Cecelia POV:

"Cece, thank God! Where have you been? I was worried sick!" My mom enveloped me in a hug the moment I walked through the door, her familiar scent of vanilla and soil a painful comfort.

"My phone died," I lied, unable to meet her worried eyes. "I stayed at Tilly's."Tilly was my best friend.

She didn't question it, just stroked my cheek. "You look exhausted. Go get cleaned up. I made cinnamon rolls."

In the bathroom, I stared at my reflection. The faint marks on my neck were still there, small, ugly reminders. I scrubbed my face with cold water, again and again, as if I could wash away the memory of his touch, his contempt.

Dressed in my own soft pajamas, the smell of home slowly unknotted the tension in my shoulders. But the phantom weight of the ring on my finger was a constant, burning reminder of a nightmare I couldn't explain. 

How did I even get it? Where did that marriage certificate come from? I had zero memory of a wedding. Was that piece of paper even legally binding, or just some sick, elaborate Vegas joke? I had no answers.

So, I did the only thing I could to survive the panic: I took the ring off. I shoved it and the certificate into the deepest, darkest corner of my jewelry box, forcing myself to pretend none of it had ever happened.

For two days, I tried to keep up the charade. I pruned roses at the shop, arranged bouquets for smiling customers, and forced myself not to think about Garrick Sinclair.

But he was everywhere. On the news, on every sports blog, his face plastered across the city. The Mustangs' season was about to start, and their captain was the king of Chicago.

Then the news broke. His adoptive father, John Sinclair, had passed away. I saw him on TV, emerging from a black car, his face a cold, unreadable mask. For a fleeting moment, I felt a strange pang of empathy. The man who had treated me like garbage was grieving.

That afternoon, two men in dark suits walked into my shop. The scent of roses and sunshine was instantly replaced by an atmosphere of cold authority.

"Miss Cecelia Dalton?" the lead man asked, his eyes sharp and assessing.

A knot of dread tightened in my stomach, but I kept my posture straight. I nodded.

"Our employer, Mr. Garrick Sinclair, would like to see you." He gestured towards the door. A polite invitation that was clearly not a request.

"I have nothing to say to him," I said, keeping my voice steady.

The man produced a leather-bound folder. "Mr. Sinclair anticipated you might say that. He asked me to have you review this first."

I took the folder. The title on the first page made the blood drain from my face: Post-Nuptial Agreement.

My mind spun into absolute chaos. A post-nuptial agreement? I had never seen this document in my life, let alone signed it. The contract stated that as Garrick Sinclair's legal spouse, I was bound to the marriage. If I initiated a divorce, I would be liable for a penalty of ten million dollars.

My hands trembled, but not from fear—from sheer disbelief. I flipped to the last page and saw the signatures. Garrick Sinclair. Cecelia Dalton. And... John Sinclair.

I stared at the date next to my supposed signature. It was dated a week before I even set foot in Vegas.

"This is a forgery," I stated, my voice no longer shaking, but hard and resolute. "I never signed this. I wasn't even in the same state as Garrick Sinclair on this date!"

"Our handwriting experts have verified the signature as yours, Miss Dalton," the man said, his tone flat. "Please. Don't make this difficult."

I took a deep breath, steeling my spine.

"Fine," I said coldly. "Give me a minute."

I pulled out my phone and called my mom. I forced my vocal cords to relax, projecting a perfectly calm, cheerful tone. "Hey, Mom. Listen, a last-minute floral convention just came up out of state. I'm going with a friend for a few days... Yes, I'll be fine. Love you too."

I hung up, ensuring my mother wouldn't worry or get dragged into this mess. Then, I grabbed my coat and walked past the men toward the door, keeping my head high.

We drove to a part of the city I'd never seen, descending into a private underground garage. A silent elevator whisked us upwards, opening directly into a vast, minimalist living room. It was as cold and impersonal as the man who owned it.

Garrick was sitting on a low sofa, tossing a hockey puck from hand to hand. He looked up as I entered, his eyes holding no surprise.

"Sit," he commanded, gesturing to the chair opposite him.

I remained standing, refusing to cower. "What is this? Did you forge that contract?"

He finally gave me his full attention, a flicker of amusement in his icy gaze. "Forge it? Cecelia Dalton, twenty-four, florist, mother a retired teacher. Do you really think you're worth the effort it would take to forge a multi-million dollar contract just to keep you around?"

His words were a physical blow. He had investigated me. He knew my small, insignificant life, and he was using it to mock me.

He rose from the sofa and walked towards me, his tall frame blocking out the light. I held my ground for a second before his sheer size forced me to take a step back, my spine hitting the cold, unyielding wall. But I kept my chin high, refusing to look away.

He leaned in, trapping me. He braced a hand on the wall next to my head, his face inches from mine. "I don't know what deal you made with my father," he murmured, his voice a low growl. "I don't know what you did to convince him you were worth this."

He tilted my chin up with his fingers, forcing me to meet his gaze. "But until I figure it out, you're not going anywhere."

For a split second, I saw something in his eyes beyond the anger. A flicker of the same confusion that was consuming me.

He pulled back, the cold mask snapping back into place. "Give me your best friend's contact information. I need to confirm you're as 'innocent' as you pretend to be."