“My husband, the brightest star in the NHL, handed me a divorce agreement. "It's just a PR divorce. I need a clean slate to be there for her in her final six months." He wanted to protect his dying first love from being called a homewrecker. What he didn't know was that I had just found out I was pregnant with his child. I hid the pregnancy, snapped the test in half, and signed the papers. I thought leaving quietly was enough, but his "saintly" first love wasn't satisfied. She orchestrated a media circus, faking a dramatic decline to frame me as a vindictive ex-wife. His rabid fans and the press swarmed me, shoving me to the concrete. As I lay there bleeding, nearly losing my baby, he fiercely protected her and sneered at me. "Stop making a scene, Calista. Your suffering is just a desperate cry for attention." Then, a hospital insider leaked the truth. The terminal illness was a complete lie. She only had a stomach ulcer, using theatrical blood packets to manipulate his guilt and annihilate my reputation. Looking at my bruised body and the ultrasound photo, the last bit of warmth in my heart turned to ice. I didn't cry or beg. I handed him an irrevocable dissolution of marriage, waiving all my rights to his fortune. Then, I submitted an application for a national music competition under a brand new stage name. This time, I choose to live for myself.”