The Captain's Regret: Chasing His Runaway Wife

Elizabeth POV:

I stared at the divorce agreement on the hospital table, the Griffin family crest stamped at the top making my stomach churn with acid as my fingers twisted into the bedsheets.

Fallon Ware clicked across the VIP ward in seven-inch heels, the pale mole beside her left nostril twitching smugly under the harsh ceiling light as she slid a Montblanc pen toward my hand. As a former team PR socialite who had faked her medical resume to worm her way into the New York Empire's rehab unit, she was finally making her move to replace me.

I raised my head, my vision blurring from the blood rushing to my temples, and spotted my own custom coat draped over her shoulders. My chest felt like a heavy boulder was crushing it, and I let out a cold laugh, swatting the pen away.

"Brock's patience is completely gone, Elizabeth," Fallon whispered, her voice dripping with mockery. "Sign the papers, take the payout, and get out of New York."

I sucked in a sharp breath to stop my fingertips from trembling and crossed my arms.

"If the great Captain of the New York Empire is in such a rush to marry you, why doesn't he have the guts to face his legal wife himself?"

Fallon's face stiffened instantly. She bit her lower lip, fake tears pooling in her eyes as her fingers clutched the hem of her designer skirt.

"Brock is preparing for tomorrow night's Stanley Cup playoff game! He doesn't want to waste a second looking at a pathetic nobody like you."

Watching her pathetic act, I thought of the five years I had spent hiding my global medical credentials, working as a lowly physical therapy assistant in the Empire's locker room just to support Brock from the shadows. A bitter laugh escaped my throat.

I snatched the Montblanc pen, yanked off the cap, and jammed the nib onto the signature line, a dark blot of ink bleeding through the paper.

Fallon flinched back half a step, her voice turning shrill.

"Don't you dare try any tricks!"

Ignoring her screeching, I flicked my wrist and signed my name across the divorce agreement, pressing so hard the tip tore through the back of the page.

I grabbed the signed stack and flung it straight at her chest, the sharp paper edge slicing a faint red line across her collarbone.

She gasped, clutching her chest and glaring at me in disbelief, clearly shocked that the quiet locker room assistant dared to strike back.

I threw off the blanket, swung my legs out of bed, and ripped the IV needle from the back of my hand. Red blood beaded on my skin as I walked straight to the closet without sparing her a glance.

"I'm going to record how violent you are and send it to TMZ!" Fallon shrieked behind me. "The whole city will see what a disgusting Puck Bunny you really are!"

I pulled my old trench coat from the closet, reached into the pocket for the massive check Brock had signed, and ripped it cleanly in half right in front of her face.

The shredded paper fluttered down onto the toes of her heels, leaving her mouth hanging open and her fake tears forgotten.

Walking to the door, I gripped the freezing metal handle and looked back over my shoulder.

"I don't take trash that belongs to you."

I pushed open the heavy door, the sharp smell of disinfectant hitting my nose as I stepped out and slammed her frantic curses behind me.

I ran down the emergency stairwell until a dull cramp twisted in my lower belly, forcing me to brace my hands against the cold concrete wall and pant for air.

A passing nurse paused and asked if I needed help, so I quickly pulled up my trench coat collar to hide my face, muttered a quick apology, and hurried past her.

Bursting out of the hospital lobby, Manhattan's freezing early-winter rain slapped against my cheeks, shocking my senses awake.

I hailed an empty yellow cab, pulled open the back door, and gave the driver the address for JFK Airport.

The driver glanced at my pale face and bleeding hand in the rearview mirror, hesitating.

"Lady, you sure you don't want me to take you to a clinic first?"

I pulled the last few hundred-dollar bills from my wallet, shoved them through the partition, and ordered him to drive as fast as he could without asking questions.

The cab surged forward on the wet asphalt, the massive neon billboard of the Empire's home arena fading into the rain behind us.

I lowered my head and pressed my palm against my flat stomach, feeling the faint pulse of life inside me as hot tears finally spilled onto my bloody knuckles.

In my pocket, my phone screen lit up frantically with Brock's private number, a string of digits that now made my throat close up.

I held down the power button, popped out the SIM card, rolled down the window, and tossed the tiny chip into the howling rain.

When the cab pulled up to the international departures curb at JFK, I stepped out, wrapped my coat tightly around my body, and blended into the crowd.

At the self-service kiosk, I used my backup passport to print a one-way boarding pass to Paris.

At the security checkpoint, when the officer asked me to remove my coat, I instinctively shielded my stomach and gave him a firm look that stopped him from pressing further. I lowered my voice and told him I was pregnant, and asked him to skip the body scanner over my belly. He glanced at my face, nodded once, and waved me through to the pat-down lane without another word.

