Married To My Ex's Powerful Billionaire Uncle

Elianna POV:

The room was spinning before I even finished the champagne.

It wasn't a gentle sway. It was a violent, lurching tilt that made the crystal chandeliers of the estate blur into streaks of aggressive light. I gripped the edge of the high table, my knuckles turning white, trying to anchor myself to the floor.

"You look pale, dear."

Kena Whitehead's voice was smooth, like velvet wrapped around a jagged rock. My future mother-in-law stood too close, her hand resting on my shoulder with a weight that felt less like comfort and more like a restraint.

"I... I can't find Kenan," I managed to say. My tongue felt thick, heavy in my mouth. "He said he'd be right back."

"Kenan is busy with the team sponsors, Elianna. You know how important this contract is." Kena smiled, but her eyes remained cold, calculating. She signaled a passing waiter with a sharp flick of her wrist. "Take Ms. Hayes to the guest suite. She needs to lie down. The champagne was evidently too strong for her."

"No, I just need fresh air—" I tried to pull away, but my legs betrayed me. They felt like they were filled with lead.

The waiter, a man with a face as blank as a slate, took my arm. His grip was firm. "This way, ma'am."

He didn't lead me toward the main staircase where the other guests were mingling. He steered me away from the warmth, down a corridor that grew quieter and colder with every step. The plush carpet swallowed the sound of our footsteps. The air changed, smelling less like expensive perfume and more like old cedar and rain.

We were in the West Wing. The part of the estate Kenan always told me to avoid.

"Wait," I slurred, dragging my feet. "This isn't..."

The waiter didn't answer. He stopped in front of a heavy oak door at the end of the hall. He opened it, the hinges groaning in protest, and practically shoved me inside.

I stumbled, my knees hitting the thick Persian rug with a thud.

"Kenan?" I called out into the darkness.

The click of the lock turning behind me was the loudest sound I had ever heard.

Panic flared in my chest, hot and sharp, cutting through the haze of the drug. I scrambled to my feet, swaying, and turned back to the door. I rattled the handle. Locked.

"Help!" I screamed, but my voice was weak, absorbed by the heavy tapestries on the walls.

A flash of lightning tore through the sky outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the room in a stark, blue-white burst.

That's when I saw him.

He was sitting in the corner, a silhouette carved from the shadows. He wasn't Kenan. This man was broader, darker. He was seated in a wheelchair, his hands resting motionless on the armrests.

Beckett Sinclair.

The fallen god of the ice. The legendary NHL captain. The man the family whispered about with a mixture of pity and disdain.Also Kenan's uncle.

He didn't move. He didn't speak. He just watched me with eyes that glinted in the dark.

The drug surged again, a wave of heat that started in my stomach and clawed its way up my throat. It wasn't just heat; it was a disorienting vertigo that made the world tilt on its axis. I couldn't think. I couldn't breathe. I just needed safety. I needed Kenan. My confused brain superimposed Kenan's face onto the man in the shadows.

I stumbled toward him.

"Kenan," I whimpered, tears blurring my vision. "Please. It hurts."

I fell at his feet, my hands grasping his knees. The fabric of his trousers was cool against my burning palms. I could feel the rigid metal of his leg braces beneath the cloth, hard, cold, and unyielding against my touch.

Beckett didn't flinch. He didn't kick me away, but he didn't help me either. He sat there like a statue, a ruined king on a broken throne.

"You're in the wrong room, Elianna," his voice was a low rumble, vibrating through the darkness. It wasn't the voice of a weak man. It was the growl of something dangerous that had been chained up for too long.

"Help me," I begged, the heat becoming unbearable. I tugged at the neckline of my dress, desperate for air. "So dizzy... please..."

I heard a sharp intake of breath from him.

"Silas," Beckett said into the empty air, his voice dropping an octave.

A small earpiece I hadn't noticed blinked with a faint blue light. "Lock down the wing. No one enters until I say so. Kena made her move."

I didn't understand what he was saying. My head fell onto his lap. The scent of him—sandalwood, tobacco, and something uniquely masculine—filled my senses, drowning out the cedar smell of the room.

I couldn't make out the face of the man above me; I could only vaguely discern his features.

His facial structure was sharply defined—handsome in a refined yet rugged, masculine way.

A high, straight bridge of the nose...

Large hands, with thick, prominent knuckles...

"Relax a little..."

"Baby, you're so tense..."

The man sighed in a low voice, his large hand firmly gripping mine and pressing it against the cold tiles.

"...I can't be gentle at all."

His sudden assertiveness made my body tremble; I nearly collapsed to the floor.

I couldn't handle it anymore; tears welled up in my eyes as I whimpered,

"Wh... when will it end?"

Beckett’s gaze darkened; his large hand, with its prominent veins, shifted to my waist and suddenly tightened its grip.

"Mmph..." My mind went blank for a moment.

The man kissed my earlobe, his low, husky voice resonating against my eardrum.

"Be a good girl—five more times. You count them out, and then we're done."

I let out a breath of relief and parted my lips, a voice full of grievance and frailty escaping them.

"One... two... five... I'm done counting. Can... can we stop now?"

"Heh." Beckett chuckled softly, his deep, dark eyes fixed intently on me.

"Sweetheart, that’s not the kind of counting I meant..."

I froze, stunned; before I could process his words, a large hand clamped firmly onto my chin.

His scent washed over me as he sealed my lips with his own, enveloping me completely in an intense, suffocating aura of raw masculinity.

Steam billowed through the bathroom, thoroughly blurring my vision.

Yet, my senses felt sharper than ever...

Hours later, his hand hovered over my head for a second, hesitant. Then, with a sigh that sounded like resignation, his fingers brushed against my hair. His touch was electric, sending a jolt through my numb body.

"Sleep," he commanded softly.

The last thing I remembered was the terrifying realization that the legs felt as cold and lifeless as stone, encased in their metal prison.