From Jilted Ex To Your Billionaire Stepmother

Jenna Flynn POV:

I pushed open the heavy wooden door of the W Boston penthouse suite without knocking. A draft of early winter air rushed in from the cracked floor-to-ceiling window, carrying the sour stench of spilled champagne and cheap cedar cologne.

My eyes passed over the Boston rookie hockey jersey tangled on the carpet and locked onto the muscular man scrambling to pull the duvet over his bare waist. Gary Mitchell-my boyfriend of six years, the NHL rookie defenseman I had practically carried through college-froze.

"Jenna? Listen to me, this was an accident..."

Gary raked a hand through his messy light-brown hair, panic flashing in his gray-blue eyes. He tried to sit up, but a manicured hand pressed flat against his chest.

Keri Koch leaned against his bare shoulder, tossing her blonde waves over her collarbone so I had a clear view of the fresh red marks on her skin.

"Drop the act, Gary."

I took two steps forward, my heels sinking into the plush wool rug.

"Your accidents are always as scheduled as the league's road trips."

Gary's face stiffened, his panic morphing into cornered irritation.

"Fine. Since you saw it, I'll be straight with you. Keri is back, and I can't let her down."

"I don't mind your past with him, Jenna," Keri said, her voice sugary as she traced her red nails down Gary's arm. "After all, you were just a placeholder while he was at rock bottom."

Bile rose in the back of my throat. I curled my fingers into my palms until the drafting callus on my right middle finger pressed hard against my skin, forcing my breathing to stay steady.

"A placeholder?"

I walked to the mahogany bar, picked up the half-empty bottle of Dom Pérignon, and tilted it toward the light.

"Six years. From a rink rat who couldn't afford a carbon-fiber stick to a first-round NHL rookie."

Gary flinched back half an inch before puffing out his chest.

"I'll compensate you. Name your price, take the money, and get out of my life."

I set the bottle down with a sharp clink against the marble, pulled a Montblanc pen from my purse, and tore a sheet from the hotel notepad.

"Since Young Master Mitchell is feeling generous, let's settle six years of PR management, tutoring, and emotional labor all at once."

I wrote down a figure and slapped the note onto the nightstand in front of him.

Gary glanced down, his pupils shrinking.

"Twenty-five million dollars? Jenna, have you lost your mind? Why don't you just rob a bank!"

Keri gasped, covering her mouth with a mocking laugh.

"God, Gary, I told you she was a total gold digger. She must be desperate."

"With your new endorsement deals and rookie contract, this is pocket change," I said, looking down at him without blinking. "Or would you prefer I send the records of your underground sports betting straight to the NHL Morality Committee?"

The blood drained from Gary's face. His hand shook as he pointed a finger at me.

"You... you kept copies?"

"Write the check, or wait for a league suspension."

I leaned in and shoved the pen between his stiff fingers.

"Pick one."

Gritting his teeth, Gary grabbed his checkbook from the drawer and scrawled the numbers across the paper. I plucked the check from his fingers, verified the signature, and folded it neatly into my Dior wallet.

"A bitch and a dog. May you two rot together."

I snapped my bag shut, walked out, and slammed the heavy oak door behind me, cutting off Keri's shrill scream.

Walking briskly down the carpeted hallway toward the elevators, the tight band around my ribs finally loosened. I pressed the down button, watching my pale face in the polished steel doors before stepping inside.

As the elevator dropped, I pulled my vibrating phone from my coat pocket. Over a dozen texts from my mother, Fannye, lit up the screen.

"Jenna, your brother found a house and needs two hundred grand for the down payment. Get it from Gary and wire it today!"

Another voice-to-text message popped up right below it.

"He's a Mitchell! That money is nothing to him. Stop being so selfish and only thinking about yourself!"

A cold chill crawled up my spine. Leaning against the steel wall, I typed back quickly.

"Gary and I broke up. Don't ask me for money again."

Two seconds later, Fannye's reply flashed across the screen.

"Broke up? Are you insane! What about your brother's mortgage? Are you trying to kill us?"

