The Ice King's Regret: Divorced My Wife, Lost A Musical Genius

Calista POV:

The sound of the lock turning in the door sent a pathetic flutter of hope through my chest.

I placed the bowl of warm soup on the vast, empty dining table. My hands were steady, a practiced calm I didn't feel.

He was home.

Barrett Sterling, my husband, the brightest star on Chicago's NHL team, stepped into the penthouse. He brought a chill with him, the scent of expensive cologne and the lingering ghost of camera flashes clinging to his custom suit.

"You're back," I said, my voice softer than I intended. "I made soup."

I moved to take his coat, a simple, wifely gesture.

He sidestepped me. A subtle shift of his shoulders, but it was a wall. My hand, reaching, froze in the empty air between us.

My stomach dropped. Cold. Familiar.

I pulled my hand back, my fingertips already numb.

He went straight to the bar, the clink of ice against a heavy crystal glass echoing in the silent living room. It was the only sound.

"Sit down, Calista."

His voice was like the ice he'd just poured over. Not angry. Just cold. Devoid of everything.

"We need to talk."

I sat on the edge of the white leather sofa opposite him, my hands twisting in my lap. I felt like a prisoner awaiting sentencing.

He pulled a manila folder from his briefcase, the movement sharp and efficient. He slid it across the marble coffee table. It stopped just inches from my knee.

"What is this?" My voice trembled.

"A divorce agreement."

He said the words as if he were commenting on the weather. Flat. Impersonal.

My brain went white. A high-pitched ringing started in my ears, drowning out the city sounds from fifty floors below. I could see his lips moving, but the words were lost in the static.

He took a sip of his whiskey. "Felicia's condition has worsened. The doctors are saying six months, maybe."

He paused, letting the name hang in the air. Felicia Puckett. The saint. The ghost that haunted our marriage.

"So... you're divorcing me?" I managed to repeat, my throat tight.

"It's a 'PR' divorce," he corrected, a flicker of impatience in his gray eyes. "I need a clean slate to be there for her. The media won't tear us apart that way."

His words were a scalpel, slicing open the thing I called our marriage and exposing the hollow truth. I was a prop. A part of his public relations strategy.

"After six months, when it's over, we'll remarry," he added, as if this were some great kindness.

I stared at the man I had loved for three years. His face, so handsome it could break your heart, was a mask of cruel reason.

"Felicia gave up so much for me... I can't let her be branded a 'homewrecker' in the last moments of her life." The guilt in his voice was real, but it wasn't for me.

I looked down at the cold papers. The names "Barrett Sterling" and "Calista Johnston" stared up at me, two strangers bound by a contract he was now voiding.

I wanted to scream. To cry. To ask him, what about me? What about us?

But his gaze was hard, unwavering. It dared me to make a scene.

He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a low, menacing tone. "Calista, you know how important this is for my career, for my public image. Don't disappoint me."

The warning was clear. It extinguished the last spark of fight in me.

I took a deep breath, but the air was thick with his cologne and the cold bite of whiskey. It was suffocating.

I remembered our wedding day. He had promised to protect me. I never imagined his protection meant shoving me aside when I became inconvenient.

Tears burned behind my eyes. I fought them back, refusing to show him weakness.

After a silence that stretched for an eternity, I heard a voice, calm and dead, that I barely recognized as my own.

"I need to think about it."

He frowned, clearly displeased with my lack of immediate compliance. But he stood up. "I need an answer by tomorrow. You'll be compensated generously, of course."

He thought this was about money. The thought was so absurd it was almost funny. A bitter, hollow laugh died in my throat.

He finished his drink, placing the empty glass on the bar with a thud. He walked to the door without a backward glance.

The heavy door clicked shut, sealing me in the silent apartment, sealing me in the dark.

Only then did the tears fall. Hot, fat drops splashing onto the divorce agreement, blurring the ink.

My fingers trembled as I picked up the document. The sharp edge of the paper bit into my skin.

I saw the clauses detailing my generous settlement, a golden cage for a discarded pet. It was a humiliation.

With a shaking hand, I picked up a pen. In the blank space at the bottom of the signature page, I wrote a single word.

Okay.