Married To My Ruthless Childhood Sweetheart

Dana Davenport POV:

I pushed open the heavy wrought-iron gates of the Davenport estate, and the freezing early winter wind of Boston rushed straight down my collar.

The blinding glare of the crystal chandeliers inside the foyer made me squint.

Mary, the head maid who had worked for my family for ten years, turned around at the sound of the door.

The moment she saw my face, her polite, practiced smile froze, and she hurried away with her head down without saying a single word of welcome.

I slipped off my cheap wool coat, draped it over my arm, took a deep breath, and walked toward the grand ballroom where classical music was playing.

As soon as my heel touched the edge of the ballroom floor, the violin music seemed to hit a pause button, and the chatter of Boston's elite died down into a strange silence.

Dozens of eyes filled with judgment, disgust, and amusement hit me like invisible spotlights, making my chest tighten until it was hard to breathe.

I forced my spine straight and scanned the crowd, looking for the person who had forced me to come back to this city.

By the champagne tower, Chloe Sinclair, the wife of our NHL team's star defenseman and a loudmouth in the WAG circle, nudged her friend with her elbow and let out a loud, nasty laugh.

Chloe walked straight toward me with a full glass, and right as she brushed past my shoulder, she tilted her wrist and poured half a glass of ice-cold champagne down my skirt.

The freezing liquid soaked through the thin fabric and clung to my skin, making me gasp and stop in my tracks.

Chloe clapped a hand over her mouth and let out a fake gasp.

"Oh my gosh, I am so sorry! I didn't notice our famous little Puck Bunny standing right there."

Low laughs rippled through the crowd as men in custom tuxedos and women in couture gowns stared openly at the woman the scandal had ruined five years ago.

I didn't scream or cry; I just stared coldly at Chloe's heavily made-up face, pulled a tissue from my clutch, and slowly wiped the wet fabric of my dress.

Chloe looked annoyed that I wasn't breaking down, so she stepped closer and lowered her voice.

"How does a washed-up junkie who got banned from the entire league for failing three drug tests even have the nerve to show up at Henretta's wedding?"

I crumpled the wet tissue into a tight ball, dropped it straight into the empty champagne flute in her hand, lifted my eyelids, and spoke in a flat voice,

"If your brain was big enough to read the invitation, you'd know my noble stepmother forced me to come here to make the family look complete."

Chloe's face turned dark green, and the laughter around us died instantly as I walked right past her toward the center of the hall.

Through the crowd, I finally spotted my biological father, Douglass Davenport, the former NHL Hall of Fame captain, standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows talking with several team executives.

I stopped three steps behind him, swallowed the bitter taste in my throat, and called out softly,

"Father, I'm back."

Douglass stopped talking, but he didn't even turn his head; his fingers just tightened around his cigar.

The team executives beside him exchanged awkward glances, made quick excuses, and walked away with their drinks, leaving the two of us standing there.

I stared at his cold back and dug my fingernails deep into my palms, just about to speak again when a sickly sweet voice floated down from the grand staircase.

My stepmother, Eleanor, walked down the stairs holding the arm of my stepsister, Henretta Reilly, who was dressed in a flashy bridesmaid gown, both of them acting like the true owners of this house.

Eleanor walked right up to Douglass, looped her arm through his, and looked me up and down like she was tossing scraps to a stray dog.

Her lips curled into a fake smile.

"Dana, it must have been so hard for you to crawl out of that tiny, run-down academic apartment near your Ivy League lab just to attend this wedding rehearsal."

Henretta played with the blinding diamond tennis bracelet on her wrist and clicked her heels right up to my face, her eyes full of a winner's pride.

She leaned close to my ear and whispered so only the two of us could hear,

"Look at how poor and pathetic you look right now. Try not to scare my fiancé later."

I looked at the mother-daughter pair putting on their show and kept my voice completely flat.

"I'll leave as soon as I've done my part here, so you two don't need to be so nervous."

Henretta let out a sharp, cold laugh and suddenly grabbed my wrist so hard the bone ached.

She dragged me toward the far end of the ballroom without letting me refuse and announced loudly,

"Come on, my dear little sister, you have to meet the main man of the night."

I pulled back hard, but with all the guests watching us like a circus act, I didn't want to cause a bigger scene, so I was forced to follow her steps.

