Cecelia

Cecelia POV:

My head pounded with the force of a jackhammer, every throb keeping time with the ghost of a Las Vegas bassline.

I tried to roll over, only to find myself pinned to the mattress beneath a heavy, scorching weight. A man’s arm. Thick with muscle, heavily tattooed, and fiercely possessive.

My breath caught in my throat. The scent wrapping around me—an intoxicating, expensive blend of cedarwood cologne and raw, unapologetic male musk—was entirely foreign to my cramped apartment above the floral shop. I snapped my eyes open. Beyond the ridiculous thread-count of the silk sheets, a floor-to-ceiling window framed the blinding, excessive skyline of the Vegas Strip. And I was drowning in an oversized men’s white button-down shirt. My own clothes were nowhere in sight.

Last night was a shattered kaleidoscope. The hypnotic spin of a roulette wheel, the thumping bass of a nightclub, the sharp, fiery burn of cheap tequila slipping down my throat. That was it. Total blackout.

I carefully lifted the dead weight of the stranger’s arm and scrambled out of the bed. As I reached up to press the heels of my hands against my throbbing temples, a cold, heavy flash of light caught my eye.

A diamond. A rock so obscenely large and brilliant it made my stomach drop, securely wedged onto my left ring finger.

No. No, no, no. Nausea rolled in my gut.

My frantic gaze swept the mahogany nightstand and landed on a piece of thick parchment bearing the tacky pink logo of a 24-hour midnight wedding chapel. My hands shook as I picked it up.

A marriage certificate. Signed in stark black ink: Garrick Sinclair and Cecelia Dalton.

Me? A totally average florist who clipped coupons to make rent? Married to a complete stranger after a tequila bender? The sheer absurdity and suffocating panic threatened to pull me under.

The crisp rustle of the paper must have disturbed him. The man shifted, pushing himself up against the tufted headboard. The silk sheets pooled around his waist, exposing a fiercely sculpted torso dusted with faded scars and aggressive sleeves of ink climbing over his broad shoulders.

He opened his eyes, and the blood froze in my veins.

They were ice-blue. Predatory. Unforgiving. I knew that face. Anyone who had ever glanced at a sports channel or walked past a towering billboard in downtown Chicago knew exactly who he was.

Garrick Sinclair. Captain of the Chicago Mustangs. The highest-paid, most ruthless enforcer in the NHL. They called him "The Beast" for his savage plays on the ice.

Right now, the Beast was looking at me like I was something scraped off the bottom of his skate. No shock. No morning-after panic. Just a slow, derisive smirk as his gaze flicked from my face to the marriage certificate trembling in my hand.

"Congratulations," his voice was a low, gravelly rasp, dripping with pure disdain. "You played the long game and finally hit the jackpot."

"What?" I breathed, my mind completely short-circuiting.

Garrick scoffed, swinging his long legs out of bed. His sheer size was intimidating, forcing my survival instincts to kick in as I took a step back. "Save the innocent act, sweetheart. Spotting me at the club, pouring drinks down my throat, and dragging my blacked-out ass to some neon chapel—I’ve seen every play in the book. You women who will do anything for a payout and a last name are all the same."

He turned to a pair of tailored slacks discarded on the floor, pulling a checkbook from the pocket without even looking at me. "Name your price. How much to make this little charade disappear right now?"