Flash Marriage To The Ultimate Sports Tycoon

Kendall Rutledge POV:

My stiletto heels clicked against the polished concrete of the underground VIP corridor at TD Garden, the sound echoing in the damp, quiet chill beneath the arena.

In my right hand, I carried an insulated stainless-steel container filled with chicken soup I had simmered for three hours.

My fingertips tingled with warmth against the handle, carrying the quiet expectation of a wife coming to support her husband after his ice time as a reserve forward.

At the end of the hallway stood Destin Fowler's private lounge, a perk paid for entirely by my late parents' estate.

I softened my steps, intending to slip in quietly and surprise him.

When I reached the heavy mahogany door, I wrapped my fingers around the cold brass knob.

It turned without resistance.

The door was unlatched, resting open by a fraction of an inch.

Before I could push it forward, a sharp, breathy moan sliced through the silence.

The sound froze me mid-motion, turning the blood in my veins into ice water.

Through the narrow slit, the dim amber light of the lounge revealed two naked bodies tangled together on the deep leather sofa.

The scent of musk and heavy cologne rolled into the hallway.

The man had his back to the door, his muscular shoulders flexing, his skin marked by the hockey stick tattoo running along his spine.

It was Destin.

My husband of three years.

Beneath him, head thrown back against the cushions, was Kyleigh Hubbard.

The delicate, fragile woman he had introduced to me as his fallen teammate's grieving sister-the one he claimed suffered from severe depression and needed financial charity from our family foundation.

A violent wave of nausea hit my stomach, so intense that I stumbled backward.

The heel of my pump tapped lightly against the baseboard.

On the sofa, the rhythm stopped abruptly.

"Who's out there?" Destin's voice cut through the room, sharp and defensive.

I held my breath, clamping my left hand over my mouth until my teeth bit into my knuckles.

I pressed my back flat against the cold concrete wall.

"Relax, babe," Kyleigh purred, her arms wrapping around his neck with a lazy laugh. "You're jumpy. That idiot Kendall is probably still at the estate playing domestic goddess and making you broth."

"Don't bring her up," Destin scoffed, his tone dripping with disdain. "It kills the mood. If it weren't for the Rutledge hockey franchise rights, do you really think I'd tolerate her cold, arrogant heiress attitude for even five minutes?"

My heart felt as though it had been seized by an iron fist and crushed into dust.

My fingernails dug into the meat of my palm, drawing blood as crescent-shaped cuts formed in the skin.

"Are you sure about that Nevada marriage document?" Kyleigh whispered against his ear. "What if she ever checks the public registry and realizes the notarized certificate you gave her is completely fake? What if she finds out we were never legally married?"

The words struck my skull like a lightning strike.

Every breath left my lungs.

A fake marriage.

Three years of devotion, built on a forged piece of paper.

"She worships me," Destin grunted with smug satisfaction. "That fool doesn't suspect a thing. Once I finish shifting her offshore trust funds into my agency's corporate account, I'll discard her. Then you and Jaxon move into the manor legitimately."

Jaxon.

The four-year-old orphan he had begged me to sponsor through our private charity.

He wasn't an orphan at all.

He was Destin and Kyleigh's biological child.

I bit down on my lower lip until the metallic taste of blood flooded my mouth.

The initial shock burned away in an instant, replaced by a ruthless, freezing clarity that settled deep in my bones.

I did not scream.

I did not throw open the door to stage a hysterical scene.

Moving with absolute precision, I slipped my phone from my designer handbag.

I angled the camera lens through the crack of the door and tapped record.

For three uninterrupted minutes, the high-definition lens captured every angle of their naked betrayal and every word of their conspiracy to drain the Rutledge estate.

Down the hallway, the heavy boots of a security guard clicked against the floor.

I ended the video, locked the screen, and slid the phone back into my pocket.

I looked at the crack in the door one last time, feeling every trace of affection die inside me.

Turning on my heel, I dropped the three-hour chicken soup straight into the corridor's stainless-steel trash bin.

I walked out of TD Garden with steady, measured steps.

The freezing Boston night air hit my face, stripping away the fog of the past three years.

I slid into the driver's seat of my Porsche, locked the doors, and dialed the encrypted direct line of my Wall Street private counsel.

"Search the Nevada state vital records for any marriage registration under my name from five years ago to today," I said, my voice quiet, flat, and steady. "And audit every capital outflow from the Rutledge Sports Media trust."

Ten minutes later, the encrypted file arrived on my dashboard screen.

"Miss Rutledge, Nevada has zero record of a valid marriage license under your name. Furthermore, three unauthorized offshore transfers are currently pending approval against your trust."

I tilted my chin up, tapping my index finger against the leather steering wheel.

A cold, razor-sharp smile curved my lips.

Destin thought he could use a scrap of forged paper to bleed a century-old hockey dynasty dry.

He had no idea who he had just provoked.

I tapped the central console, initiating an emergency administrative freeze that instantly severed all offshore routing channels.

Looking into the rearview mirror, I smoothed my hair and reapplied a coat of crimson lipstick.

Since I was still legally single, I was going to make sure they left Boston with nothing.

I shifted into gear and hit the gas, the engine roaring as the car cut through the dark city streets.

On the passenger seat, my phone lit up, the screen flashing with an incoming call from Destin.