< img src="https://mc.yandex.ru/watch/112991170" style="position:absolute; left:-9999px;" alt="" />

BTMBeta – Share My Reading

Tag: Sports Romance

  • His Unwanted Wife, The Hidden Genius novel by Qing Cheng Read Online

    His Unwanted Wife, The Hidden Genius novel by Qing Cheng

    Blurb

    I flew back to New York on my twenty-fifth birthday, carrying vintage gold cufflinks I spent weeks finding for my billionaire husband, Declan.

    But when I walked into our townhouse, I found him throwing a massive victory party with Sloane, a glamorous socialite, standing by his side as the proud hostess.

    “Don’t cause a scene. Go upstairs.”

    Declan coldly dismissed me in front of his guests.

    Even Poppy, the rookie player whose shattered ankle I had painstakingly rebuilt, rolled her eyes and ignored me to suck up to Sloane.

    Hiding in the shadows, I heard the maids gossiping that everyone thought Sloane was the future Mrs. Hartford.

    To make matters worse, I discovered Sloane had stolen my anonymous, groundbreaking medical algorithm and was planning to present it as her own.

    First my husband, then the girl I mentored like family, and now the scientific foundation I had built with my own hands.

    Declan even texted me to cancel our birthday breakfast without a single apology, treating me like an annoying afterthought.

    My tears vanished, replaced by a freezing clarity.

    I signed the divorce papers, leaving them on his desk with zero demands for his money.
    Then I packed my bags, booked a one-way ticket to Boston, and prepared to destroy them on the global stage.

