One Night With My Unknown Mr. Hockey

Chloe POV:

I woke up groggy, and the ceiling above me was wrong. It was too high, adorned with elaborate moldings bathed in moonlight, a world away from my cramped Brooklyn apartment.

My heart leaped into my throat.

I turned my head slowly, dread pooling in my stomach, and the thudding headache pounded against my skull. What I saw was the broad, muscular back of a man who occupied the other half of the king-sized bed. His breathing was deep and steady, a clear rhythm in the oppressive silence.

Who was this?

That was my first thought.

I was screwed.

That was my second.

My husband, Caleb Kensington, the ruler of the hockey rink, the man who had signed his name on a contract two years ago but had never once met me, was supposed to be abroad recovering. This couldn't be him.

In three more months, my contractual marriage to him would be over. The divorce came with a five million dollar settlement. My escape plan. My ticket out of my family's suffocating grip and the startup capital for my lifelong dream: a bakery.

The contract was ironclad. It had a strict fidelity clause. If I was found "unfaithful" before the divorce was finalized, I would lose everything.

Who? Who would do this to me?

Fragments of last night's bachelorette party for my friend Sarah flooded back. Laughter, loud music, and a cocktail that tasted wrong. Sweet at first, then bitter. Then dizziness, and a heat that spread through my veins like fire.

I had been drugged.

The realization hit me like a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs.

Panic seized my throat. I had to get out. Now. Before he woke up.

I carefully peeled the heavy duvet off my body, my bare feet meeting the cold, soft carpet. My dress lay crumpled on the floor, the seam at the shoulder ripped. A fresh wave of shame and nausea washed over me. I forced myself to stay calm, grabbed the torn dress and put it on.

The room was dark, but a sliver of city light seeped through the gap in the heavy curtains. It illuminated the sharp line of his jaw, as well as the faint scars at the edge of his left eyebrow and along the side of his neck.

His arm, corded with muscle, hung over the edge of the bed. A thick, costly emerald watch adorned his wrist, and a platinum ring circled his finger. This wasn't some random guy. But how did he get here? I didn't have time to think.

My bag was on the sofa across the room. I tiptoed toward it, each step feeling like an eternity. My hand closed around the strap, and relief flooded through me.

But as I pulled it, my elbow knocked against something. A metallic clink echoed as a lighter hit the floor.

The man in the bed stirred. A low grumble rumbled from his throat, and he shifted.

I froze, my breath caught in my chest. Every muscle in my body screamed at me to run, but I was rooted to the spot.

Seconds stretched into an eternity before his breathing evened out again.

I didn't wait for a second chance. I snatched up the man's shirt and coat lying on the floor, threw them over myself, and ran out of the room barefoot, shaking uncontrollably. I only came to a halt when I jabbed desperately at the elevator button.

The moment the doors closed, my legs gave out. I collapsed to the floor, gasping, my body shaking uncontrollably.

When I finally stumbled back into my tiny apartment, dawn was breaking. The first thing I did was go to the bathroom. I turned on the shower, the water scalding. It wasn't enough. I scrubbed at my skin until it was red and raw, but I couldn't wash away the feeling of being dirty, of being violated.

I slumped against the cold tiles, letting exhaustion swallow me whole.

My phone buzzed on the counter. Dozens of missed calls and messages from my friends, all asking where I had gone last night.

My hands trembling, I typed out a message to Sarah, the one who had handed me that drink.

"What was in that cocktail?"

I waited five minutes. No reply from Sarah. But I couldn't keep waiting. I walked to my kitchen, the only place I felt in control. I started to bake. The familiar, comforting scents of flour and butter calmed my frayed nerves. I needed my bakery. I needed that money. I needed my freedom. I couldn't let anyone, least of all some faceless man, destroy that.

Outside, the sky was growing lighter. The city was waking up, but my nightmare was just beginning.

My phone buzzed again. This time, it was Sarah's reply.

Just three words.

"Chloe, I'm sorry."

I stared at the screen. The anger and betrayal that flooded through me was colder and sharper than the helpless fear in that hotel room.

I walked back to the kitchen and looked at the perfectly baked cupcakes I had made through the night. They were meant to be a celebration of my new life.

I picked one up.

I squeezed it, my knuckles white. The soft cake and sickly sweet frosting oozed through my fingers, sticky and disgusting. The feeling made me want to vomit.

I had to be smart about this. I had to find out who had put Sarah up to this.

More importantly, I had to make sure the Kensington family never found out. Especially not him. The husband I had never met. The man who held my entire future in his hands.

I took a deep breath and began to clean the mess from my hands. The girl in the mirror was exhausted, with hollow eyes, but there was a new resolve there, a glint in her gaze that I had never seen before.

Then the doorbell rang.

The sharp, sudden sound cut through the morning quiet. I froze, every nerve ending on fire.

Who would be here at this hour?