My lips curved into a flat line. I opened her contact page and tapped "Block this Caller."

The elevator chimed on the ground floor. I stepped through the revolving doors into the freezing Boston wind and climbed into the back of a waiting Uber, giving the driver the address to my studio apartment.

Resting my head against the cold window glass, I kept my hand over the wallet holding my twenty-five-million-dollar fresh start.

My phone screen lit up again with a text from an unknown number.

"Heard you're single again. Perhaps we should talk. -Hughes Mitchell."

Jenna Flynn POV:

Twenty minutes later, the Uber dropped me off at my rundown apartment building. After a hot shower, I sat on my worn fabric sofa wrapped in a bathrobe, my thumb rubbing the edge of my phone as I stared at the name Hughes Mitchell on the screen.

Before I could figure out how he knew, my phone blared with a harsh ringtone. The caller ID showed my father, Cleave Hubbard.

I hit answer, and Cleave's gravelly Rust Belt roar blasted through the speaker.

"Jenna! You got some nerve blocking your mother! Get your ass back here and pay for your brother's house!"

"I made myself clear," I said, keeping my voice flat. "I have no money, and you aren't getting another dime from me."

"You ungrateful little slut! If we hadn't raised you, you'd have died in a ditch!"

His shouting made my eardrums ache. I ended the call and slammed the phone face-down on the coffee table, my chest heaving.

Two steady, measured knocks sounded at my front door.

I slid into my slippers, walked to the door, and looked through the peephole. My breath caught.

Standing in the dim hallway was a man well over six feet tall in a tailored black suit, the overhead light casting sharp shadows along his jawline.

I took a deep breath, turned the deadbolt, and pulled the door open, tilting my head back to look at the legendary NHL captain, billionaire head of the MSE Sports Empire, and the man who had legally adopted Gary.

"Mr. Mitchell... Captain?"

My throat felt dry, my voice barely above a whisper.

Hughes looked down at me through minimalist rimless glasses, his steel-gray eyes calm.

"Aren't you going to invite me in, Jenna?"

I stepped aside. His Italian leather shoes clicked against my cheap laminate flooring as he walked into the cramped living room.

"I thought that text was a prank," I said, shutting the door and pouring him a glass of water at the counter to keep my hands busy.

Hughes took the glass, the hockey calluses on his long fingers brushing mine.

"I don't make boring jokes."

He set the water on the coffee table and sat down, crossing his hands over his knee.

"I heard you walked away from Gary with a twenty-five-million-dollar check."

"I earned every cent," I said, digging my nails into my palms as I met his gaze. "If you're here as his adoptive father to demand it back, you're wasting your time."

The corner of Hughes's mouth lifted fractionally.

"Demand it back? Since that idiot can't control his lower half, he deserves to pay the price."

I blinked, caught off guard by the cold contempt in his voice toward his own adopted son.

"I'm here for a deal worth far more than twenty-five million." Hughes pushed his rimless glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"What kind of deal?" I took half a step back until my spine touched the cool plaster wall.

"Marry me."

His tone was as level as if he were discussing the weather. My lungs locked up.

"Are you kidding me? I'm your adopted son's ex-girlfriend!"

"That doesn't matter to me."

Hughes stood up, his tall frame blocking the ceiling light and casting a shadow over me.

"The elders in my family are breathing down my neck to settle down. I need a wife, and you check every box-you're smart, gorgeous, with an elite degree and a stellar resume." His steel-gray eyes darkened as he took a slow step closer, the heat of his gaze pinning me against the wall. "More importantly, you intrigue me, Jenna. I admire a woman with a clear head and real ambition. You know how to leverage every resource at your disposal, and walking away from a breakup with your ex willingly handing over twenty-five million proves you have the exact teeth required to be Mrs. Mitchell. Marry me, and you'll get everything you want-money, resources, status, and the sweet satisfaction of getting back at Gary."

Every word hit my exact weak spot.

"As for Gary..." Hughes's eyes turned ice-cold. "He doesn't even have the right to object."