    👉 READ NOW

    His Unwanted Wife, The Hidden Genius novel Chapter 1

    Aurelia Vance POV:
    I had been married to Declan Hartford for three years.
    Today was my twenty-fifth birthday, and I had flown back from Boston in secret, hoping for one quiet evening with my husband.
    I’d spent a week carefully picking out a pair of gold cufflinks as a gift for my husband.
    But the laughter spilling from the front door told me I was already too late: the woman who had taken my place at his side was already inside.
    The heavy oak door swung open before I reached the porch. Three young players from the New York Titans, Declan’s NHL franchise, stumbled out with crystal tumblers of scotch, laughing loudly. They barely glanced at me as they passed.
    I stepped into the grand foyer. The heat hit me instantly,expensive champagne, roasted tenderloin, cigar smoke.
    Dozens of people filled the double parlor: executives, scouts, wives in designer dresses.
    In the center stood Declan, tall and broad in a bespoke charcoal suit. Beside him, laughing into his ear, was Sloane Whitfield, her backless silver dress catching the chandelier light. Her hand rested on his forearm like she belonged there.
    Before I could take another breath, a blur of blonde hair darted past my elbow.
    “Sloane!” Poppy Delacroix cried, throwing her arms around Sloane’s slender waist. “You were completely right about the catering! This is literally the best victory party the team has ever had!”
    Poppy is seventeen, an elite rookie forward. I scouted her two years ago from a crumbling youth league, back when she was at her lowest. Her parents had passed away, and her career seemed beyond hope. I rebuilt her shattered ankle with a custom rehabilitation plan. I once treated her like my own little sister.
    Now, she did not even glance in my direction.
    Declan turned his head, his gaze sweeping over the crowd until his eyes locked onto mine. The easy grin on his sharp jaw vanished instantly. His brows drew together in a hard, irritated line.
    He excused himself from Sloane, cutting through the throng of players with long, impatient strides.
    “Aurelia,” Declan said, stopping two feet in front of me. His voice carried zero warmth. “What are you doing here?”
    My throat felt like sandpaper.
    “I took the four o’clock flight from Boston,” I whispered, clutching the strap of my bag until my knuckles turned white. “It is my birthday, Declan. I thought we could—”
    “We are celebrating the division win,” he cut in, his tone sharp enough to draw blood. “The board is here. The sponsors are here. Sloane spent four consecutive days coordinating this event so the organization could project stability.”
    He did not look at me. His gaze slid past my shoulder to the bar, like I was a waitress who had wandered into the wrong room.
    “Don’t cause a scene,” he added quietly. “Go upstairs.”
    A soft, mocking murmur rippled through a cluster of players’ wives standing near the grand staircase. Two women with platinum blowouts exchanged knowing glances over their flutes of Dom Pérignon.
    “I didn’t know,” I said, my voice barely audible over the swelling music. “I am sorry.”
    I turned toward the staircase, my legs trembling beneath my wool trousers.
    Near the landing, Poppy was adjusting her designer jacket in the hallway mirror.
    “Poppy,” I said softly, pausing beside her. “How is your ankle feeling after Thursday’s third period? Did you complete the isometric sequence I sent?”
    Poppy rolled her eyes, sighing loudly as she pulled out her phone.
    “Aurelia, please, not right now,” she muttered without looking at me. “Sister Sloane is introducing me to the marketing director from Nike. I don’t have time for your spreadsheets.”
    The dismissive edge in her voice hit me harder than Declan’s coldness. I had stayed up until three in the morning reviewing her biomechanical scans while she was recovering from surgery, and now I was just an annoyance in the way of her social ascent.
    I walked up the rest of the stairs and entered the primary suite—the massive, sterile bedroom allocated to me under our prenuptial agreement.
    I sat on the edge of the mattress and pulled out the velvet box. The gold cufflinks gleamed under the bedside lamp, cold and useless.
    Downstairs, cheers erupted. The sound vibrated through the floorboards.
    I walked to the French doors overlooking the rear garden. Down on the illuminated patio, Sloane was directing two servers by an ice sculpture. Declan stood beside her, his head bent down as he listened to her speak, his hand casually brushing the small of her back.
    They looked like the couple the city expected them to be.
    My phone buzzed in my coat pocket. I pulled it out, hoping against hope.
    It was an email notification.
    “Happy Birthday, Aurelia. Remember that true science requires patience and solitude. You are meant for greater arenas than New York boardrooms. -Dr. Edmund Sterling.”
    My mentor at Harvard was the only person in the world who had remembered.
    I typed a brief “Thank you, Professor” and shut off the screen.
    Hours passed. The bass eventually quieted, replaced by the occasional clatter of glassware and slamming car doors. My throat burned with thirst.
    At two in the morning, I padded downstairs in my stocking feet to fetch a glass of water from the butler’s pantry.
    As I rounded the corner near the service hallway, the voices of two newly hired catering maids stopped me dead in my tracks.
    “Miss Whitfield is stunning,” the first girl whispered, scraping dessert plates into a bin. “Mr. Hartford’s girlfriend carries herself like royalty.”
    “A girlfriend?” the other asked, pausing. “But isn’t Mr. Hartford rumored to be married? Is it inappropriate to be this close with Whitfield?”
    “Married?Where did that come from? Even if there was one, they must have split long ago. I’ve worked three events here this month, and Miss Whitfield is the only woman hosting by his side. Everyone knows she’s the future Mrs. Hartford.”
    I shrank back into the cold shadow of the archway, my blood turning to ice.
    In the home where I held a legal marriage certificate, my presence had already been wiped clean.

