I Woke Up Married To A Stranger Hockey Prince

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?"

Humiliation slapped me across the face, quickly sparking into white-hot anger.

"I don't want your money!" I snapped, my voice shaking with a mix of indignation and fear. I clenched my fists at my sides. "I don't even remember last night! I just want to know what the hell happened!"

Garrick froze, his pen hovering over the check.

He looked up, his glacial eyes locking onto mine. For a fraction of a second, I saw a flicker of doubt break through his icy facade. He was assessing me, his gaze sharp and calculating, trying to figure out if my outrage was a world-class performance or genuine panic. I clearly wasn't following the script he expected.

But as quickly as it appeared, the wall came back up. A man who lived his life dodging opportunists wasn't about to trust a stranger in his hotel room.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night," he muttered, tossing the checkbook onto the dresser. He grabbed his phone and hit a speed dial. "Marco. It's me. Vegas. We have a situation. Look up the chapel on the certificate I'm about to send you, and get the legal team drafting annulment papers. Yeah. Right now."

He hung up and shot me a look that made me feel microscopic. "My lawyers will be in touch. Grab your things and get out of my room."

My throat burned, but I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper. I refused to give this bastard the satisfaction of seeing me cry. I darted into the massive bathroom, shimmied into my wrinkled dress from last night, and snatched my clutch.

"Don't worry, Mr. Sinclair," I said from the doorway, keeping my spine steel-rod straight as I held on to my last shred of dignity. "I want out of this mistake just as badly as you do."

The heavy mahogany door clicked shut behind me.

I stood in the plush, silent hallway of the hotel, my hands shaking uncontrollably. The adrenaline that had kept my spine straight just moments ago evaporated, leaving me hollow and trembling. His disdainful, calculating eyes felt like physical bruises on my skin.

I practically ran to the elevator, jabbing the button until the silver doors slid open. As the car plummeted toward the casino floor, the silence pressed in on me, heavy and suffocating.

Minutes later, I was huddled in the back of a taxi, watching the blinding neon lights of the Vegas Strip blur past the window. The morning sun was just starting to bleed over the desert horizon, a harsh contrast to the nightmare I was trapped in.

I looked down at my left hand. The diamond caught the passing streetlights, mocking me with its heavy, obscene brilliance.

How did this happen?

I pressed my forehead against the cool glass of the window, trying to force my fragmented memories to align. The roulette wheel. The tequila. But between that first burning shot and waking up in a billionaire's bed... nothing. Just a terrifying, gaping void.

I was just a florist. My biggest worry yesterday was whether the wholesale orchids would arrive on time, and if I had enough coupons to cover my grocery run. Now, I was legally bound to Chicago's most notorious athlete-a man who looked at me like I was a parasite.

He said his lawyers would handle it. A quick signature, a quiet annulment, and we'd be strangers again. That was the logical outcome.

But as the cab pulled up to my cramped apartment building, a tight knot of dread formed in my chest. You don't just cross paths with a man like Garrick Sinclair and walk away unscathed.

I stared at the tacky pink marriage certificate still clutched in my hand. Was it really going to be that simple? Or had my quiet, ordinary life just been turned completely upside down?