I bit down on my lower lip, my pulse hammering against my ribs as he pulled a bound document from his inside jacket pocket and held it out.

"A two-year marriage contract. Ten million a month in allowance, plus priority bidding rights on all new arena projects under MSE."

I took the heavy folder, my eyes locking onto the words "priority bidding rights."

"Will I be a satisfactory second party?" I looked up at him.

Hughes held my gaze for a long beat before speaking in a low voice.

"You will be the only Mrs. Mitchell."

He turned toward the door, pausing with his hand on the brass knob.

"Tomorrow morning at ten, Boston City Hall. Bring your ID. I don't like waiting."

Jenna Flynn POV:

At nine-fifty the next morning, I smoothed down my white tweed suit and walked up the gray granite steps of Boston City Hall under a pale winter sun.

A black armored Maybach waited at the curb. The rear door opened, and Hughes stepped out in a dark gray cashmere overcoat.

"You're punctual," Hughes said, stopping beside me and offering his right arm.

I hesitated for a second before slipping my black-gloved hand into the crook of his elbow.

"Contractual compliance is basic professional ethics, Captain."

Hughes's stride hitched slightly at the title, his lips pressing into a thin line, though he said nothing as he led me through the revolving doors.

Inside under the vintage dome, his personal assistant, Jarvis Nichols, was already waiting by the VIP elevator to escort us past the public lines. Within five minutes, we were seated across from an officiant in a private mahogany-paneled office with two marriage registration forms on the desk.

I pulled off my gloves, picked up the heavy pen, and glanced at the man beside me. Hughes had already signed his name in bold, sharp strokes and was watching me steadily.

I pressed the nib to the paper and signed "Jenna Flynn."

The clerk pressed the heavy steel seal onto the paper with a dull thud.

"Congratulations, Mr. Mitchell, Mrs. Mitchell."

My heart skipped a beat at the new title. Hughes stood up and buttoned his coat.

"Let's go, Mrs. Mitchell. Time to pack your luggage."

I frowned, standing up beside him.

"Luggage? I thought I only needed to show up for public events."

"Do you think the tabloids will buy a loving couple who live in separate zip codes?" he asked, holding the office door open for me.

Half an hour later, the Maybach pulled up in front of my peeling apartment building. Ignoring the stares of my neighbors, Hughes bypassed his driver and followed me up the narrow, dimly lit stairwell.

I unlocked my door and gestured helplessly at the cramped room.

"Captain, it's a mess in here. You can wait in the car while I pack."

"I'm not in the habit of letting my wife move heavy boxes alone."

Hughes shrugged off his cashmere overcoat, draped it over the sofa back, and rolled up his shirt sleeves, exposing his muscular forearms. Left with no choice, I pulled out two cardboard boxes and started rolling up my blueprints.

The studio was barely big enough for one person, let alone a professional hockey player. Every time we turned around, the scent of cedar and his crisp aftershave filled my nose.

Reaching on my tiptoes for a thick architectural yearbook on the top shelf, my heel caught on the edge of the rug. My foot slipped, and I pitched backward.

A broad, calloused hand caught me squarely around the lower waist, pulling me back against a solid chest. The heat of his palm burned straight through my thin blouse.

"Careful," he murmured, his breath brushing the shell of my ear.

My face grew hot as I scrambled to my feet and stepped away.

"Thank you... I've got it."

Hughes lowered his hand, rubbing his thumb against his fingertips before turning toward the closet. I faced the bookshelf, taking a slow breath to calm my racing pulse as I shoved the drawings into a plastic tube.

Behind me, the closet door slid open, followed by the heavy thud of things being thrown.

I turned around just in time to see Hughes toss a men's gray-blue wool scarf and a faded Boston Bruins hoodie straight into the metal trash can in the corner.

Those were Gary's old clothes that I hadn't gotten around to throwing out yet.

"Captain, what are you..."

Hughes turned to face me, his jaw set hard and the air in the small room dropping ten degrees.

"I don't need another man's scent in my house."