I Gained the Stanley Cup Rival, Why Are You Begging for My Anniversary Suite?

POV: Elena

The private elevator chime echoed softly through the top floor of the St. Regis.

I dragged my small black carry-on behind me across the marble floor. Liam had dropped the spare keycard into my coat pocket two weeks ago, back when he was still pretending this suite was our anniversary getaway.

He hadn’t bothered to ask for it back when he lied and told me the team had reallocated the room. He had simply assumed I would sit quietly in our dark apartment like an obedient ghost.

I didn't come here to beg. I came for what was mine.

Two days before the finals, Liam had brought an overnight bag up here containing several of my personal items—including the small velvet pouch holding my late mother’s sapphire locket. It was the only thing I had left of her.

I pressed the electronic key against the suite's sensor.

The lock clicked green. I pushed the heavy oak door open and stepped inside.

The penthouse was in complete disarray.

A heavy reek of expensive champagne, expensive perfume, and melted wax hung thick in the air. Crushed crimson rose petals were mashed into the plush cream carpeting, forming a ragged trail from the foyer toward the sunken living room.

Two empty bottles of vintage Dom Pérignon lay discarded near the velvet sofa. On the marble kitchen island sat an untouched charcuterie board, the cheese dried out and curling under the recessed spotlights.

It looked like a tornado of careless wealth had torn through the room.

My chest tightened, but no tears came. The pain had already hardened into something cold and brittle.

"Liam?" a silky, feminine voice called out from the hallway leading to the master bedroom. "Did room service finally bring the ice bucket?"

The bedroom door drifted open.

Chloe Vance stepped into the warm glow of the living room, smoothing down a forest-green silk bathrobe tied loosely at her waist. Her honey-blonde hair was pinned up haphazardly, damp strands clinging to the pale column of her neck.

She froze when she saw me standing by the entryway with a suitcase.

Her surprise lasted barely a second before her manicured lips curved into a sharp, condescending smirk.

"Well, well," Chloe drawled, leaning back against the doorframe and crossing her arms. "Look what crawled in through the service door."

"I'm here for my things," I said, my voice steady and flat. "Where is the leather travel kit Liam brought up on Tuesday?"

Chloe didn't answer. Instead, she took her time walking into the living room, her silk slippers brushing through the scattered rose petals. She looked me up and down, lingering on my plain woolen coat and dark denim jeans.

"You really have no shame, do you?" Chloe sneered softly. "Liam told me he had an obsessive live-in assistant who couldn't take a hint, but I didn't think you'd actually track him down to a five-star hotel."

"I am his wife," I said.

Chloe threw her head back and let out a light, mocking laugh.

"A wife?" She stepped closer, her perfume suffocatingly sweet. "Is that what you call yourself? Honey, you're a convenience. A placeholder he used to cook his meals while his knee healed. Did you really think an MVP like Liam Hayes would ever introduce a nobody like you to society?"

My jaw set. "Tell me where my mother's locket is, Chloe. Then I'm out of here."

Chloe's gaze flicked to the console table near the television. Resting beside a silver vase was a small silver picture frame Liam had kept in his locker during his minor league days—a photo of the two of us sitting on the tailgate of his beat-up truck after his first professional win. Beside it sat my mother's black velvet pouch.

Chloe walked over, her fingertips lightly grazing the velvet.

"Looking for this?" she asked.

"Give it to me."

Chloe picked up the pouch and dropped it onto the glass coffee table with a hollow thud. But then her fingers hooked around the silver frame.

She examined the photograph with exaggerated disgust. "God, look at you. Wearing bargain-bin sweaters and clinging to his arm like a tick. You were holding him back from day one."

"Put that down," I warned, taking a step toward her.

"Make me," Chloe whispered.

She released her grip.

The silver frame struck the hardwood border around the carpet with a sharp, violent crack. The protective glass shattered into dozens of jagged pieces, slicing right across Liam’s pictured smile.

Before I could move, Chloe brought the heel of her designer slipper down directly onto the glass, grinding it hard into the wood until the photograph beneath was torn and shredded beyond recognition.

"Oops," Chloe purred, her eyes dancing with malicious delight. "Clumsy me. But honestly, trash belongs in the trash."

Before I could speak, the master bathroom door swung open down the hall.

