I Woke Up Married To A Stranger Hockey Prince

Cecelia POV:

I noticed something was wrong with my body before I even opened my eyes.

A heavy, muscular arm was draped across my waist, pinning me to a mattress that wasn't mine. I froze, my heart hammering a brutal, frantic rhythm against my ribs. I forced myself to turn my head.

A man lay beside me, his bare back a vast landscape of sun-kissed skin and hard muscle. Even in sleep, he radiated a dangerous, overwhelming energy. I had never seen him before in my life.

I clamped a hand over my mouth to stifle a scream, scrambling backward until my spine hit the tufted headboard. The movement sent a wave of nausea through me, my head pounding in time with my racing heart. I looked down. I was wearing a man's oversized silk pajama top, gaping open. My clothes from last night were completely gone.

What happened?

I squeezed my eyes shut, digging into my brain, but the entire night was a terrifying, gaping void. A black hole punctuated only by disjointed flashes of neon lights, the throb of heavy bass, and the burn of tequila. Nothing else.

As I gripped the silk sheets, a cold weight on my left hand caught my attention. I stared at it, my blood running cold. A diamond ring. It wasn't huge, but it was brilliant, catching the morning light and throwing tiny, mocking rainbows across the bed.

Where did this come from? I didn't own this. I wouldn't even know how to buy something like this.

My trembling gaze darted to the nightstand. Next to a half-empty glass of water lay a folded piece of heavy paper. I leaned in, my breath hitching. A marriage certificate. The names printed on it were stark and undeniable: Garrick Sinclair and Cecelia Dalton.

A roaring filled my ears. I didn't know how I got to this stark white, impossibly high-ceilinged room. I didn't know where the ring came from, and I certainly didn't know how I had ended up married to a stranger. A profound wave of shame and utter helplessness washed over me, hot and suffocating.

The man beside me stirred. He rolled over, and my breath caught in my throat. It was a face built by angels and decorated by devils. Sharp jaw, straight nose, a mouth that looked like it could be cruel. Even asleep, his brows were drawn together in a look of perpetual annoyance.

I knew that face.

It was him. Garrick Sinclair. Captain of the Chicago Mustangs. The Beast. A man as famous for his brutal, unforgiving force on the ice as he was for his cold, dismissive attitude off it.

His eyes snapped open. They weren't hazy with sleep. They were a piercing, arctic blue, sharp as skates on new ice. They sliced right through me, pinning me to the bed like a specimen.

"Who are you?" His voice was a low rasp, laced with ice. He looked at me like I was something he'd found crawling on his floor.

My hand trembled violently as I pointed to the certificate. "We... I don't... I think we got married."

His eyes flicked to the paper, then back to me. A short, harsh laugh escaped his lips. It was a sound devoid of humor, filled only with pure contempt.

"Price."

The word hung in the air, heavy and degrading.

"What?" I whispered, my voice cracking.

"Name your price. What's it going to cost me to make you disappear?" He sat up, the sheet pooling around his waist. His chest was a roadmap of old scars and hard muscle, a testament to his violent profession.

Humiliation burned my cheeks, bringing hot tears to my eyes. "I'm not—I don't even know how this happened! I don't remember anything! I don't want your money!"

My desperate denial only deepened the sneer on his face. He saw it as a cheap tactic. "Every woman who climbs into my bed says that. They all end up cashing the check."

He grabbed his phone from the nightstand and dialed. "Marco, get up to the penthouse. I need a package handled."

He hung up and tossed a hotel bathrobe at me. It landed in a heap on my lap. "Put that on and get out. My lawyer will be in touch. Don't try anything."

I clutched the soft fabric, feeling like a piece of trash he was casually sweeping out of his life. I refused to let the tears fall. Not in front of him.

I scrambled into the bathroom and locked the door. The reflection in the mirror was a stranger. Smudged makeup, tangled hair, and a few faint, damning bruises on my neck that I had no memory of getting. My stomach churned violently, and I leaned over the toilet, dry heaving until my throat was raw.

A sharp knock sounded on the suite door. I heard a man's voice, respectful. "Sir, everything is ready."

I flushed the toilet and splashed cold water on my face, my hands shaking so badly I could barely dry them. When I emerged, Garrick was standing by the window, staring out at the Las Vegas sunrise, his back to me. He didn't even glance in my direction.

He just waved a dismissive hand. "Take her back where she came from."

The man, Marco, gestured for me to follow. He was polite but firm, his presence leaving no room for argument. As he led me out, I took one last look at Garrick Sinclair. He hadn't moved. It was as if I had never been there at all.

In the silent descent of the elevator, Marco offered me a bottle of water and a thick stack of cash. "Mr. Sinclair said this is for your trouble. And your travel expenses."

The wad of bills felt like a physical slap. I pushed his hand away, my voice trembling but resolute. "Tell your boss I'm not the kind of person he thinks I am."

Marco looked surprised but took the money back without a word. He led me to a black sedan waiting at the hotel's private entrance.

The car pulled away from the curb. I looked back at the glittering facade of the Vegas hotel, a neon palace where my quiet life had just been irrevocably broken.

"Where to, Miss?" Marco asked gently, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.

I gave him the address of my flower shop in Chicago. A world away from this one.

As the car merged onto the highway, the tears I'd been holding back finally fell, leaving silent tracks of shame on my cheeks. I was completely lost. I didn't know what the future held, but I knew my simple, peaceful life was over.

I pulled out my phone. Fifteen missed calls from my mom. A fresh wave of panic washed over me. How could I ever explain this to her? How could I explain it to myself?