Sitting on a cold metal seat at the gate, I looked up at the overhead TV just as breaking sports news reported that Empire Captain Brock had mysteriously skipped his pre-game press conference.

Staring at his sharp, cold features on the screen, I felt the last trace of warmth in my chest turn into dead ash.

The boarding announcement echoed through the terminal, and I picked up my light carry-on bag, walking down the jet bridge without looking back.

As the cabin door sealed shut and the plane taxied onto the runway, I closed my eyes, silently swearing that no one would ever take my babies away from me.

Elizabeth POV:

Five years after that flight took off into the night, I was back in New York-not by choice, but because my mother's will had finally cleared probate, and the only way to claim the apartment she'd left me was to sign the papers in person. The familiar wail of Manhattan sirens greeted us as I wheeled two cartoon-printed kids' suitcases out of the cab and into a hidden apartment in Queens.

I walked toward the open kitchen to pour some water while my five-year-old son, Zane, sat cross-legged on the living room rug, his fingers flying across a sticker-covered micro-laptop on his knees.

My twin daughter, Lily, hugged a worn-out hockey mascot plushie and trotted over to my leg, tilting her porcelain-pale face up to me.

"Mommy, hug! Lily wants apple juice."

I tousled her shoulder-length light brown curls and handed her a warm cup of juice, though my eyebrows knitted together as I caught sight of the complex code flashing on Zane's screen.

Walking over, I tapped the edge of his laptop screen.

"Zane, we just landed in New York. Don't hack into any dangerous nodes and bring trouble to our door."

Zane raised his cold, blue eyes-an exact replica of Brock's-his expression far too mature for a five-year-old as he snapped the lid shut.

"Relax, Mommy. I'm just checking the local traffic map."

I stared at him skeptically for a few seconds before Lily gasped, accidentally spilling her juice onto the rug, which sent me hurrying back to the kitchen for a rag.

As I knelt to wipe the carpet, I saw Zane's reflection in the glass coffee table; he flipped his screen back open, hit the enter key with a sly smirk, and muttered under his breath.

"That bad captain bullied Mommy. He's going to pay."

At the same time, the living room TV was broadcasting live from the Griffin Sports Group headquarters in Midtown Manhattan, where the board was finalizing the Empire's multi-billion-dollar broadcasting rights.

While scrubbing the rug, I listened to the sports anchor excitedly praising Brock for leading the New York Empire to three consecutive Stanley Cup championships.

Hearing his name made my hand freeze, the thin callus on my right index finger from years of holding a scalpel rubbing against the rough rag.

Sensing my stiff posture, Lily dropped her plushie, toddled over, and wrapped her soft little arms tightly around my neck.

I took a deep breath to push down the suffocating memories, hugged my daughter back, and coaxed her to watch cartoons.

Suddenly, the live broadcast from the headquarters flickered weirdly on our TV, and the highlight reel cut to pitch black.

Startled, I stood up and clicked the remote's channel buttons repeatedly, only to find every single public network hijacked by the same dead signal.

In the corner of the sofa, Zane's eyes glinted as his small fingers typed one final command, locking the remote terminal of the boardroom's giant wrap-around screen.

On our TV, the live feed from the boardroom showed the financial spreadsheets shattering into static while the executives in suits panicked in the background.

A second later, a massive pixelated cartoon penguin popped onto the broadcast screen, swinging a hockey stick and smashing it straight onto the head of a little figure labeled "Captain."

Stars spun around the cartoon captain's head as bold red letters flashed across the screen: "Bad Captain smells like rotten cheese!"

Staring at the violent penguin on TV, I instantly remembered the doodle Zane had drawn on the plane last night, and my heart leaped straight into my throat.

I whipped my head around to glare at Zane, who was casually stuffing his laptop into his backpack as if nothing had happened.

Marching over, I slammed my hand down on his backpack.

"Zane, explain yourself right now!"

Zane blinked innocently, trying to bluff me with tech jargon.

"It's just a widespread server outage from the New York ISP, Mommy."

"The scratch marks on that penguin's hockey stick match your drawing millimeter for millimeter," I said coldly. "Cut the connection immediately."

Realizing he couldn't fool me, Zane reluctantly opened the laptop and tapped a few keys to release the hijacked broadcast feed.

The TV picture returned to normal, showing a sweating news anchor apologizing for an unknown hacker attack.

I let out a shaky breath and gripped Zane's shoulders.

"Listen to me, Zane. This is New York, and that group's cybersecurity team is ruthless. What you just did could expose us!"

Zane pouted, muttering under his breath.

"Their firewall is made of wet paper. I didn't even use ten percent of my power."

My temples throbbed with a sudden headache.

