Married To My Ruthless Childhood Sweetheart

Dana Davenport POV:

I pushed open the heavy wrought-iron gates of the Davenport estate, and the freezing early winter wind of Boston rushed straight down my collar.

The blinding glare of the crystal chandeliers inside the foyer made me squint.

Mary, the head maid who had worked for my family for ten years, turned around at the sound of the door.

The moment she saw my face, her polite, practiced smile froze, and she hurried away with her head down without saying a single word of welcome.

I slipped off my cheap wool coat, draped it over my arm, took a deep breath, and walked toward the grand ballroom where classical music was playing.

As soon as my heel touched the edge of the ballroom floor, the violin music seemed to hit a pause button, and the chatter of Boston's elite died down into a strange silence.

Dozens of eyes filled with judgment, disgust, and amusement hit me like invisible spotlights, making my chest tighten until it was hard to breathe.

I forced my spine straight and scanned the crowd, looking for the person who had forced me to come back to this city.

By the champagne tower, Chloe Sinclair, the wife of our NHL team's star defenseman and a loudmouth in the WAG circle, nudged her friend with her elbow and let out a loud, nasty laugh.

Chloe walked straight toward me with a full glass, and right as she brushed past my shoulder, she tilted her wrist and poured half a glass of ice-cold champagne down my skirt.

The freezing liquid soaked through the thin fabric and clung to my skin, making me gasp and stop in my tracks.

Chloe clapped a hand over her mouth and let out a fake gasp.

"Oh my gosh, I am so sorry! I didn't notice our famous little Puck Bunny standing right there."

Low laughs rippled through the crowd as men in custom tuxedos and women in couture gowns stared openly at the woman the scandal had ruined five years ago.

I didn't scream or cry; I just stared coldly at Chloe's heavily made-up face, pulled a tissue from my clutch, and slowly wiped the wet fabric of my dress.

Chloe looked annoyed that I wasn't breaking down, so she stepped closer and lowered her voice.

"How does a washed-up junkie who got banned from the entire league for failing three drug tests even have the nerve to show up at Henretta's wedding?"

I crumpled the wet tissue into a tight ball, dropped it straight into the empty champagne flute in her hand, lifted my eyelids, and spoke in a flat voice,

"If your brain was big enough to read the invitation, you'd know my noble stepmother forced me to come here to make the family look complete."

Chloe's face turned dark green, and the laughter around us died instantly as I walked right past her toward the center of the hall.

Through the crowd, I finally spotted my biological father, Douglass Davenport, the former NHL Hall of Fame captain, standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows talking with several team executives.

I stopped three steps behind him, swallowed the bitter taste in my throat, and called out softly,

"Father, I'm back."

Douglass stopped talking, but he didn't even turn his head; his fingers just tightened around his cigar.

The team executives beside him exchanged awkward glances, made quick excuses, and walked away with their drinks, leaving the two of us standing there.

I stared at his cold back and dug my fingernails deep into my palms, just about to speak again when a sickly sweet voice floated down from the grand staircase.

My stepmother, Eleanor, walked down the stairs holding the arm of my stepsister, Henretta Reilly, who was dressed in a flashy bridesmaid gown, both of them acting like the true owners of this house.

Eleanor walked right up to Douglass, looped her arm through his, and looked me up and down like she was tossing scraps to a stray dog.

Her lips curled into a fake smile.

"Dana, it must have been so hard for you to crawl out of that tiny, run-down academic apartment near your Ivy League lab just to attend this wedding rehearsal."

Henretta played with the blinding diamond tennis bracelet on her wrist and clicked her heels right up to my face, her eyes full of a winner's pride.

She leaned close to my ear and whispered so only the two of us could hear,

"Look at how poor and pathetic you look right now. Try not to scare my fiancé later."

I looked at the mother-daughter pair putting on their show and kept my voice completely flat.

"I'll leave as soon as I've done my part here, so you two don't need to be so nervous."

Henretta let out a sharp, cold laugh and suddenly grabbed my wrist so hard the bone ached.

She dragged me toward the far end of the ballroom without letting me refuse and announced loudly,

"Come on, my dear little sister, you have to meet the main man of the night."

I pulled back hard, but with all the guests watching us like a circus act, I didn't want to cause a bigger scene, so I was forced to follow her steps.

We stopped by the leather couches in the darkest corner of the hall, and Henretta called out to a tall man holding a glass of whiskey with his back to us.

The man turned around slowly, and the dim light hit the shallow scar running across his cheek.

The second I saw his face, a loud ringing exploded in my ears, all the blood drained from my limbs, and my breath stopped completely.

It was Vance Sterling, the man who had stood outside that Boston hotel suite five years ago smoking a cigarette while I was drugged and dragged inside.

My mind went blank, a violent wave of nausea rushed up my throat, and pure terror made me rip my wrist out of Henretta's grip.

I stumbled backward like I had just seen a demon, turned around under everyone's shocked stares, and ran wildly toward the exit.