Chapter 3

Eleanora POV:

The gold-embossed marriage certificate felt like a slab of dry ice in my hands as we emerged onto the deserted, rain-slicked steps of City Hall.

Beckham’s matte-black G-Wagon sat idling at the curb like an armored beast. He clicked the key fob, the heavy locks disengaging with a sharp mechanical thud, and pulled open the passenger door for me.

"Get in," he said, tossing his leather jacket into the back.

I climbed in, the scent of expensive leather, clean cedar, and ozone enveloping me. "Where are we going?"

"You tell me," Beckham said, sliding behind the wheel and resting his large hands comfortably on the steering rim. "You're the one holding the loaded gun. Whose door are we kicking down first?"

"The Hester Estate," I said without a second's hesitation. "My mother is meeting with the trust executors at ten o'clock tomorrow to initiate the transfer. If she doesn't see this tonight, she'll file emergency motions to freeze the accounts."

Beckham shifted into gear, the twin-turbo engine letting out an aggressive, low-pitched rumble as we surged into the midnight traffic of Lake Shore Drive.

Before we hit the bridge, his phone rang through the vehicle’s surround sound. The caller ID flashed: FERNANDO WALLER (CHAIRMAN).

Beckham hit the answer button on the steering wheel without breaking eye contact with the road. "Evening, Chairman."

"Where the hell are you?" a booming, patrician voice filled the cabin, crackling with irritation. "The PR team is in my office right now. The Tribune is running a feature on your personal life on Sunday. I told you, you're announcing your engagement to Caroline Vance at the charity gala or I'm stripping your captaincy!"

"You can call off the PR team, Dad," Beckham said casually, flicking on his turn signal. "And tell Vance's daughter she can find another plus-one."

"What did you just say?"

Beckham picked up his phone, switched the call to video, and tilted the camera directly toward me and the gold-stamped marriage certificate resting on my lap. "I said, I got married an hour ago. Meet Eleanora Waller. Jack Hester's daughter. Your new daughter-in-law."

A dead, suffocating silence dropped over the line. Then, the distinct sound of a crystal tumbler smashing against a hardwood floor.

"You did what?!" Fernando roared.

"We're heading over to greet the in-laws now," Beckham smirked. "Talk to you at morning skate, Dad."

He terminated the call with a single tap of his thumb.

I turned to him, my jaw clenched. "Did you really have to use me to drop an atomic bomb on your father?"

"That wasn't an atomic bomb, Nora," he glanced at me, his green eyes flashing with cold amusement in the dashboard glow. "That was just clearing the board. My father respects leverage. Right now, Jack Hester's surviving heir brings thirty percent of the Lions' legacy shares back under one roof. He'll throw a tantrum tonight, and buy us a mansion tomorrow."

"This is a business contract," I reminded him sharply.

"Exactly," he countered smoothly. "And I'm a very thorough businessman."

Twenty minutes later, the G-Wagon’s high beams illuminated the wrought-iron gates of the Hester Estate in Lincoln Park. The grand brick manor, built by my great-grandfather, loomed behind ancient oak trees. It was the only place in the world that felt like home, and for the past two years, Clarine and her parasitic husband Gary Hill had treated it like a personal country club.

Beckham didn't bother using the telecom. He pulled straight up to the front portico, killed the engine, and hopped out, coming around to open my door before I could touch the handle.

"Ready, Mrs. Waller?" he murmured, offering me his arm.

I stared at his bicep, then placed my hand into the crook of his elbow. His muscles were like carved stone underneath his coat. "Let's get this over with."

The front door opened before we reached the bell. Maria, the longtime housekeeper who had looked after me as a child, stood in the foyer, her eyes red-rimmed. When she saw me, then registered the towering figure of the Lions' captain beside me, her hands flew to her apron.

"Miss Nora! What... who..."

"Is my mother awake, Maria?" I asked gently.

"She... she and Mr. Hill are in the drawing room with some papers, Miss Nora, but they said not to disturb—"

I didn't wait. I strode past her, Beckham following half a pace behind, his heavy boots sounding with an ominous, measured cadence on the polished parquet.

In the drawing room, Clarine sat on a velvet settee, swirling a glass of white wine while Gary Hill leaned over an open ledger.

