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.