Divorcing My Superstar Husband: Watch Me Shine

From the back cover

I was bound in a two-year contract marriage to NHL superstar Beckett Carlisle to save his ruined reputation.

I foolishly thought time might change things, until his childhood sweetheart sent me a photo of him at a bar.

"He's with me. -C," the text read.

When he came home drunk, reeking of her perfume, he smashed my phone against the marble table just because I ignored him.

The next morning, when I handed him our prenuptial agreement and demanded a divorce, his icy eyes darkened.

"We have a duty to fulfill spousal obligations," he sneered.

He pinned me to the bed and brutally forced himself on me while I sobbed, using his strength to remind me who was in charge.

Later, when his grandfather had a heart attack, his mother publicly humiliated me in the hospital hallway.

"A Puck Bunny who tried to trap my son deserves to talk to me about respect?"

Candice stood right beside him, parading around as if she were the real wife, telling me I was just in the way.

I had spent two years playing the perfect, invisible Mrs. Carlisle, swallowing my pride, only to be treated like a pathetic, disposable joke.

My heart died completely in that cold hallway.

I stopped asking for his permission.

I took the limitless black card he had given me, went straight to Fifth Avenue, and bought a new laptop.

Since he refused to let me go, I was going to use his money to build my own career and leave this gilded cage on my own terms.