I Woke Up Married To A Stranger Hockey Prince

Cecelia POV:

My head pounded with the force of a jackhammer, every throb keeping time with the ghost of a Las Vegas bassline.

I tried to roll over, only to find myself pinned to the mattress beneath a heavy, scorching weight. A man's arm. Thick with muscle, heavily tattooed, and fiercely possessive.

My breath caught in my throat. The scent wrapping around me-an intoxicating, expensive blend of cedarwood cologne and raw, unapologetic male musk-was entirely foreign to my cramped apartment above the floral shop. I snapped my eyes open. Beyond the ridiculous thread-count of the silk sheets, a floor-to-ceiling window framed the blinding, excessive skyline of the Vegas Strip. And I was drowning in an oversized men's white button-down shirt. My own clothes were nowhere in sight.

Last night was a shattered kaleidoscope. The hypnotic spin of a roulette wheel, the thumping bass of a nightclub, the sharp, fiery burn of cheap tequila slipping down my throat. That was it. Total blackout.

I carefully lifted the dead weight of the stranger's arm and scrambled out of the bed. As I reached up to press the heels of my hands against my throbbing temples, a cold, heavy flash of light caught my eye.

A diamond. A rock so obscenely large and brilliant it made my stomach drop, securely wedged onto my left ring finger.

No. No, no, no. Nausea rolled in my gut.

My frantic gaze swept the mahogany nightstand and landed on a piece of thick parchment bearing the tacky pink logo of a 24-hour midnight wedding chapel. My hands shook as I picked it up.

A marriage certificate. Signed in stark black ink: Garrick Sinclair and Cecelia Dalton.

Me? A totally average florist who clipped coupons to make rent? Married to a complete stranger after a tequila bender? The sheer absurdity and suffocating panic threatened to pull me under.

The crisp rustle of the paper must have disturbed him. The man shifted, pushing himself up against the tufted headboard. The silk sheets pooled around his waist, exposing a fiercely sculpted torso dusted with faded scars and aggressive sleeves of ink climbing over his broad shoulders.

He opened his eyes, and the blood froze in my veins.

They were ice-blue. Predatory. Unforgiving. I knew that face. Anyone who had ever glanced at a sports channel or walked past a towering billboard in downtown Chicago knew exactly who he was.

Garrick Sinclair. Captain of the Chicago Mustangs. The highest-paid, most ruthless enforcer in the NHL. They called him "The Beast" for his savage plays on the ice.

Right now, the Beast was looking at me like I was something scraped off the bottom of his skate. No shock. No morning-after panic. Just a slow, derisive smirk as his gaze flicked from my face to the marriage certificate trembling in my hand.

"Congratulations," his voice was a low, gravelly rasp, dripping with pure disdain. "You played the long game and finally hit the jackpot."

"What?" I breathed, my mind completely short-circuiting.

Garrick scoffed, swinging his long legs out of bed. His sheer size was intimidating, forcing my survival instincts to kick in as I took a step back. "Save the innocent act, sweetheart. Spotting me at the club, pouring drinks down my throat, and dragging my blacked-out ass to some neon chapel-I've seen every play in the book. You women who will do anything for a payout and a last name are all the same."

He turned to a pair of tailored slacks discarded on the floor, pulling a checkbook from the pocket without even looking at me. "Name your price. How much to make this little charade disappear right now?"

Humiliation slapped me across the face, quickly sparking into white-hot anger.

"I don't want your money!" I snapped, my voice shaking with a mix of indignation and fear. I clenched my fists at my sides. "I don't even remember last night! I just want to know what the hell happened!"

Garrick froze, his pen hovering over the check.

He looked up, his glacial eyes locking onto mine. For a fraction of a second, I saw a flicker of doubt break through his icy facade. He was assessing me, his gaze sharp and calculating, trying to figure out if my outrage was a world-class performance or genuine panic. I clearly wasn't following the script he expected.

But as quickly as it appeared, the wall came back up. A man who lived his life dodging opportunists wasn't about to trust a stranger in his hotel room.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night," he muttered, tossing the checkbook onto the dresser. He grabbed his phone and hit a speed dial. "Marco. It's me. Vegas. We have a situation. Look up the chapel on the certificate I'm about to send you, and get the legal team drafting annulment papers. Yeah. Right now."

He hung up and shot me a look that made me feel microscopic. "My lawyers will be in touch. Grab your things and get out of my room."

My throat burned, but I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper. I refused to give this bastard the satisfaction of seeing me cry. I darted into the massive bathroom, shimmied into my wrinkled dress from last night, and snatched my clutch.

"Don't worry, Mr. Sinclair," I said from the doorway, keeping my spine steel-rod straight as I held on to my last shred of dignity. "I want out of this mistake just as badly as you do."

The heavy mahogany door clicked shut behind me.

I stood in the plush, silent hallway of the hotel, my hands shaking uncontrollably. The adrenaline that had kept my spine straight just moments ago evaporated, leaving me hollow and trembling. His disdainful, calculating eyes felt like physical bruises on my skin.

