Forbidden whispers

Corinne POV:

"I'm home."

I had rehearsed this line for a long time as my opening greeting.

Today, my birthday, I flew back from a brief visit to my family in Boston to our penthouse in Manhattan—the marital home I shared with my husband—just to spend the evening with my family.

But the laughter from the living room caught the words in my throat and choked them.

I stood at the door, the heavy wood of the apartment door cool against my fingertips.

My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs, a chaotic rhythm of long-haul exhaustion and fragile hope.

My husband, Blake Carlisle — hockey royalty, a sports icon.

That severe, almost arrogant face was a permanent fixture on the covers of sports magazines.

He was one of the NHL's elite defensemen, the kind of player fans called a "wall," the kind the league built its marketing campaigns around.

Tonight he was leaning back on the sofa, a soft smile I rarely saw playing on his lips.

His gaze wasn't on the door.

It was fixed on the floor.

My daughter, five-year-old Lily, was giggling as she tried to balance a Lego block on a teetering tower.

And she wasn't alone.

Dayna Nixon, ESPN's darling sports commentator and my half-sister, knelt beside her, her perfectly manicured hand steadying the shaky structure.

"Dayna," Lily chirped, her voice syrupy sweet.

"Lily," Blake said, his voice laced with a warmth I'd been starving for. "Don't knock over Dayna's masterpiece."

His ice-blue eyes reflected the two of them, a perfect little scene.

I stood in the shadows of the entryway, an intruder in my own home.

They were a perfect family portrait, and I, the woman of the house, was the one who didn't belong.

I retracted the handle of my suitcase.

The soft click finally drew their attention.

Lily looked up first.

The smile vanished from her face.

"Mama," she said, the word flat and reluctant.

Dayna rose gracefully, a picture of effortless perfection in her cashmere sweater and blond waves. She offered me a flawless smile. "Corinne, you're back. We were just keeping Lily busy."

Blake's eyes finally met mine.

The warmth in them evaporated instantly, replaced by the familiar, chilling distance.

He gave a single nod.

"Hey."

That was his entire welcome for my flight back from Boston.

A cold plunge, extinguishing the last flicker of hope.

I forced a stiff smile onto my face. "Yeah, I'm back."

I moved toward Lily, my arms open for a hug, my other hand holding the small wrapped box I'd carried from Boston — a limited-edition musical snow globe from Atelier No. 9 in Beacon Hill, only 100 made, three months on the waitlist, hand-blown glass with a tiny ballerina inside playing Brahms' lullaby.

"Lily, I brought you something—"

She shrank back behind Dayna's legs. "I don't want it now. Dayna and I aren't finished playing," she mumbled.

Then she ran to the coffee table and picked up a crayon drawing and held it up to Dayna. "I made it for you, Dayna! With a crown!"