped of all that imperious bravado he used with the sports press. "Tell me what was on the table.""My master file at the state registry is gutted," I said, every word tasting like dry chalk in my mouth. "Fourteen months of records—gone. Excised by hand before

Author's POVRachelle dropped a fresh green olive into her martini, watching the pimento sink through the chilled gin with a slow, satisfied smirk.The city outside her glass wall looked smaller tonight. Tamer.For the first time in three brutal weeks, the narrative was running exactly the way she had choreographed it. The gossip blogs had seized on the Darlington photos like starving dogs. Entertainment commentators were spending entire morning segments breaking down body language: the way Darlington leaned in, the way he carried Tabitha's blueprints, that breathtaking, unbothered laugh Tabitha had aimed at him on the sidewalk.And Bradley?Bradley was silent. No press conferences. No fiery denials from his sponsors. Not a single public syllable defending the woman he had spent a month obsessively tracking through court filings and security details.He's choking on it, Rachelle thought, taking a cold sip. He thought she was sitting in that dark brownstone weeping over his empty hocke

Tabitha’s POVI stood in front of the bathroom mirror at six in the morning, smoothing the fabric of a soft beige sweater over my belly, staring down at my own reflection.My eyes were rimmed with dark circles, but the tremble in my fingers was gone.*I am not that girl anymore.I was twenty-six years old. I was a licensed teacher. I had a daughter growing stronger beneath my ribs every single day. I had an apartment key in my bag that I paid for with my own money.If Frank Miller, the tabloids, or whatever ghost ran Oakridge twelve years ago thought they could reduce me to a frightened stray again, they were dead wrong. I refused to let the wreckage of my childhood burn down the life I was fighting to build.====The second I crossed the threshold into Classroom 2B, the chaos of the world outside dissolved."Miss Dawson, my shoelace made a knot that looks like an ear!" Leo announced, proudly sticking his foot into my knee."Hold still, Leo, let's untangle your ear," I laughed, kneeli

Author’s POVThe private garage beneath the midtown high-rise smelled of damp concrete, exhaust fumes, and ozone from the ventilation shafts. Overhead, a single row of industrial strip lights flickered, casting harsh shadows across the oil-stained floor.Rachelle slammed the door of the black town car so hard the glass vibrated in the frame.Her tailored cashmere coat whipped around her knees as she stormed toward the concrete pillar near the freight elevator, high heels snapping against the pavement. Her knuckles were white around the leather strap of her designer bag, her perfectly applied crimson lipstick pulled into a thin, vicious line.Victor was leaning against the peeling paint of the pillar, an unlit cigarette resting between his lips. He wore a nondescript gray canvas jacket, dark work jeans, and scuffed leather boots—looking entirely like a man who spent his life blending into crowds and disappearing before the sirens arrived.He didn’t jump when the car door slammed. He di