I practically ran to the elevator, jabbing the button until the silver doors slid open. As the car plummeted toward the casino floor, the silence pressed in on me, heavy and suffocating.

Minutes later, I was huddled in the back of a taxi, watching the blinding neon lights of the Vegas Strip blur past the window. The morning sun was just starting to bleed over the desert horizon, a harsh contrast to the nightmare I was trapped in.

I looked down at my left hand. The diamond caught the passing streetlights, mocking me with its heavy, obscene brilliance.

How did this happen?

I pressed my forehead against the cool glass of the window, trying to force my fragmented memories to align. The roulette wheel. The tequila. But between that first burning shot and waking up in a billionaire's bed... nothing. Just a terrifying, gaping void.

I was just a florist. My biggest worry yesterday was whether the wholesale orchids would arrive on time, and if I had enough coupons to cover my grocery run. Now, I was legally bound to Chicago's most notorious athlete-a man who looked at me like I was a parasite.

He said his lawyers would handle it. A quick signature, a quiet annulment, and we'd be strangers again. That was the logical outcome.

But as the cab pulled up to my cramped apartment building, a tight knot of dread formed in my chest. You don't just cross paths with a man like Garrick Sinclair and walk away unscathed.

I stared at the tacky pink marriage certificate still clutched in my hand. Was it really going to be that simple? Or had my quiet, ordinary life just been turned completely upside down?

Cecelia POV:

The earthy scent of damp soil and fresh eucalyptus should have calmed me. Emma's Blooms was my safe haven, a quiet little flower shop tucked away in the Chicago suburbs. But today, the familiar environment couldn't wash away the exhaustion clinging to my bones-or the reality of what had happened in Las Vegas.

I shoved my left hand deeper into the pocket of my canvas apron. Underneath the thick green fabric, the massive diamond ring felt like a lead weight. I had spent ten minutes in the back room bathroom with liquid soap, frantically trying to pull it off, but the flight and the sheer panic had left my knuckle too swollen. It wouldn't budge. For now, it had to stay hidden.

"Cece?"

I jumped, spinning around to see my mother, Emma, stepping out from the greenhouse. Her brow furrowed as she took in my pale face and the dark circles under my eyes. "Honey, you look like a ghost. Are you in some kind of trouble?"

My heart hammered against my ribs. I couldn't tell her the truth. I couldn't tell her I was legally tethered to a stranger. "Just jet lag, Mom," I managed a weak smile. "And a little... accident in Vegas. It's nothing I can't handle."

She studied me for a long moment. I braced myself for the interrogation, but she just sighed softly and nodded, choosing to respect my boundaries.

When she went back to the greenhouse, I pulled out my phone with trembling fingers. I opened a browser and typed in the name burned into my memory: Garrick Sinclair.

The search results exploded across my screen. My breath hitched. He wasn't just a wealthy stranger. He was the star player for the Chicago Mustangs, splashed across sports pages and tabloids alike. The media called him the "Ice Beast"-a ruthless, cold-hearted force both on the field and off.

Staring at his glaring press photo, a chilling realization washed over me. I had somehow collided with a man who lived in a completely different universe. I didn't want his money or his fame. I just wanted my ordinary life back. I decided right then: I would keep this marriage an absolute secret until I figured out a way to quietly undo it.

Garrick POV:

I threw my gym bag onto the leather sofa of my penthouse. After a brutal morning practice where my teammates kept asking why I was so off my game, I just wanted to move on from the Vegas disaster. I had shut down their questions in the locker room-my private life wasn't up for discussion.

But Marco, my fixer, was already waiting by the kitchen island. He slid a manila folder across the marble counter. "Preliminary background check on your new wife."

I grabbed a bottle of water. "Tell me she's a con artist so I can just pay her off."

"That's the problem," Marco said, crossing his arms. "Cecelia is a florist. No trust funds, no offshore accounts, no suspicious debts. She doesn't have the profile of a gold digger, Garrick. She has zero motive to get close to you."

I frowned, staring at her photo in the file. The investigation directly clashed with my instincts. I thought of the way she had looked at me in the hotel room, the sheer panic in her eyes when she firmly rejected my blank check. For the first time in my life, I couldn't get a read on someone.

Before I could process it, my phone buzzed. The caller ID read Chicago Memorial Hospital.

Twenty minutes later, I was pacing the sterile, brightly lit hallway of the ER. The suffocating smell of antiseptic clawed at my throat.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Sinclair," the doctor murmured, looking down at his clipboard. "Your father passed away shortly before you arrived. Given the sudden nature of his cardiac arrest, there are some inconsistencies. We need to run a few more tests to confirm the exact cause of death."

I stared at him, my face a carefully constructed mask of ice, though a violent tremor shook my chest. John Sinclair was dead. The titan who controlled the Sinclair empire, the man I had spent my life fighting, was gone. There were so many bitter words left unsaid between us.

"Garrick."

I turned to see Davis, the family attorney, stepping out of the shadows. "My condolences," he said smoothly. "I've already secured your father's private files. The arrangements for the estate and the company's controlling shares will be revealed at the will reading tomorrow."

