Betrayed Wife: Pregnant With The Ice Hockey Prince

Alyse POV:

I sat on the leather sofa in the private waiting room of a high-end fertility clinic, feeling like a prisoner awaiting a verdict. The air, a sterile mix of antiseptic and expensive lavender, churned my stomach.

For the seventeenth time, I glanced at my phone. The screen showed a photo of Jase and me in front of Niagara Falls. He was still smiling back then. Now, he couldn't even be bothered to send a "good luck" text.

My fingers traced the wedding band on my ring finger. It felt loose, just like our three-year marriage. I kept telling myself that a baby would fix everything. It had to.

The door opened. Dr. Evans walked in, his face wearing that professional, sympathetic smile that made my heart plummet into my shoes.

He sat across from me, his hands clasped on the desk. "Alyse, I'm so sorry," he said, his voice gentle, the same tone I'd heard twice before.

A roaring silence filled my head, as if the world had hit a mute button. His lips were moving, but I couldn't hear a thing. I could only read the shape of one word: "failed."

This was the third time. All my hope, all our money, all my dignity, had been reduced to that single, cold word.

I don't know how I managed to stand, or how I squeezed out a smile. "Thank you, Doctor. I know you did your best." The voice that came out wasn't mine.

I floated out of the office like a ghost. The bright hallway lights stabbed at my eyes.

Leaning against the cool wall, I struggled to breathe, a heavy stone pressing on my chest. I pulled out my phone, my thumb hovering over Jase's name. I had to call him, to tell him our last hope was gone.

Just then, the screen lit up with an Instagram notification. It was from my sister, Sienna.

My finger mechanically swiped it open. A photo leaped into view: two champagne flutes clinking elegantly against a backdrop of Chicago's glittering skyline.

The caption read: "Celebrating our brilliant future!"

My gaze froze on the corner of the picture-on the man's hand holding one of the glasses.

On his wrist was a watch. A Patek Philippe, rose gold case, dark brown alligator strap.

The air caught in my throat. That watch. I had spent my bakery's entire profit from the first half of the year to buy it for Jase on our last anniversary.

I zoomed in. The hand wearing the watch was resting intimately over another. Sienna's hand.

A violent wave of nausea surged through me. I bolted for the nearest restroom.

I knelt on the cold tiles, retching, but nothing came up except the bitter acid that burned my throat.

In the mirror, I saw a woman with a deathly pale face and hollow eyes. Was that me? A failure at fertility, a fool betrayed by her husband and her own sister.

My phone buzzed again. A text message from Jase, arriving a second before I could have called him.

It was just one sentence. "Sienna's pregnant. We need to talk about a divorce."

The words blurred, spinning into a vicious vortex before my eyes.

I felt no anger, just a vast, crushing emptiness, as if the world had completely abandoned me.

I slid to the floor, my back against the cold partition, and a broken, animal-like sob escaped my lips.

I opened Sienna's Instagram profile. She had just updated her bio.

"Jase Hobbs's future Mrs."

My eyes landed on another photo from a few days ago. She was in a tight dress, her hand resting gently on a slightly rounded stomach.

So, the whole world knew. I was the only one, the wife, left in the dark.

Slowly, I pushed myself up, wiped my tears, and walked out of the restroom.

I didn't go home. I walked out of the clinic's main entrance, letting the cold Chicago wind whip against my face.

I needed an explanation. No, I didn't need an explanation. I needed to see it with my own eyes.

I hailed a cab and gave the driver the address of the private club Jase always went to.

In the car, my mother, Fiona, called. I didn't answer. I knew what she would say.

My world had shattered in thirty minutes. Now, I was going to pick up the pieces, even if they sliced my hands to ribbons.

Alyse POV:

The taxi crawled through rush-hour traffic. The city's neon lights flashed outside, mocking my gray, broken world. I clutched my phone, Jase's text message seared into my mind like a brand.

A sharp wave of nausea and dizziness hit me. It wasn't just the emotional turmoil; it felt physical. I cracked the window, and the cold air helped clear my head slightly.

I remembered Dr. Evans mentioning that hormonal fluctuations after a failed IVF cycle could cause physical discomfort. I chalked it up to that and thought nothing more of it.

The taxi pulled up to "The Onyx Club." It was a members-only establishment for sports elites, a place Jase frequented. I'd never been. He always said WAGs-wives and girlfriends-weren't welcome.

I paid the fare, took a deep breath, and pushed the door open. The doorman eyed me with a scrutinizing gaze.

"I'm here for Jase Hobbs," I said, my voice steady. "I'm his wife." The man's expression turned odd, but he let me in.

The club was dimly lit, the music a low throb. The air smelled of cigars and expensive cologne. Men in sharp suits talked loudly while their glamorous companions laughed beside them.

I saw them immediately, in a booth at the far end. Jase and Sienna.

She was curled against him like a kitten, and he was kissing her hair. They looked so perfect, so happy, like a living version of that Instagram photo.

Blood rushed to my head, replacing the numbness with a hot, searing rage.

I walked toward them, the click of my heels against the marble floor sharp and clear above the music.

Jase saw me first. The smile on his face froze, then twisted into an expression of annoyance, as if I were an inconvenient interruption.

Sienna looked up. When she saw me, there was no panic in her eyes, only a triumphant smirk. She even snuggled deeper into Jase's arms.

I stopped in front of them. I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I just looked at Jase calmly. "Is the text real?"

Jase stood up, towering over me. "Alyse, don't make a scene here. We'll talk at home."

A cold laugh escaped my lips. "Home? Which home? The one I decorated for us, or the new one you're building for her?"

