Chapter 2

Eleanora POV:

The basement of The Iron Gate, an exclusive speakeasy tucked behind an unmarked steel door in the West Loop, smelled of peat smoke, aged leather, and expensive secrets.

The terms conveyed by his broker had been non-negotiable: Total anonymity until an agreement is reached. Masks mandatory. No recording devices. It was paranoid, but understandable for an NHL superstar trying to save a twenty-million-dollar endorsement empire from a career-ending media circus.

A burly guard in a bespoke suit nodded me through a heavy velvet curtain into a private booth at the back.

Sitting in the low amber light was a mountain of a man. Even seated, his physical presence dominated the small room. He wore a tailored charcoal wool coat over a crisp black shirt, his broad shoulders and thick chest unmistakably those of a professional athlete. His face was entirely hidden behind a matte-black Venetian mask, leaving only a pair of piercing, ice-green eyes and a hard, razor-etched jaw visible.

I wore a simple black lace mask, my posture straight as an arrow as I took the leather armchair opposite him.

"Miss Hester," he said. His voice was low, gravelly, and carried a resonant authority that vibrated straight through the table. "You have five minutes to explain why I shouldn't have my security escort you into the rain."

I didn't blink. "You're facing a public relations disaster. Three major family-oriented sponsors have given you an ultimatum before the season opener: settle your personal rumors or lose your contracts. You need a wife who looks respectable, asks zero questions about your private affairs, and gives the league the heteronormative fairy tale they crave."

The green eyes narrowed behind the mask. He leaned back, crossing one long leg over the other, swirling a glass of neat bourbon. "And what does the daughter of Jack Hester need in return?"

"My father's legacy," I said evenly. "A provision in my trust fund requires me to be lawfully married before my twenty-fifth birthday—which is in five days. If I fail, my mother liquidates the estate and hands my father’s shares in the Chicago Lions to outside vultures. Marry me, and we solve each other's problems. A strictly contractual marriage. One year. We make the requisite public appearances, satisfy your sponsors, unlock my inheritance, and quietly file for an uncontested dissolution next fall."

A silence stretched between us, thick with tension. He didn't interrupt. He just watched me, those jade eyes tracking the pulse beating at the base of my throat with an intensity that made the fine hairs on my arms stand up.

"One year doesn't work for me," he said finally.

My heart sank. "What do you mean?"

"The Lions are making a run for the Cup this season," he murmured, his voice sliding over the words like steel over ice. "A divorce announcement during the playoffs would cause more media chaos than the rumors I’m trying to kill. The contract remains active until the final game of the Stanley Cup Finals. Win or lose."

I calculated rapidly. That was roughly eight to nine months, depending on the post-season. Entirely manageable.

"Agreed," I said. "Anything else?"

"One more thing," he leaned forward, placing his palms on the table. The sudden proximity brought a wave of cedarwood and cold winter air, an overwhelmingly masculine scent that felt entirely incompatible with a man hiding his sexuality. "No prenup that looks like a corporate merger. The league investigates sham marriages thoroughly. It must be an absolute, legally binding civil union under Cook County law."

"Fine," I said, refusing to back down. "We sign the civil registry tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow is too late," he said, rising to his full height. He had to be at least six-foot-three, towering over me as I scrambled to my feet. "City Hall has an emergency night clerk on retainer for athletes and diplomats. We do it tonight. Right now."

Before I could process the rush, he guided me out through a service exit into the back of an idling black SUV. The drive to the Cook County Municipal Building passed in complete silence. He didn't speak, and neither did I, my mind racing through the sheer madness of what I was about to do.

Inside the dimly lit private registrar’s office on the fourth floor, the elderly clerk adjusted his spectacles and looked at our masks with mild annoyance.

"Identification and legal declarations, please," the clerk droned. "And take those foolish things off. I need to verify your faces against your state IDs."

I untied the silk ribbon behind my head, letting the black lace fall away. I slid my driver’s license across the mahogany desk.

Beside me, the man reached up. Long, calloused fingers caught the edge of the black Venetian mask and pulled it down.

My breath caught in my throat. The room seemed to tilt on its axis.

Messy, sun-streaked dirty-blonde hair fell over a broad, noble forehead. High, aristocratic cheekbones framed a rugged, impossibly handsome face, punctuated by a small, pale scar just along the edge of his left brow. And those eyes—brilliant, arresting green, watching my shock with absolute, predatory stillness.

It wasn't a panicked second-line defenseman.

It was Beckham Waller.

The captain of the Chicago Lions. The undisputed golden boy of the NHL. The heir to the Waller sports and real estate dynasty, a family whose wealth dwarfed even my father's peak holdings.

"You..." I gasped, stumbling a half-step back, my hand flying to my mouth. "You're... Beckham Waller."

"Last I checked," he said, his lips curving into a slow, wicked smirk.

"You're not facing a sponsor crisis! You're the most marketable athlete in North America!" I reached out to grab my license off the desk, pure panic setting in. "This is a mistake. You don't need a sham marriage!"

Before my fingers could touch the plastic, Beckham’s hand shot out, his fingers wrapping firmly around my wrist. His skin was blazing hot, his grip unyielding.

"I have my own reasons, Nora," he said, stepping so close his chest brushed the silk of my dress. "My father is trying to force a merger marriage with an oil heiress from Dallas. And Andrew... a close friend on the roster... is the one the press is actually hunting. The rumors bled onto me because I covered for him. I need this shield just as much as you do."

"You could have chosen anyone," I breathed, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Why me?"

"Because you walked into my bar and offered me a deal," he whispered, his gaze dropping to my lips for a fraction of a second before locking back onto my eyes. "And unlike the women my father parades in front of me, you don't want my heart, and you don't want my money. You want a weapon. I happen to be the sharpest one in this city."

The clerk cleared his throat loudly. "Are we signing or not? I have a shift ending in ten minutes."

My phone buzzed in my clutch. A text from Clarine: Vance's lawyers have drawn up the pre-marital settlement. Be at the club at noon tomorrow, or you are disowned.

The trap was closing. And right here, holding my wrist in an iron grip, was a sledgehammer.

"Let go of my wrist," I said softly.

Beckham released me, though his eyes never left mine.

I picked up the black ballpoint pen from the desk. With steady hands, I wrote my name across the official registry of marriage: Eleanora Hester.

Beckham didn't hesitate. He took the pen from my fingers, his knuckles brushing mine, and signed with a bold, sweeping flourish: Beckham Waller.

The clerk stamped the document with a heavy, satisfying thud of brass on parchment, slid the certified copies into a gold-embossed folder, and handed it to me.

"Congratulations," the clerk said flatly. "Mr. and Mrs. Waller."

Before I could take a breath, Beckham looped an arm around my waist, pulled me flush against his hard frame, and pressed a firm, searing kiss directly to my forehead.

"Welcome to the team, wifey," he murmured, his breath hot against my hairline. "Now, let's go take your life back."