ley

m and climbed the stairs. The lingering smell of whiskey a

hand stopped on the doorknob. Beckett had not gone to his own suite in the west wing. He lay sprawled acro

in the g

he had passed out, his raspy voice cut t

Then the other half of that bed is

e wall sconce, his ice‑blue gaze looked completel

o let him chase me out of my own space. I marched past the foot of the bed, set my broken phone on the

settled over the suite, thick and suffocating, broken only

close to him dragged me back two yea

pregnancy test. The father was Beckett, the golden boy of the NHL who did not eve

ore, who had saved my grandfather's life decades ago-swore he would look after me. Wh

er to the edge. Sponsors were threatening to pull millions, and the front office was ready to i

at City Hall. A month later I lost the baby to a miscarriage, alone

ained, locking us into a fake marriage until his

o think sharing a roof might thaw th

y, muscular arm draped over my waist, radiating he

ur hand

ghter, yanked me backward against his hard chest, and

my pulse point. The scent of vani

woman, Beckett. It makes

ly shoved me away and rolled off the opposite side of the bed. In the dark I heard the wardrob

lly spilled over my lashes, soaking silently into the pillow. I

He did not come back to the bed. He yanked a spare blanket from the wardrobe, tossed it onto the v

his stare burn into the back of my sk

. My dreams were a tangled mess of spide

apes, my eyes fluttered open. The chaise was em

red phone, sat a brand‑new, factory‑

h Beckett's slanted handwriting: "S

nics could buy my silence after last night? I grabbed the metal trash can and swept the not