Chapter 2

Hailey POV:

Clutching the broken phone, I walked out of the living room and climbed the stairs. The lingering smell of whiskey and sweet perfume clung to the air, making my throat tighten.

I pushed open the door to the master suite, intending to grab my nightgown and head to the guest room. My hand stopped on the doorknob. Beckett had not gone to his own suite in the west wing. He lay sprawled across the king‑sized bed, still in his dress shirt and slacks, taking up the entire right side of the mattress.

"Go sleep in the guest room."

His eyes stayed shut. Just when I thought he had passed out, his raspy voice cut through the dim room. "This is my bedroom."

A bitter laugh escaped my throat. "Then the other half of that bed is mine, and you're not welcome here."

His eyes snapped open. Under the amber glow of the wall sconce, his ice‑blue gaze looked completely sober. "Don't push my patience tonight, Hailey."

I pressed my lips into a thin line. If he wanted a war over square footage, fine. I was too exhausted to let him chase me out of my own space. I marched past the foot of the bed, set my broken phone on the nightstand, pulled back the duvet on the left side, and lay down with my back turned to him. "Likewise."

The mattress dipped as he settled onto the pillows. Silence settled over the suite, thick and suffocating, broken only by the uneven rhythm of his breathing a few feet behind me.

Sleep stayed out of reach. Lying this close to him dragged me back two years, right after my college graduation.

A drunken one‑night stand at a charity gala had left me with two pink lines on a pregnancy test. The father was Beckett, the golden boy of the NHL who did not even remember my name the next morning. I had planned to handle it quietly on my own.

Before I could, my grandfather passed away. On his deathbed, his old army buddy—Theodore, who had saved my grandfather's life decades ago—swore he would look after me. When Theodore found out I was carrying his great‑grandchild, he stepped in immediately.

At that exact same time, Beckett's tabloid scandals had pushed the league and his general manager to the edge. Sponsors were threatening to pull millions, and the front office was ready to invoke the Morality Clause and suspend him. Beckett needed a stable, wholesome family‑man image.

So Theodore drew up a two‑year prenuptial PR contract. We got married at City Hall. A month later I lost the baby to a miscarriage, alone in a cold hospital bed while Beckett played an away game in Toronto.

The child was gone, yet the ironclad contract remained, locking us into a fake marriage until his reputation was spotless or the two years ran out.

Back then, I had been naive enough to think sharing a roof might thaw the ice between us. Now I knew better.

The mattress shifted. Before I could tense, a heavy, muscular arm draped over my waist, radiating heat through my thin blouse. My entire body locked up.

"Get your hand off me!"

Instead of pulling back, Beckett hooked his forearm tighter, yanked me backward against his hard chest, and buried his face in the crook of my neck. "Stop moving."

His voice was a low murmur against my pulse point. The scent of vanilla on his collar hit my nose again.

"You smell like another woman, Beckett. It makes me sick to my stomach."

The arm around my waist went rigid. For three seconds, neither of us breathed. Then he violently shoved me away and rolled off the opposite side of the bed. In the dark I heard the wardrobe doors bang open, then the bathroom door slam, the lock click, the shower turn on full blast.

I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling. Hot tears finally spilled over my lashes, soaking silently into the pillow. I did not make a sound. Twenty minutes later the water stopped.

I saw Beckett walk out with a towel low around his hips, water glistening on his broad shoulders. He did not come back to the bed. He yanked a spare blanket from the wardrobe, tossed it onto the velvet chaise, and dropped his six‑foot‑three frame onto it, legs hanging awkwardly over the armrest.

I turned to face the window, feeling his stare burn into the back of my skull. Neither of us spoke another word.

Toward dawn, exhaustion dragged me under. My dreams were a tangled mess of spiderwebbed glass and Candice's smiling face.

When the first gray light sliced through the drapes, my eyes fluttered open. The chaise was empty, the spare blanket folded neatly at the end.

On my nightstand, next to the shattered phone, sat a brand‑new, factory‑sealed box for the latest smartphone.

Under it, a white notepad sheet with Beckett's slanted handwriting: "Stop looking at me with those eyes."

A cold laugh bubbled up in my chest. Did he really think a thousand‑dollar piece of electronics could buy my silence after last night? I grabbed the metal trash can and swept the note, the shattered phone, and the unopened box straight into the bin with one swing of my arm.