We stopped by the leather couches in the darkest corner of the hall, and Henretta called out to a tall man holding a glass of whiskey with his back to us.

The man turned around slowly, and the dim light hit the shallow scar running across his cheek.

The second I saw his face, a loud ringing exploded in my ears, all the blood drained from my limbs, and my breath stopped completely.

It was Vance Sterling, the man who had stood outside that Boston hotel suite five years ago smoking a cigarette while I was drugged and dragged inside.

My mind went blank, a violent wave of nausea rushed up my throat, and pure terror made me rip my wrist out of Henretta's grip.

I stumbled backward like I had just seen a demon, turned around under everyone's shocked stares, and ran wildly toward the exit.

Dana Davenport POV:

I shoved open the heavy side door of the ballroom, my high heels making messy, muffled thuds against the thick carpet of the long hallway as I ran out.

The cold air in the corridor hit my face, but it did nothing to ease the suffocating pressure in my chest, forcing me to lean against the freezing wall and gasp for air.

When I closed my eyes, the camera flashes from that hotel suite five years ago, the sound of ripping fabric, and Vance's cold face flashed wildly in my head.

I raised my shaking hands to cover my ears and started counting backward in my head to ground my senses and push down the PTSD panic attack.

Five, four, three...

Behind me, the ballroom door creaked open again, followed by heavy leather shoes stepping closer, each step hammering right on my nerves.

Pure fear made my eyes fly open, and not daring to look back to see if Vance was chasing me, I bit my lip and bolted forward.

The hallway lights flickered overhead as I blindly rounded the corner leading toward the back garden.

Right as I rushed around the bend, I slammed headfirst into a wall of solid muscle, and the heavy impact threw me backward.

A large, calloused hand shot out in mid-air, wrapped tightly around my wrist, and yanked me back onto my feet.

I crashed hard into a broad chest smelling of mint tobacco and expensive cedarwood cologne, my nose hitting a cold suit button.

That familiar scent that had been burned into my bones since childhood made my whole body freeze, stopping my struggle instantly.

A low, deep grunt sounded above my head, followed by a cold, raspy voice.

"Throwing yourself at me?"

I jerked my head up and looked straight into a pair of deep, icy blue eyes.

Finnegan Ochoa, the biggest superstar and Captain in the NHL, and the childhood sweetheart who had once promised me forever, was looking down at me like I was a stranger.

He wore a custom black suit with his tie pulled loose, his dark hair slightly messy, projecting the terrifying presence he was famous for on the ice.

I tried to pull away from his chest in a panic, but his fingers around my wrist felt like an iron clamp, tightening instead of letting go.

Through my thin sleeve, his palm felt burning hot, and that heat traveled straight through my skin and made my chest ache.

He lowered his head slightly until his nose almost brushed my hair, his warm breath hitting my ear as he spoke in a voice only we could hear,

"Five years, and your way of saying hello is still this special."

My heart hammered against my ribs out of control, so I clenched my teeth and snapped back coldly,

"Let go of me, Captain Ochoa. I have no interest in getting my dirt on your custom suit."

A dark, dangerous glint flashed in his eyes, and instead of letting go, he took a step forward, trapping me completely between the corner of the wall and his hard body.

At this distance, I could clearly see his Adam's apple roll slowly up and down, and the air between us grew so tight I could barely breathe.

Just as I raised my hands to shove him away, several blinding white camera flashes lit up the end of the hallway.

The rapid clicking of shutters echoed loudly in the quiet corridor where three tabloid paparazzi had snuck in and aimed their long lenses right at us.

My face went pale as tomorrow's TMZ headline flashed in my mind calling the disgraced socialite a desperate woman seducing the franchise star.

I struggled wildly against his chest.

"Let go of me! It's the paparazzi!"

Finnegan's eyes turned ice-cold, and instead of pushing me away, he shifted his tall frame to block most of my body from the cameras.

He turned his head and fixed those icy blue eyes on the photographers at the end of the hall like a wild beast ready to tear someone apart on the rink.

Terrified by the brutal enforcer aura he gave off, the paparazzi lowered their cameras and scrambled backward out the emergency exit.

As soon as the door slammed shut behind them, Finnegan dropped my wrist like he had been burned and took a huge step back to put distance between us.