"You're grounded from all electronics for a month. Hand over your core flash drive."

Watching her brother get punished, Lily nervously bit her index finger and shuffled in front of Zane, using her tiny body to shield him.

Looking at the two little troublemakers who were my entire world, I sighed helplessly, a cold dread creeping up my spine.

I walked to the window and yanked the heavy blackout curtains shut, blocking out the distant Manhattan skyline where the Griffin Tower stood.

Five years had passed, yet a single broadcast was enough to shatter my composure.

Right then, Zane's confiscated laptop on the coffee table let out a faint beep, and a red skull icon began flashing frantically in the bottom right corner of the screen.

Elizabeth POV:

The faint beep quickly turned into a shrill, rapid alarm, and as I rushed back to the coffee table, cold sweat soaked through the back of my shirt.

On the screen, the red skull icon flashed beside a stream of reverse-tracking code, while the live ticker at the bottom of the TV news announced that Brock had just ordered a citywide network lockdown to hunt down the hacker.

I could almost picture Brock in his black custom suit, yanking his silk tie loose and grinding his back molars as his chief agent and right-hand man, Owen Hayes, mobilized their entire security apparatus.

As the tracking progress bar on our laptop screen surged toward one hundred percent, Zane broke free from Lily's grip, lunged at the keyboard, and began typing furiously to build an intercepting firewall.

I slammed my hand over his small knuckles, my voice tight with panic.

"Stop typing! Every keystroke gives them a more precise physical coordinate!"

Terrified by the blaring alarm, Lily clutched the hem of my trench coat, tears brimming in her wide eyes as she hid behind her brother without making a sound.

Without a second of hesitation, I yanked the power cord from the wall, forced a hard shutdown, and pried the burning-hot hard drive straight out of the casing.

Zane winced as his favorite custom hardware was ripped apart, biting his lip hard to stay quiet.

I wrapped the hard drive in layers of aluminum foil, tossed it into a bowl of water inside the microwave, and hit high power; within seconds, violent blue sparks crackled and fried the physical data into slag.

Even with the drive dead, I knew Griffin's tech team had already narrowed the signal down to our neighborhood in Queens.

I sprinted into the bedroom, shoved our unpacked clothes back into the suitcases, and zipped them up with a sharp yank.

Dropping to one knee in front of the twins, I gripped their shoulders.

"We have to leave right now. Not a single word until we're safe."

Zane nodded gravely, slung his small backpack over his shoulders, and took his sister's hand by the front door.

I pulled on a black baseball cap and a face mask, tucked my folding scalpel inside my waistband, and pushed the suitcases out into the hallway.

The motion-sensor lights flickered on above our heads as I scanned the empty corridor and hit the down button for the elevator.

As the elevator plunged toward the ground floor, the familiar weightlessness made my stomach lurch, dragging me back to the suffocating night I fled five years ago.

Stepping out of the lobby into the dreary drizzle, I flagged down a rideshare car, threw the bags into the trunk, and urged the driver to pull away immediately.

As the car merged into the congested traffic on Main Street in Flushing, I glanced through the rain-streaked rear window and spotted a black SUV tailing us three cars back.

Pulling out my burner phone with trembling fingers, I dialed an encrypted number, and my best friend Ciji Holder answered on the first ring, her voice sharp despite her family's recent bankruptcy crisis.

"Ciji, we're burned," I whispered rapidly. "Griffin's people are on our tail in Flushing. Activate the backup safehouse now."

"Damn it, Liz, hold on!" Ciji cursed on the other end before hanging up to set up our extraction route.

When our car stopped at a red light at the intersection, I checked my watch, every ticking second feeling like a noose tightening around my neck.

Zane suddenly tugged hard on my sleeve, pointing out the side window, his gray-blue eyes narrowing like a cornered wolf pup.

Following his finger, I saw four black bulletproof SUVs bearing the Griffin Security insignia closing in from the side street to box us in.

In the lead vehicle, the passenger window rolled halfway down, revealing right-hand man, Owen 's grim, calculating face through the rain.

I gasped, immediately shoving both children down onto the floorboard and throwing my body over theirs.

The rideshare driver stared at the armored convoy in terror, his hands shaking on the wheel.

"Lady, did you piss off the mob or something?"

"Shut up and run the red light!" I snapped, my voice cracking like a whip. "Turn right into that alley or none of us make it out alive!"

Gritting his teeth, the driver floored the gas pedal, the tires screeching on the wet pavement as we barely scraped past the back of a city bus and shot into the narrow alley.

Horns blared and brakes shrieked behind us while I held the twins tight, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Just as the end of the alley came into view, two blinding high beams flared to life in the darkness, and a massive black Range Rover pulled sideways across the exit, completely blocking our escape.