Page 8 of In Love with My Secret Husband

“She’s still my wife.” And he wasn’t letting her go without a fight.

“Good to hear that,” Burton said gruffly. “So, going back...your wife attended thirty-one home games over four seasons. Section 308, upper deck. Row 14. She bought her own ticket."

Troy found himself gripping the edge of the counter.

Thirty-one games.

Four seasons.

His wife had been in the building, sitting in the upper deck with a ticket she bought herself, watching him play, and he hadn't known.

He'd played those games. He'd scored in some of them. He'd walked off the ice and through the tunnel and past the press room and into the parking lot and driven home to a house where his wife was already in bed.

But not once, notonce, had it occurred to him that she had been there. That she had watched him and driven home separately and gone to bed and said nothing.

I’m sorry, Laina.

She had never been interested in hockey, and so he had never thought she would want to watch him.

But even so...

He knew that was no excuse.

His wife. Thirty-one games. And he never knew.

LAINA CAME HOME FROMwork three days later to find a brand-new deadbolt on her apartment door and a note tucked under the mat.

Oh, Troy.

She wanted to be mad. But she just couldn’t find it in herself to be angry.

Instead, she found herself fighting back tears...while telling herself that this didn’t change anything.

She put her bag down, crouched, and picked up the note. She stared at it for a long time...before tearing the piece of paper into pieces without reading it. Tears blurred her gaze, but she somehow managed to send him a text message without any typos.

I appreciate it. Thank you. But I hope you understand if I’d like this to be the last.

Two days later, a doorbell camera arrived. She sent it back.

The next day, it came again. She sent it back again.

The day after that, a fire extinguisher appeared on her doorstep. It was the size of a small child, red and enormous, propped against the wall like a bodyguard. There was a note taped to it in handwriting she didn't recognize, but the words...

Those were definitely his.

You and I both know you burn things.

She stared at it for a long, long time.

But in the end...she just couldn’t help it.

The tears started falling anyway.

Why couldn’t he just let her go?

Why couldn’t he just help her...forget him?

Why?