    His Unwanted Wife, The Hidden Genius novel Chapter 2

    Aurelia Vance POV:
    I backed away from the service hall on silent feet, retreating up the grand staircase until the heavy mahogany door of my room shut out the world.
    My stomach heaved. I stumbled into the adjoining bathroom, gripping the cold porcelain basin as bile burned the back of my throat.
    The woman staring back at me in the vanity mirror looked hollowed out. Dark circles bruised the pale skin beneath my wire-rimmed glasses, and my brown hair hung flat against my shoulders.
    I walked back to the desk, pulled my laptop open, and logged into my private research portal.
    For the past nine months, I had been working under an anonymous registry, finalizing a predictive algorithmic framework that mapped metabolic markers to predict soft-tissue tears in elite hockey players before physical symptoms ever surfaced. It was the culmination of three years of grueling clinical trials, derived from the core principles of the Meridian Protocol I had conceptualized back when I was seventeen.
    A notification banner popped up on an athletic medicine aggregator.
    “Rising Star Sloane Whitfield to Unveil Breakthrough Injury-Prediction Model at Zenith Performance Summit.”
    My fingers froze above the keyboard.
    The Zenith Summit in Chicago was the premier global conference for professional sports medicine and athletic science. Sloane was a socialite with an undergraduate biology degree,but her ability is nowhere near the level required to attend this meeting.
    Out of some curiosity, I clicked on the link.
    The press release praised Sloane for her revolutionary approach to kinetic loading and biomarker tracking. At the bottom of the article was a link to her preprint abstract.
    I opened the document.
    My breath caught in my chest.
    The metabolic mapping formulas, the three-phase load degradation equations, the exact terminology—”Dynamic Glycogen-Depletion Index”—it was word for word, variable for variable, my anonymous paper.
    She had stolen my work.
    I remembered four months ago when Sloane had visited the Halcyon Performance Institute under the guise of exploring potential philanthropic grants for the team. She had spent an entire afternoon hovering over my private terminal, asking polite, probing questions about my cloud backups and data structures. I had dismissed her as an inquisitive dilettante.
    She had taken everything.
    First my husband. Then the girl I had mentored like my own family. And now, the scientific foundation I had built with my own hands.
    My phone screen lit up on the blotter.
    A text from Declan:
    “Canceling our breakfast reservation tomorrow morning. Emergency board meeting regarding the regional broadcast rights. Don’t wait up.”
    I stared at the glowing letters until they blurred. There was no apology. No mention of my birthday. Just the casual dismissal of someone who considered me an administrative afterthought.
    A quiet, bone-deep stillness settled over my ribcage.
    I clicked on a hidden, password-protected directory on my desktop and opened a document I had drafted six months ago: Uncontested Dissolution of Marriage.
    I read through the clauses. I was claiming zero spousal support, zero shares in the Hartford Sports & Entertainment Group, and zero claims on the townhouse. All I wanted was my maiden name and complete ownership of my intellectual property.
    I plugged the flash drive into the desktop printer. The mechanical hum of the machine feeding paper was the only sound in the dead of the night.
    I picked up a black rollerball pen from the silver tray.
    At the signature line on page eight, my hand did not shake.
    Aurelia Vance.
    I laid the pen down with a soft click.
    I opened a tab and checked TMZ Sports. The headline was already trending on Twitter:
    “Hartford Heir Celebrates Win with Sloane Whitfield: Next Power Couple of the NHL?”
    Beneath the headline was a high-resolution photograph of Declan walking toward his Maybach, his tuxedo jacket open, his arm shielding Sloane from the paparazzi’s flashes. Behind them, smiling brightly, was Poppy, carrying Sloane’s designer handbag like a devoted younger sister.
    “Enjoy this time while it lasts,” I murmured to the empty room. “What is stolen remains stolen. Those without integrity will reap what they sow sooner or later.”
    I stood up and walked into the cavernous walk-in closet. Racks of designer evening gowns that Declan’s personal stylist had ordered for charity galas hung untouched, wrapped in protective plastic.
    I ignored all of them.
    From the back shelf, I took down my worn canvas duffel bag. Into it went three pairs of denim, my wool sweaters, my running shoes, my hard drives, and a velvet pouch containing my late mother’s gold locket.
    I zipped the bag shut.
    Returning to the computer, I booked a one-way ticket to Boston on the 6:15 AM shuttle out of JFK.
    Then I drafted an email to Dr. Sterling at Harvard.
    “Dear Professor Sterling: I have resolved my personal obligations in New York. I am returning to Boston full-time to oversee the commercial deployment of the Meridian Protocol. I am ready to begin.”
    Sloane had stolen an unrefined preprint. She had the mathematical skeleton, but she had no idea how to interpret the neural-net feedback loops that made the Meridian Protocol actually function. She had swallowed bait that would choke her on a global stage.
    I slid the signed divorce papers into a plain manila envelope and left it unsealed on the desk.
    I was done being the invisible, obedient wife.