He slowly smoothed down the front of his suit jacket where I had wrinkled it, his eyes returning to that high-and-mighty look of disgust.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a pure white handkerchief and wiped each of the fingers that had just held my wrist right in front of my face.

When he finished, he tossed the handkerchief into the trash can beside us.

"Stay away from me from now on, and don't splash your dirty water onto my life."

Dana Davenport POV:

The next morning, I sat in the back corner of the press conference hall at TD Garden wearing a baseball cap and a face mask, staring at the bright lights on stage.

Leaving the estate after Finnegan walked away last night hadn't saved me; within hours, those blurry hallway photos had blown up across American social media, buried under thousands of comments calling me a shameless Puck Bunny.

On the stage, Finnegan sat behind a row of microphones in a black training hoodie with the team logo, his face blank while the team's PR manager wiped sweat from his forehead beside him.

A sports reporter in the front row shot his hand up immediately.

"Captain Ochoa, what was going on between you and the notorious Dana Davenport at last night's rehearsal dinner? Does this violate the morality clause in your billion-dollar contract?"

I looked at him across the crowded room and twisted my fingers together in my lap, my heart hanging in my throat even though I already knew what he would say.

Finnegan swept a cold glance over the cameras and tapped his long fingers against the table before his deep voice echoed through the speakers.

"Nothing at all."

He leaned forward slightly, his tone dripping with open mockery.

"It was just an accidental bump in the hallway. There is no way I would ever be interested in a woman with a dirty record like hers."

The reporters let out a satisfied laugh, and the PR manager breathed a huge sigh of relief, quickly steering the questions toward the upcoming playoffs.

Finnegan's words felt like a bucket of ice water poured over my head, leaving me shivering as my eyes burned with unshed tears.

I couldn't sit there and listen to another word, so I stood up and slipped quietly out the side door.

Finnegan Ochoa POV:

I sat behind the press table watching that thin, lonely figure disappear behind the side door, my jaw clenched so hard my teeth hurt.

Under the table, I balled my hands into fists until my nails dug into my palms, using all my willpower to stop myself from jumping off the stage and pulling her back into my arms.

The second the press conference ended, I shoved past the PR manager with a dark face, strode down the executive hallway, and kicked open the door to the team owner's office.

My father, Harrison Ochoa, the billionaire owner controlling this entire franchise, sat behind his massive mahogany desk and stared at me coldly.

I walked up to the desk and slammed both hands down on the wood, glaring at him.

"Are you happy now? I read every word of the PR script you wrote for me."

Harrison closed the financial report in his hands, his voice calm but carrying total authority.

"You think a simple denial is enough? The board has reached its limit with your playboy image."

He stood up and walked around the desk to face me.

"This scandal is already hurting next season's broadcasting rights negotiations, and the NHL league office is thinking about using the morality clause to suspend you."

I let out a cold laugh and straightened my back.

"Then let them suspend me. I don't care."

Harrison's eyes flashed with anger, and he threw a thick folder straight at my chest.

"You don't care? What about your Captain's 'C'? What about the family trust fund under your name?"

The papers scattered across the carpet, and when I looked down, I saw a drafted PR marriage contract with Dana Davenport's name printed clearly on the bride's line.

My heart skipped a hard beat, and I jerked my head up to stare at him.

"Are you crazy? You want me to marry her when the whole country is trashing her name right now?"

Harrison adjusted his silk tie, his tone leaving no room for argument.

"Because the whole internet hates her, stepping up to 'save' her right now is the only way to show the public you are a responsible man who settles down. Besides, Douglass already agreed to the deal so Davenport MedTech can merge into our company."

I ground my teeth together as the image of Dana walking out that side door flashed in my mind, and I forced the words through my teeth.

"I'm not doing it."

Harrison stared at me coldly and played his final card.

"If you refuse, your captaincy goes to someone else tomorrow morning, and I will make sure Dana can't survive another day in Boston."

The blood in my veins froze, and I glared at him with bloodshot eyes, my chest heaving as I realized he had a hundred ways to crush a woman with no one protecting her.

Trapped on the edge of a cliff by my duty to the team and my need to keep her safe, I bent down and picked up the contract, my fingers crushing the edges of the paper.

I gave Harrison one last dark look, turned around without another word, and walked out into the cold hallway while pulling out my phone to call my assistant.

"Find out where Dana is right now. I need to see her."