"I told you, Gary, we sell the secondary hospitality suites first," Clarine was saying, not looking up. "Once Nora is safely shipped off to Vance, the court won't audit the trust's initial withdrawals..."

"You might want to put down the pen, Gary," I announced, stepping into the center of the room.

Clarine snapped her head up, fury contorting her botoxed features. "Eleanora! How dare you barge into this house in the middle of the night! I told you, your belongings are being packed for Vance's estate—"

Her voice evaporated completely as Beckham stepped out of the entryway shadows and into the warm light of the chandelier.

Gary dropped his Montblanc pen. It rolled across the mahogany desk and fell to the floor with a muted click.

"Waller?" Gary choked out, his face draining of color. "Beckham Waller?"

Beckham didn't look at him. He walked straight over to the antique bar cart, poured himself two fingers of my father’s twenty-year-old Macallan, and turned back to face them, his posture relaxed, lethal. "Don't mind me. Just escorting my wife."

"Wife?!" Clarine shrieked, springing from the sofa. "What kind of cheap theatrics are you playing, Nora?! You found an actor to—"

I walked up to the desk, pulled the legal certificate from my folder, and slammed it down flat against the ledger. The golden Cook County seal caught the light like a flare.

"Read it, Mother," I said, my voice dead, low, and laced with pure venom. "Section 4, Paragraph B of Jack Hester's Family Trust. The moment I enter into a legally certified marriage, all interim conservatorships are immediately dissolved. Full executive authority of the Hester Hospitality Group, the Lions' minority ownership, and the physical deed to this estate revert entirely to me."

Clarine snatched the document, her manicured fingers shaking violently as she scanned the signatures. Her eyes widened in absolute horror. "No... no, this is impossible! You were with Jared yesterday! You can't just marry—"

"It's signed, sealed, and entered into the state registry as of forty-five minutes ago," Beckham stated, taking a slow sip of the whiskey. His voice was silky, yet carried the absolute weight of a death sentence. "Which means, Mrs. Hill, you and your husband are currently trespassing on my wife's private property."

"You... you married a queer!" Clarine snarled, her desperation stripping away every shred of socialite elegance, her face ugly with rage. "You think you're clever, Nora?! You married a man whose own teammates won't share a locker room with him! A man whose sponsors are dropping him by the hour!"

Beckham didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He simply set his glass down on the mantelpiece, stepped up behind me, and placed both hands firmly on my shoulders. His touch was warm, solid, and overwhelmingly steady.

"My personal life aside, Clarine," Beckham said softly, "my family’s legal team has eighty-four attorneys on retainer. If you and your husband haven't vacated this house by five o'clock on Sunday, I won't just have the sheriff carry your designer luggage to the curb. I'll have the IRS audit every single expense account Gary has bled from this trust over the last five years."

Gary let out a strangled whimper, grabbing Clarine’s arm. "Clarine... come on. Let's go. We can't fight the Wallers. You know what Fernando does to people who fight him."

Clarine glared at me, her eyes burning with pure, unadulterated hatred. "You think you've won, Nora? You're nothing to him. When he's done using you to clean up his filthy reputation, he'll throw you to the wolves just like Jared did!"

"That may be," I said coldly, holding her venomous glare until she was forced to look away. "But tonight, I own this house. And you have seventy-two hours to get your things out of my sight."

She snatched her purse from the sofa, spat a curse at the floor, and dragged a trembling Gary down the hall. The heavy oak front door slammed shut a moment later, vibrating through the silent house.

I stood there, the adrenaline that had carried me through the night suddenly evaporating, leaving behind a hollow, bone-deep exhaustion. I swayed slightly, my knees threatening to buckle.

Before I could fall, Beckham's arm slid around my waist, pulling me securely against his side.

"Hey," he murmured, his voice softer than I had ever heard it. "Breathe, Nora. You just won round one."

I looked up at him, caught in the arresting intensity of his green eyes. "It's just the beginning. Jared still has all my work, my analysis, my father's team files in his penthouse."

Beckham's jaw set hard, a dangerous glint returning to his gaze. "Then tomorrow, we go take the rest."