Elianna POV:

The sound of a key grinding in the lock was violent enough to wake the dead.

I gasped, shooting up from the pillows. My head throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache, like a slapshot ringing against the boards inside my skull. I was in a bed. A strange bed. The sheets were gray silk, cool and slippery against my skin.

I looked down. My dress was rumpled, the strap hanging off one shoulder.

"Stay down," a voice commanded from the window.

I snapped my head around. Beckett was there, his wheelchair facing the door. He had his back to me, his posture rigid. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket anymore.

Before I could ask why, he whipped around, holding the tailored black jacket. He threw it at me with the precise accuracy of a former pro.

"Cover yourself."

I barely had time to clutch the jacket to my chest before the door burst open.

It wasn't just Kena. It was a full-blown media circus.

Flashes of light erupted like gunfire. Pop. Pop. Pop. The blinding white strobes from the sports paparazzi left spots in my vision. I screamed, pulling the jacket over my head, curling into a ball of shame.

"Oh my God!" Kena's voice was a theatrical shriek. "Elianna! How could you?"

She stood in the doorway, hand over her mouth, flanked by three men with cameras and a handful of "concerned" VIP guests who looked more like vultures circling a carcass.

"Get out!" Beckett roared.

The sound was so powerful it physically shook the room. The photographers hesitated, lowering their lenses for a split second. Beckett wheeled himself forward, placing his body between the mob and the bed.

"This is my private sanctuary," he snarled, his face twisted in a mask of fury. "Get your cameras out of my face before I break them."

"Beckett," Kena stepped forward, her eyes gleaming with triumph. "We were just looking for Elianna. Kenan was worried sick. And we find her... here? In your bed?"

"I... I don't remember," I sobbed, my voice cracking. "I felt sick. Someone brought me here."

"Likely story," one of the tabloid reporters muttered, snapping another picture over Beckett's broad shoulder.

"She was drunk," Kena declared, turning to the crowd. "Look at her. Disgraceful. Kenanis downstairs playing the heartbroken star captain, and she's up here throwing herself at his crippled uncle."

The word 'crippled' hung in the air, heavy and cruel—a sharp, deliberate jab at the man who used to own the ice.

Beckett's hands gripped the wheels of his chair so hard I thought the metal might bend. He looked at Kena, then back at me. His eyes were dark, unreadable pools. For a second, I saw something flicker there—calculation? Pity?

He turned back to Kena. "She didn't throw herself at me."

The room went silent.

Beckett looked down at his lap, his shoulders slumping in a performance of resignation that was terrifyingly convincing. "We have been seeing each other, Kena. For months."

My jaw dropped. "What? No, that's not—"

"Quiet, Elianna," Beckett snapped, though his eyes warned me to shut up. "She came to me because she couldn't stand the sight of your son anymore. She chose me. We thought we could keep it secret until after the franchise merger, but... clearly, we were careless."

Kena blinked. This wasn't part of her playbook. She wanted me to be the villain, the gold-digging puck bunny preying on a helpless invalid. But Beckett painting himself as the secret lover? It made Kenanlook like a fool who couldn't keep his fiancée in check, and it made the scandal a consensual, albeit messy, affair.

"You... you beast," Kena spat, recovering quickly. "You're disgusting. Stealing your nephew's fiancée?"

"I am what this family made me," Beckett said quietly. "Now get out."

Team security finally arrived, pushing the reporters back into the hallway. The door slammed shut, leaving us in a ringing silence.

I stared at Beckett's back. He was breathing heavily.

"Why?" I whispered. "Why did you say that?"

He turned his chair slowly. The vulnerability was gone. His face was a mask of stone again.

"Because if you were the seductress who drugged herself, Kenan would sue you for breach of contract and destroy your family," he said coldly. "If we are lovers, it's just a scandal. A mess they have to clean up to protect the franchise's stock price. I just bought you a lifeline."

"A lifeline?" I laughed hysterically, tears streaming down my face. "My life is over. Kenanwill never believe me."

"Kenan is the one who let this happen," Beckett said. "Get dressed. Harrison is waiting in the study. The execution begins now."

Elianna POV:

The walk to the study felt like a funeral procession.

I pushed Beckett's wheelchair, my hands trembling on the rubber grips. Silas, his looming shadow of a bodyguard, had been barred from entering the main house by Kena. It was just us.

Inside the study, the air was thick with the smell of old leather and judgment. Harrison Sinclair III sat behind a desk the size of a small car, polishing a heavy, silver-headed cane with a white cloth.

Kenan was there.

My heart leaped. I let go of the wheelchair and took a step toward him. "Kenan! Please, you have to listen to me. I was drugged. I would never—"

Kenan took a step back. He looked at me as if I were something he had scraped off his skate.

"Don't come near me," he sneered. "You smell like him."

The words were a physical blow. I stopped, my breath catching in my throat. "Kenan..."

"My mother told me everything," Kenan said, his voice flat. "You've been sneaking around with him? Behind my back? You're even cheaper than I thought."

He gestured to Beckett.

I looked at Kenan—really looked at him—and for the first time, I didn't see the charming hockey phenom I thought I loved. I saw a coward standing behind Kena's designer skirt.

"Enough," Harrison barked. He stood up, testing the weight of the cane in his hand. "You have brought shame on this franchise, Beckett."

Beckett sat with his head bowed. "I know."

"You are a waste of space," Harrison said, walking around the desk. "A broken man with broken morals."

He raised the cane.

I gasped. "No!"

Thwack.

The sound of the heavy wood hitting Beckett's shoulder was sickening—a dull, wet thud. Beckett grunted, his body jerking forward, but his hands stayed white-knuckled on the armrests. He didn't try to block it.

Harrison raised the cane for a second strike, his face purple with rage.

"Harrison, stop!" Kena intervened sharply, stepping between them. "Not in front of her. Think of the PR nightmare and the liability."

Harrison lowered the cane slowly, breathing hard. He glared down at Beckett, satisfied with the single, brutal blow that had left him trembling.

"You are garbage," Harrison spat.

Beckett slowly lifted his head. His lip was bleeding where he had bitten it. His eyes were burning with a terrifying intensity.

"I want to marry her," Beckett said.

The silence in the room was absolute. Even Harrison looked stunned.

"What?" Kenan laughed incredulously. "You want my leftovers?"

Beckett ignored him. He looked straight at Harrison. "The sports press has the photos. If you cast her out, the headline is Sinclair Golden Boy's Fiancée Cheats with Disabled Uncle. It makes Kenan look weak going into the playoffs. It makes the front office look chaotic."

Beckett paused, wiping blood from his mouth.

"But if I marry her... the narrative becomes a tragic romance. The star-crossed lovers who couldn't help themselves. It creates a scandal, yes, but a romantic one. It protects the franchise's public image and the team's valuation."

Harrison narrowed his eyes. He was a team owner first, a patriarch second. He did the math in his head.

"He's right," Harrison grunted. He looked at Kenan. "This solves the problem of Elianna."

"Fine," Harrison waved his hand dismissively. "Take the trash. Marry her. But you're cut off from the main accounts. And I am activating the exile clause. You get nothing but your medical stipend. And you don't step foot in this arena or house again."

"Deal," Beckett said.

He turned his wheelchair toward me. His face was pale, sweat beading on his forehead from the pain, but his hand was steady as he reached out.

"Elianna," he said softly. "Get me out of here."

I looked at Kenan, who was already checking his phone, completely bored. Then I looked at the man nursing a bruised shoulder in the chair, the former hockey legend who had just taken a beating to save me from total ruin.

I took Beckett's hand. It was warm.

"Okay," I whispered.