"Fine," I said coldly.

"There is one more thing," Davis hesitated, adjusting his glasses. "Before I can proceed, I need you to confirm your current marital status."

My blood ran cold. "Why?"

"Because your father made a highly specific amendment to his trust last week. It hinges entirely on whether you are legally married."

I froze. I reached into my jacket pocket, my fingers brushing against the folded copy of the Vegas marriage certificate Marco had handed me earlier. A sickening realization hit me like a freight train. I had thought the wedding was a drunken mistake, a temporary lapse in judgment.

I pulled the paper out slightly, my eyes locking onto the ink spelling out Cecelia. She wasn't just a random headache. She was a carefully planted piece on my father's chessboard.

Garrick POV:

The mahogany conference table at Sinclair & Associates was as cold and unyielding as the legacy my father had left behind. I sat in the oppressive silence of the boardroom, staring at the thick manila folder the estate lawyer had just pushed across the polished wood.

"John left a series of private documents," the lawyer explained, his tone carefully neutral. "Specifically regarding your... recent change in marital status."

I flipped the folder open. Cecelia. Her name stared back at me, inked onto a legally binding postnuptial agreement. My jaw tightened. This wasn't just a drunken Vegas mistake. The document detailed her as my lawful wife, but it was the clauses that made my blood run cold. There was a staggering financial penalty written into the contract-one that would financially ruin her if she ever actively initiated a divorce.

A document of this complexity couldn't be drafted and finalized overnight. Someone had meticulously planned this. Someone had anticipated this marriage long before I ever stepped foot in that chapel. My father?

Once the attorney excused himself, I looked up at Peter Stone, who was waiting quietly by the frosted glass door of the conference room. "Tell me you found something on her."

Peter walked over and handed me a tablet. "Nothing you want to hear, Garrick. She's a florist. Runs a small shop here in Chicago. No ties to anyone in our circle. No sudden offshore deposits, no suspicious wire transfers, no history of trailing the Sinclair family. As far as I can tell, her life is completely ordinary."

I stared at the screen, a knot of contradiction tightening in my chest. If this was a calculated scam, where was her endgame? Where was the payoff? I thought back to the hotel room-how her hands had shaken, how she had shoved my blank check back in my face with fierce indignation. My past had taught me the hard way that people only ever wanted my name or my money, but the math here simply wasn't adding up. I needed to look her in the eye and see the truth for myself.

Thirty minutes later, I pushed open the glass door of Petals & Stems. A brass bell chimed brightly overhead. The air inside was warm, thick with the scent of damp earth, crushed eucalyptus, and blooming roses. It was a jarring, intimate contrast to the sterile, cutthroat corporate world I had just left.

Cecelia was behind the wooden counter, a canvas apron tied over her jeans, arranging a bundle of white lilies. When she looked up and saw me, the color instantly drained from her face. Her shoulders went rigid, her grip tightening on the floral shears. She clearly thought I was here to force her hand, to threaten her into a divorce she supposedly didn't even want to initiate.

I bypassed the pleasantries, stepping into the narrow space. "Did you know John Sinclair?"

She blinked, stepping back against the wooden display shelves. "Who?"

"My father."

"I don't know who that is," she said, her brow furrowing in genuine, unscripted confusion. "Garrick, I didn't even know who you were until the morning after the wedding. I swear."

I watched her chest rise and fall, tracking the microscopic twitches in her expression. I'd spent years reading tells at negotiation tables and in boardrooms. She wasn't acting.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly but laced with a sudden, fierce defiance. "Why do you automatically assume I'm trying to use you?"

The question hit me harder than I expected. For the first time, a crack formed in my absolute certainty. My paranoia, forged by years of being a walking target, had just blindsided a woman who was likely nothing more than collateral damage.

She moved out from behind the counter toward the small seating area at the back of the shop, gesturing to the cluttered, vibrant space around us. "I don't want your money. I don't want your world, and I definitely don't want to be Mrs. Sinclair. I just want my normal life back, and I want to know what the hell happened to us in Vegas."

I looked at her. Really looked at her. I saw the exhaustion in her eyes, a perfect mirror to my own. She wasn't holding out for a better payout. She was desperate to escape a cage she didn't even know she was in.

"I..." I started, the words feeling foreign on my tongue. I couldn't bring myself to offer a direct apology, but I let the harsh ice melt from my voice. "I'm trying to figure that out."

The heavy hostility between us flickered, replaced by a tentative, fragile silence. It was the first real conversation we'd had since waking up with rings on our fingers. The invisible wall between us had finally fractured.

I turned toward the door, stopping with my hand on the brass handle. I looked back at her, standing small but resilient among the vibrant flowers.

"Don't trust anyone, Cecelia," I warned, my voice low. "Especially not anyone claiming to represent the Sinclair family."

I walked out into the biting Chicago wind, the heavy stock of the postnuptial agreement burning a hole in my briefcase. I finally knew the truth about my new wife. She hadn't designed this trap. But if Cecelia was entirely innocent, then the reality of our situation was far more dangerous.

Who had forced us down the aisle?