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Sold To The Billionaire

I Woke Up Married To A Stranger Hockey Prince

Jasmine Writes

I woke up married to a stranger. Not just any stranger. Garrick Sinclair-the cold, ruthless captain of the Chicago Mustangs, the man every woman in Chicago dreamed of and every sensible woman stayed away from. I didn't remember marrying him. I didn't even remember sleeping with him. Yet there was a diamond ring on my finger, a marriage certificate beside the bed, and Garrick looking at me like I was nothing more than another gold digger trying to get her hands on his money. He offered me cash to disappear. I wanted nothing from him except the truth. But then his adoptive father died, leaving behind a shocking condition for Garrick's inheritance: He had to be married. Suddenly, the marriage neither of us remembered became the only thing protecting his family's billion-dollar empire. Then my mother was murdered. I came home to find her dead among the roses she loved, only to wake up in a police station as the prime suspect. My home was a crime scene. My mother was gone. And I had nowhere left to turn. Except the husband who had once wanted me gone. Garrick got me out of jail and pulled me into his world. But the closer we became, the stranger everything felt. Whenever he touched me, he remembered things he had forgotten. A locked room. A terrified little boy. A girl in a pink dress. And a promise made in the dark. I thought my marriage to Garrick was the worst mistake of my life. Now I'm starting to wonder if it was the one thing that was never a mistake at all. Because I may not be a stranger to Garrick Sinclair. I may be the missing piece of his darkest memory. And someone has already killed once to make sure we never remember the truth.

Romance Suspense Contract marriage Arranged Marriage Billionaire One-night Stand Dark Romance Sports Romance (Hockey/Football/Soccer/MMA/Swimming)

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Elena didn't arrive like someone begging for mercy.

She didn't cry. Didn't plead. Didn't even try to defend herself.

She simply stood at the doorway of Lorenzo De Luca's private residence-silent, still, clutching a small handbag against her chest like it was the last fragile thing in the world that had ever chosen to stay with her.

Her coat was too thin for the cold. Her shoes, worn and scuffed, whispered of long distances walked without complaint. Even the way she held herself was careful-deliberate-like she had spent her entire life learning how to take up as little space as possible.

Soft mouth. Long lashes. Skin too delicate for the kind of world she'd been handed.

She didn't ask for attention.

She looked like she barely believed she deserved it.

Across the room, Lorenzo didn't move.

One ankle rested over the other as he watched her, his gaze slow, measured-stripping, assessing, waiting.

Men always revealed themselves eventually. Weakness had a way of surfacing.

"This is her," the man behind her said, too eager, too proud.

Lorenzo said nothing.

Silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

Elena's eyes dropped instinctively. Her shoulders curled inward, retreating into herself.

The movement irritated him.

"Does she speak?" Lorenzo asked, voice calm but edged.

"Of course," her guardian rushed. "She's... shy."

Shy.

A convenient word. A pretty lie people used when the truth was far less kind.

Lorenzo leaned forward slightly, interest sharpening.

"What's your name?"

A pause.

"Elena," she whispered.

Just Elena.

No surname. No identity beyond the bare minimum. As though she didn't belong to anything-not even herself.

"Look at me."

Her breath hitched.

Slowly, obediently, she raised her eyes.

There was no fire there. No defiance.

But no dramatic fear either.

Just something quieter. Something heavier.

Acceptance.

The kind that came from knowing resistance had never changed anything.

Something sharp lodged in Lorenzo's chest before he could stop it.

The conversation continued without her.

Debts. Agreements. Promises made over her head as though she were nothing more than an object being transferred from one owner to another.

Elena stood still, nodding when expected, hands folded neatly-too neatly-like she believed one wrong movement might earn punishment.

When the men finally left, the door closing behind them with a heavy finality, relief flickered across her face.

It was quick.

But Lorenzo saw it.

"You're relieved."

She stiffened immediately. "I-I didn't mean-"

"Sit."

The command cut through her panic.

She obeyed at once, perching on the very edge of the chair as though she didn't dare touch it fully. Her hands smoothed over her skirt once... twice... three times. She tucked her hair behind her ear, only for it to fall forward again.

Small, nervous rituals.

"You know why you're here," Lorenzo said.

"Yes."

Soft. Automatic.

"And you agreed to this?"

"Yes," she repeated-but quieter this time.

There it was.

That hesitation.

"You don't sound certain."

Her fingers tightened against the fabric of her skirt.

"I wasn't asked," she admitted, her voice trembling despite her effort to steady it, "in a way that allowed me to say no."

The words landed softly.