"Chloe, what's all that noise?"

Liam emerged, wearing black sweatpants and a half-buttoned white dress shirt, his sleeves rolled carelessly to his elbows. His hair was damp, his stubbled jaw relaxed, and his eyes were heavy with the glaze of alcohol and exhaustion.

He stopped dead in his tracks the moment he spotted me.

The easy relaxation on his face vanished, instantly replaced by dark irritation.

"Elena?" Liam’s voice was rough with sleep and liquor. He rubbed his temples, his brow furrowing deep. "What the hell are you doing here?"

He didn't ask how I was. He didn't ask why I was standing amid broken glass.

His eyes immediately darted toward the suite's heavy entryway door, checking to see if it was fully latched.

"Did anyone see you come up?" he snapped, lowering his voice into a harsh hiss. "Did any reporters see you in the lobby?"

The sheer callousness of his reaction struck like a slap, but my expression didn't waver.

"No," I replied coldly. "No one saw me."

"Then what is wrong with you?" Liam groaned, running a hand through his damp hair. He walked over to Chloe, resting a possessive hand against the small of her silk-covered back as if shielding her from an intruder. "I explicitly told you to wait at the apartment. Tonight is the biggest night of my entire career. The front office is watching my every move, and you pull a stunt like this?"

"Your mother called me," I said, meeting his bloodshot gaze. "And then I saw the television broadcast."

Liam rolled his eyes, exasperation dripping from every word. "Oh, for God's sake, Elena. It was press work! Chloe is connected to half the ownership board. Having her on my arm opens doors you can't even comprehend. Can't you ever just be mature for once in your life?"

"Mature?" I repeated quietly.

"Yes! Mature!" Liam raised his voice, gesturing around the wrecked penthouse. "I worked my ass off for five years to reach this level. You’re supposed to support me, not show up uninvited and throw a jealous tantrum like a child! Look at you, barging in with a suitcase—are you trying to stage a scene?"

Chloe leaned into Liam’s shoulder, a faint, victorious smile playing on her lips. "Liam, babe, don't let her upset you. She's clearly unstable."

"I know," Liam sighed, looking at me with undisguised contempt. "I'm sick of walking on eggshells around you. Grab whatever junk you came for and get the hell out of here before you embarrass both of us."

I looked at him.

Really looked at him.

The boy who used to cry in my lap when his knee swelled after practice had vanished completely. In his place stood an arrogant stranger intoxicated by hollow fame, blinded by his own vanity.

The last remnant of affection inside me burned away to ash.

Without saying a word, I stepped over the scattered rose petals. I bent down and picked up the black velvet pouch from the coffee table, slipping my mother’s sapphire locket securely into my coat pocket.

Then, I reached into the front zipper of my handbag.

I pulled out a crisp, heavy-stock manila envelope. Inside were the divorce papers Thomas’s legal team had drafted and sent to my phone an hour ago, printed fresh at the 24-hour business center downstairs.

I raised the folder and slammed it flat onto the marble coffee table.

The loud smack echoed through the high-ceilinged penthouse like a gunshot.

Liam startled, his eyes dropping to the bold, black letters stamped across the top page: *PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE.*

He blinked, his drunken fog clearing just enough to register the words.

"What... what is this?" Liam stammered, looking up at me in genuine disbelief.

"My terms are already signed," I said, my voice dropping to a low, glacial pitch that made the air between us turn frigid. "You get to keep the condo and your precious public image. I'm keeping everything else."

Chloe sneered from behind him. "As if you have anything to keep, beggar."

I didn't even dignify her with a glance. My eyes remained fixed on Liam’s pale, slackening face.

"You wanted to be free to chase your shiny new world, Liam," I said, stepping back toward my suitcase. "Just as you wished. We are completely done."

Liam opened his mouth to shout, his pride clearly stung, but the sheer finality in my eyes cut the words short in his throat.

I grabbed the handle of my carry-on, turned on my heel, and walked out into the corridor without looking back.

The heavy suite door swung shut behind me with a solid, resounding click, cutting off the penthouse and the past forever.

I stepped into the waiting elevator, lifted my phone, and tapped the private line.

"Thomas," I said softly into the receiver.

"Yes, Miss Sterling?"

"Burn the Titans' contracts," I said. "Every single one."