The Runaway Wife: Hiding His Secret Triplets

Avery POV:

The elevator dinged at 2:00 AM.

The sound was sharp, slicing through the stillness of our Manhattan penthouse. I hadn't moved from the sofa. I was still in my damp black dress from the cemetery, though it had dried stiff and uncomfortable against my skin.

I heard the heavy tread of Blake's footsteps. He was moving slowly, dragging his feet.

The living room lights flared on, blindingly bright. I blinked, shielding my eyes.

Blake stood in the entryway, loosening his tie. His custom suit jacket was slung over one arm. The NHL's golden boy, the untouchable captain, looked exhausted. His perfectly styled hair was slightly mussed, his blue eyes bloodshot. When he saw me sitting there in the dark, he flinched.

"Avery," he said, his voice rough. "You're awake."

"I am," I said. My voice was flat. Dead.

"I tried to call," he started, walking toward me. "The meeting... it was a nightmare. The franchise owners were breathing down my neck about the upcoming season, and the PR crisis—"

"Don't," I said.

Before I could say more, a movement behind him caught my eye.

Claire Hayes stepped out of the elevator.

America's Sweetheart was wearing a white dress—a stark, blinding white that felt like a physical slap in the face on the day I buried my mother. She looked pale, her hand pressed to her forehead as if she might faint.

"Blake?" Claire's voice was a soft, trembling mewl. "I feel dizzy again."

Blake turned immediately, his posture shifting from defensive husband to protective hero. He dropped his jacket and reached out to steady her. "Easy. I've got you."

I watched them. The way his hand naturally found the small of her back. The way Claire leaned into him, her weight entirely supported by his athletic frame.

"What is she doing here?" I asked. I didn't stand up. I didn't have the energy.

Blake looked at me, exasperation tightening his jaw. "She had a panic attack at the charity gala. Hyperventilated. She couldn't be alone tonight, Avery. Her parents are in Europe."

"So you brought her here," I said. "To our home. On the night of my mother's funeral."

"It was a medical emergency," Blake snapped, his unyielding authority flaring up. "Don't start this. Not tonight. I'm exhausted."

Then, the smell hit me.

As they moved closer, the scent of Claire's perfume drifted across the room. It was heavy, floral—gardenias and musk. It was cloying. It filled my nose, coating the back of my throat, making me gag.

It was the exact same scent that had been lingering on Blake's shirts for months. The scent I had told myself was just from overzealous fans at meet-and-greets, or crowded VIP lounges.

"I'm sorry, Avery," Claire whispered, looking at me with wide, watery eyes. "It's my fault. I ruined the night. Don't blame Blake."

Claire shifted, the white dress slipping slightly off her shoulder. "I... I think I left my shawl in the car. I was so cold earlier, Blake gave me his jacket."

My eyes dropped to Blake's white dress shirt.

There, on the collar. A smudge.

It was small. Red. The exact shade of lipstick Claire was wearing right now.

The world stopped spinning. The noise in my head—the grief, the thunder, the pathetic excuses—silenced instantly.

It wasn't a suspicion anymore. It was a fact, printed in red wax on high-thread-count cotton.

I stood up. My legs felt surprisingly steady.

I walked past the shattered vase on the floor. I walked past the Tiffany box on the table.

I walked right up to Blake. He looked down at me, expecting a fight, expecting tears.

"Do you know what day it was?" I asked. My voice was so quiet he had to lean in to hear me.

Blake frowned. "It was Tuesday. Avery, look, I know I missed the service, and I'll make it up to you, but—"

"It was the day you buried your marriage," I said.

I stepped around him. I didn't look at Claire. I didn't acknowledge her existence.

Blake reached out and grabbed my arm. His grip was firm, familiar. The same hands that gripped a hockey stick and hoisted trophies. "We need to talk. You're being unreasonable. You're hysterical because of your mother."

I looked down at his hand on my arm. Then I looked up into his eyes.

"Don't touch me with those hands," I hissed. The venom in my voice startled him. He let go as if he'd been burned.

I walked to the guest bedroom down the hall. I went inside and locked the door. The click of the lock was the loudest sound in the universe.

"Avery!" Blake banged on the door once. "Open this door. Stop acting like a child!"

I didn't answer.

After a moment, I heard him sigh. "Fine. Pout. I'll sleep in the master."

"Blake?" Claire's voice drifted from the living room. "I think I need some water."

"Coming," Blake said. His footsteps retreated.

Inside the guest room, I slid down the door until I hit the floor. I pulled my knees up, wrapping my arms around them, trying to stop the shaking.

I touched my belly.

"He doesn't deserve us," I whispered. "He doesn't get to be your father."

I reached under the bed and pulled out a small duffel bag I had stashed there weeks ago, back when the suspicion had first started to rot my gut. Inside was a burner phone and a stack of cash I had withdrawn slowly over the last month.

I turned on the phone. My hands were shaking, but my mind was crystal clear.

I dialed a number I had memorized. A private clinic in New Jersey, one that specialized in discreet procedures for the wealthy and desperate.

"Horizon Medical," a voice answered.

"I need an appointment," I said. "Tomorrow morning. Under the name Avery Montgomery. For a consultation."

"We have an opening at 7:00 AM."

"I'll take it."

I hung up. I began to pack. Not clothes—I didn't want anything his NHL millions had bought me. Just my documents. My mother's old ring. The cash.

From the living room, I heard the low murmur of voices. Then, a soft laugh. Blake was laughing.

On the night of my mother's funeral. With his mistress in our house.

That laughter was the fuel I needed. It burned away the fear. It burned away the hesitation.

I sat at the small desk and pulled out a folder. Inside were the divorce papers I had drafted myself, finding templates online to avoid alerting his sports agency or the Montgomery family lawyers.

I uncapped a pen.

I didn't cry. Tears were for people who had hope.

I signed my name. Avery Montgomery. Not Knight. Never again Knight.

I left the papers on the desk.

I lay down on the bed, fully clothed, clutching the bag to my chest. I wouldn't sleep. I would just wait for the sun to rise so I could disappear into it.