Married To My Ex's Powerful Billionaire Uncle

Elianna POV:

The room was spinning before I even finished the champagne.

It wasn't a gentle sway. It was a violent, lurching tilt that made the crystal chandeliers of the estate blur into streaks of aggressive light. I gripped the edge of the high table, my knuckles turning white, trying to anchor myself to the floor.

"You look pale, dear."

Kena Whitehead's voice was smooth, like velvet wrapped around a jagged rock. My future mother-in-law stood too close, her hand resting on my shoulder with a weight that felt less like comfort and more like a restraint.

"I... I can't find Kenan," I managed to say. My tongue felt thick, heavy in my mouth. "He said he'd be right back."

"Kenan is busy with the team sponsors, Elianna. You know how important this contract is." Kena smiled, but her eyes remained cold, calculating. She signaled a passing waiter with a sharp flick of her wrist. "Take Ms. Hayes to the guest suite. She needs to lie down. The champagne was evidently too strong for her."

"No, I just need fresh air-" I tried to pull away, but my legs betrayed me. They felt like they were filled with lead.

The waiter, a man with a face as blank as a slate, took my arm. His grip was firm. "This way, ma'am."

He didn't lead me toward the main staircase where the other guests were mingling. He steered me away from the warmth, down a corridor that grew quieter and colder with every step. The plush carpet swallowed the sound of our footsteps. The air changed, smelling less like expensive perfume and more like old cedar and rain.

We were in the West Wing. The part of the estate Kenan always told me to avoid.

"Wait," I slurred, dragging my feet. "This isn't..."

The waiter didn't answer. He stopped in front of a heavy oak door at the end of the hall. He opened it, the hinges groaning in protest, and practically shoved me inside.

I stumbled, my knees hitting the thick Persian rug with a thud.

"Kenan?" I called out into the darkness.

The click of the lock turning behind me was the loudest sound I had ever heard.

Panic flared in my chest, hot and sharp, cutting through the haze of the drug. I scrambled to my feet, swaying, and turned back to the door. I rattled the handle. Locked.

"Help!" I screamed, but my voice was weak, absorbed by the heavy tapestries on the walls.

A flash of lightning tore through the sky outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the room in a stark, blue-white burst.

That's when I saw him.

He was sitting in the corner, a silhouette carved from the shadows. He wasn't Kenan. This man was broader, darker. He was seated in a wheelchair, his hands resting motionless on the armrests.

Beckett Sinclair.

The fallen god of the ice. The legendary NHL captain. The man the family whispered about with a mixture of pity and disdain.Also Kenan's uncle.

He didn't move. He didn't speak. He just watched me with eyes that glinted in the dark.

The drug surged again, a wave of heat that started in my stomach and clawed its way up my throat. It wasn't just heat; it was a disorienting vertigo that made the world tilt on its axis. I couldn't think. I couldn't breathe. I just needed safety. I needed Kenan. My confused brain superimposed Kenan's face onto the man in the shadows.

I stumbled toward him.

"Kenan," I whimpered, tears blurring my vision. "Please. It hurts."

I fell at his feet, my hands grasping his knees. The fabric of his trousers was cool against my burning palms. I could feel the rigid metal of his leg braces beneath the cloth, hard, cold, and unyielding against my touch.

Beckett didn't flinch. He didn't kick me away, but he didn't help me either. He sat there like a statue, a ruined king on a broken throne.

"You're in the wrong room, Elianna," his voice was a low rumble, vibrating through the darkness. It wasn't the voice of a weak man. It was the growl of something dangerous that had been chained up for too long.

"Help me," I begged, the heat becoming unbearable. I tugged at the neckline of my dress, desperate for air. "So dizzy... please..."

I heard a sharp intake of breath from him.

"Silas," Beckett said into the empty air, his voice dropping an octave.

A small earpiece I hadn't noticed blinked with a faint blue light. "Lock down the wing. No one enters until I say so. Kena made her move."

I didn't understand what he was saying. My head fell onto his lap. The scent of him-sandalwood, tobacco, and something uniquely masculine-filled my senses, drowning out the cedar smell of the room.

I couldn't make out the face of the man above me; I could only vaguely discern his features.

His facial structure was sharply defined-handsome in a refined yet rugged, masculine way.

A high, straight bridge of the nose...

Large hands, with thick, prominent knuckles...

"Relax a little..."

"Baby, you're so tense..."

The man sighed in a low voice, his large hand firmly gripping mine and pressing it against the cold tiles.

"...I can't be gentle at all."

His sudden assertiveness made my body tremble; I nearly collapsed to the floor.

I couldn't handle it anymore; tears welled up in my eyes as I whimpered,

"Wh... when will it end?"

Beckett's gaze darkened; his large hand, with its prominent veins, shifted to my waist and suddenly tightened its grip.

"Mmph..." My mind went blank for a moment.

The man kissed my earlobe, his low, husky voice resonating against my eardrum.

"Be a good girl-five more times. You count them out, and then we're done."