Sienna's sweet voice dripped with false sincerity. "Sister, don't blame Jase. I pursued him. We're truly in love."

My gaze shifted to her, to the face that looked so much like my mother's. "Truly in love? Your love is cheap then, built on someone else's pain."

Jase's brow furrowed, his tone hardening. "Alyse, that's enough! Sienna is pregnant. Don't upset her!"

His words were a poisoned dagger, striking me right in the heart. I had just lost my chance at a child, and he was here, protecting another woman and hers.

People were starting to whisper, their eyes darting between the three of us. I was the star of this humiliating drama.

I wouldn't give them a show. I reached into my purse, pulled out the key to our apartment, and placed it on the table with a sharp clink.

"Jase Hobbs, I agree to the divorce," I said, each word precise. "Not because of your 'true love,' but because you disgust me."

I turned and walked away without a second glance. Behind me, I heard Jase's stunned silence and Sienna's soft, victorious laugh.

Outside the club, my body swayed. I nearly collapsed. The nausea returned, stronger this time.

I leaned against the wall as my phone rang. A strange number.

Annoyed, I declined the call, desperate to escape this suffocating place.

I hailed another cab. This time, I went back to our real home. The one with the nursery I had built, the one that would now forever be silent.

Back in the empty apartment, I walked straight into the blue and white room.

Cloud-patterned wallpaper. A crib I had assembled myself. Tiny socks I had knitted hanging over the rail.

I walked over and picked up the little socks. The tears finally came, a flood I could no longer hold back. I had prepared everything for this child who would never arrive, while his father celebrated another.

My phone rang again. The same number. I irritably declined it once more, then shut the phone off completely.

I didn't know that I had just hung up on Dr. Evans, trying to tell me the impossible.

The IVF procedure was a success. I was pregnant.

Curled up on the nursery floor, surrounded by the dream world I had created, I felt utterly defeated by my own life.

In the darkness, a deep chill settled into my bones, accompanied by a dizzy spell I couldn't shake.

Blake POV:

I sat in the leather armchair, my face a mask of indifference as the clinic director, a man named Wallace, stammered through his explanation. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

My thumb mindlessly swiped across my phone screen, displaying the team's training schedule from my agent, Sean. I couldn't focus on a single word.

A week ago, my lawyer received an urgent notice from this clinic. A sperm sample I'd frozen here five years ago-a precaution for my career-had been used in an IVF procedure for a female client due to an "unprecedented human error."

I was in Toronto for an away game when I got the news. I'd nearly crushed the water bottle in my hand.

"So," I cut through Wallace's rambling apology, my voice cold. "You're telling me there's a woman I don't know, pregnant with my child?"

Wallace's face went from pale to ghostly white. "Yes, Mr. Underwood. We take full responsibility. We are prepared to offer compensation in any form."

A humorless laugh escaped my lips. "Compensation? You think my bloodline has a price tag?"

My family, the Underwoods, built a sports empire. Our name does not tolerate blemishes. An illegitimate child from an unknown woman? My father, Donovan, would have my head.

I stood and walked to the massive window, looking down at the Chicago streets. My public image was the NHL's "bad boy," but that was a calculated brand. My private life was meticulously controlled.

"Who is the woman?" I asked without turning around.

Wallace scrambled to hand me a file. "Her name is Alyse Dawson. This is her profile. We aren't supposed to share this, but given the circumstances..."

I took the folder and opened it. The first page was a passport-style photo. The woman had a gentle face, long brown hair, and hazel eyes that held a hint of exhaustion.

The file stated she was twenty-four, married to a Jase Hobbs. Occupation: Bakery owner.

Married? My brow furrowed. A married woman undergoing IVF used another man's sample?

"Does she know about the sample?" I asked.

Wallace shook his head. "Not yet. We only informed her the IVF was successful. Dr. Evans tried calling her several times today, but she didn't answer. Her phone is off now."

I closed the file. "I don't want a fifth person knowing about this," I said, my tone leaving no room for argument.

"Of course, of course." Wallace nodded frantically.

I pulled out my phone and dialed my agent. "Sean, I need you to run a check on someone. Alyse Dawson. And her husband, Jase Hobbs. I want everything you can find on them, fast."

Hanging up, I tossed the file back onto the desk. "Handle the fallout, Wallace. My lawyer will be in touch."

I walked out of the clinic without another glance.

Inside my Bentley, I rubbed my temples in frustration. A child. A married mother. A colossal mess.

My phone rang. An unwelcome number. Mrs. Montgomery.

I declined the call. It rang again. I finally answered.

"Blake, darling, are you avoiding me?" Mrs. Montgomery's voice was sickeningly sweet.

I cut her off. "Mrs. Montgomery, I thought we were clear last time. I have no interest in your daughter Claire, and the Underwood family doesn't need to secure its position through marriage."

There was a brief silence, then a cold reply. "You'll regret this, Blake."

I hung up. One problem after another.

I started the car, merging into traffic. My mind was stuck on the face of that woman, Alyse Dawson. A married woman using another man's sample. Was it for money? Or some other scheme?

Sean's call came through. "Blake, initial check is done. The husband, Jase Hobbs, is an AHL player. Career's going nowhere. They've been married three years, live in a standard apartment out west. Nothing special on the surface."

The AHL. The minor leagues. It fit the picture of a man desperate for a payday.

"Keep digging," I ordered. "I want to know why they'd use someone else's sample for IVF. Check their financials."

After hanging up, the woman's face flashed in my mind again. Gentle, tired. Was she a greedy scammer or just a desperate wife?

Either way, she was carrying my child. And I, Blake Underwood, would never allow my blood to be raised by strangers, nor would I let it become someone's bargaining chip.