I let out a breath of relief and parted my lips, a voice full of grievance and frailty escaping them.

"One... two... five... I'm done counting. Can... can we stop now?"

"Heh." Beckett chuckled softly, his deep, dark eyes fixed intently on me.

"Sweetheart, that's not the kind of counting I meant..."

I froze, stunned; before I could process his words, a large hand clamped firmly onto my chin.

His scent washed over me as he sealed my lips with his own, enveloping me completely in an intense, suffocating aura of raw masculinity.

Steam billowed through the bathroom, thoroughly blurring my vision.

Yet, my senses felt sharper than ever...

Hours later, his hand hovered over my head for a second, hesitant. Then, with a sigh that sounded like resignation, his fingers brushed against my hair. His touch was electric, sending a jolt through my numb body.

"Sleep," he commanded softly.

The last thing I remembered was the terrifying realization that the legs felt as cold and lifeless as stone, encased in their metal prison.

Elianna POV:

The sound of a key grinding in the lock was violent enough to wake the dead.

I gasped, shooting up from the pillows. My head throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache, like a slapshot ringing against the boards inside my skull. I was in a bed. A strange bed. The sheets were gray silk, cool and slippery against my skin.

I looked down. My dress was rumpled, the strap hanging off one shoulder.

"Stay down," a voice commanded from the window.

I snapped my head around. Beckett was there, his wheelchair facing the door. He had his back to me, his posture rigid. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket anymore.

Before I could ask why, he whipped around, holding the tailored black jacket. He threw it at me with the precise accuracy of a former pro.

"Cover yourself."

I barely had time to clutch the jacket to my chest before the door burst open.

It wasn't just Kena. It was a full-blown media circus.

Flashes of light erupted like gunfire. Pop. Pop. Pop. The blinding white strobes from the sports paparazzi left spots in my vision. I screamed, pulling the jacket over my head, curling into a ball of shame.

"Oh my God!" Kena's voice was a theatrical shriek. "Elianna! How could you?"

She stood in the doorway, hand over her mouth, flanked by three men with cameras and a handful of "concerned" VIP guests who looked more like vultures circling a carcass.

"Get out!" Beckett roared.

The sound was so powerful it physically shook the room. The photographers hesitated, lowering their lenses for a split second. Beckett wheeled himself forward, placing his body between the mob and the bed.

"This is my private sanctuary," he snarled, his face twisted in a mask of fury. "Get your cameras out of my face before I break them."

"Beckett," Kena stepped forward, her eyes gleaming with triumph. "We were just looking for Elianna. Kenan was worried sick. And we find her... here? In your bed?"

"I... I don't remember," I sobbed, my voice cracking. "I felt sick. Someone brought me here."

"Likely story," one of the tabloid reporters muttered, snapping another picture over Beckett's broad shoulder.

"She was drunk," Kena declared, turning to the crowd. "Look at her. Disgraceful. Kenanis downstairs playing the heartbroken star captain, and she's up here throwing herself at his crippled uncle."

The word 'crippled' hung in the air, heavy and cruel-a sharp, deliberate jab at the man who used to own the ice.

Beckett's hands gripped the wheels of his chair so hard I thought the metal might bend. He looked at Kena, then back at me. His eyes were dark, unreadable pools. For a second, I saw something flicker there-calculation? Pity?

He turned back to Kena. "She didn't throw herself at me."

The room went silent.

Beckett looked down at his lap, his shoulders slumping in a performance of resignation that was terrifyingly convincing. "We have been seeing each other, Kena. For months."

My jaw dropped. "What? No, that's not-"

"Quiet, Elianna," Beckett snapped, though his eyes warned me to shut up. "She came to me because she couldn't stand the sight of your son anymore. She chose me. We thought we could keep it secret until after the franchise merger, but... clearly, we were careless."

Kena blinked. This wasn't part of her playbook. She wanted me to be the villain, the gold-digging puck bunny preying on a helpless invalid. But Beckett painting himself as the secret lover? It made Kenanlook like a fool who couldn't keep his fiancée in check, and it made the scandal a consensual, albeit messy, affair.

"You... you beast," Kena spat, recovering quickly. "You're disgusting. Stealing your nephew's fiancée?"

"I am what this family made me," Beckett said quietly. "Now get out."

Team security finally arrived, pushing the reporters back into the hallway. The door slammed shut, leaving us in a ringing silence.

I stared at Beckett's back. He was breathing heavily.

"Why?" I whispered. "Why did you say that?"

He turned his chair slowly. The vulnerability was gone. His face was a mask of stone again.

"Because if you were the seductress who drugged herself, Kenan would sue you for breach of contract and destroy your family," he said coldly. "If we are lovers, it's just a scandal. A mess they have to clean up to protect the franchise's stock price. I just bought you a lifeline."

"A lifeline?" I laughed hysterically, tears streaming down my face. "My life is over. Kenanwill never believe me."

"Kenan is the one who let this happen," Beckett said. "Get dressed. Harrison is waiting in the study. The execution begins now."

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.