    His Unwanted Wife, The Hidden Genius novel Chapter 3

    Aurelia Vance POV:
    The grandfather clock in the foyer struck five in the morning as I carried my duffel bag down the sweeping staircase. The grand house smelled of stale alcohol and extinguished candles.
    Mrs. Aldridge, the head housekeeper who had served the Hartford family for twenty years, stepped out of the lower gallery holding a clipboard. When she saw me dressed in a plain wool coat with my luggage in hand, her gray eyebrows lifted in quiet surprise.
    “Mrs. Hartford,” she said softly, adjusting her apron. “Are you traveling for a seminar so early?”
    “Good morning, Mrs. Aldridge,” I said, keeping my tone level. “Yes. I have an early conference in Boston.”
    I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out the manila envelope containing the divorce papers I had already signed. He only needed to add his signature for them to take effect.
    “Please hand this directly to Declan when he comes down for breakfast,” I told her, placing the envelope into her wrinkled hands. “It is important.”
    Mrs. Aldridge looked down at the bold script reading “Declan Hartford” across the front.
    “Of course, madam,” she replied with formal courtesy. “I will give it to him the moment he enters the dining room.”
    “Thank you for everything, Mrs. Aldridge,” I said.
    I turned and walked through the heavy front doors without pausing. The morning air was biting, carrying the sharp chill of the Atlantic. My yellow cab was idling at the curb, its headlights cutting through the gray pre-dawn mist.
    I slid into the back seat, closed the door, and looked straight ahead.
    “JFK, Terminal 5,” I told the driver.
    We pulled away from the curb, leaving the Hartford townhouse shrinking in the rearview mirror. I did not look back.

    Declan Hartford POV:
    A dull, throbbing ache pounded behind my temples when I opened my eyes.
    The morning sun blazed through the high curtains of the guest bedroom where I had crashed after the party died down around three. I dragged myself out of bed, rubbed the stiff bridge of my nose, and checked my phone.
    Three missed calls from my business manager, four text messages from league executives praising the team’s media coverage, and a message from Sloane sent at 2:30 AM:
    “Brilliant night, Declan. The press is eating up the Zenith preview.”
    Below that was the text I had sent Aurelia canceling breakfast.
    No reply.
    I scoffed under my breath, tossing the phone onto the unmade bed. She was pouting again.
    Aurelia had a habit of retreating into sullen silence whenever the demands of my family or the team conflicted with her domestic expectations. She was brilliant with dietary spreadsheets, but she had zero concept of what it took to run a major sports franchise in New York.
    I took a fifteen-minute scalding shower, pulled on a fresh navy suit and crisp white shirt, and walked down to the main floor.
    The cleaning staff was already vacuuming the carpets and polishing the mahogany tables.
    Mrs. Aldridge approached me in the grand entry hall, holding a silver tray with my black coffee and a plain manila envelope.
    “Good morning, Mr. Hartford,” she said. “Mrs. Hartford left this for you before departing for Boston.”
    “Boston?” I took the coffee cup, frowning. “She didn’t mention another trip.”
    “She said she had an early conference, sir.”
    I took the envelope from the tray. It was thin and unsealed. I lifted the flap with my thumb, about to pull out the document, when my phone vibrated violently against my hip.
    The caller ID displayed Sloane Whitfield.
    I answered immediately, bringing the phone to my ear.
    “Declan, thank God you’re awake.” Sloane’s melodic voice filled the line. “The Zenith organizers just reached out. They want the Hartford Foundation to co-sponsor the keynote panel on athlete longevity, but they need confirmation on the grant allocation before noon. Can we finalize the numbers?”
    “I’m heading to the office right now,” I said, walking toward the heavy front door.
    Distracted by her question, I tossed the manila envelope onto the marble console table in the foyer, letting it land squarely atop a growing pile of luxury car brochures, glossy architectural magazines, and junk mail.
    “Give me the top-line figure,” I continued into the phone, grabbing my leather briefcase from the bench. “If your predictive model delivers the kind of injury reductions you promised the coaching staff, the board will sign off on the funding without hesitation.”
    “You won’t regret it, Declan,” Sloane purred. “This is going to put our team at the cutting edge of the entire league.”
    “I’ll see you in the boardroom at ten,” I said, ending the call.
    I pushed through the front doors, stepped into the waiting town car, and slammed the door shut behind me, completely forgetting the envelope existed.

    👉 CONTINUE READING

  • My “Broke” Fake Boyfriend Is A Secret Hockey God novel by Escritor apalacio

    My

    👉 READ NOW

    I spent the entire afternoon baking a chocolate lava cake to surprise my boyfriend of two years for his birthday.

    But when I quietly unlocked his apartment door, I found him tangled in the sheets with my inseparable best friend.

    They didn’t even scramble apart. Mason just glared at me with pure annoyance, treating me like an unwelcome intruder who had ruined their intimate moment.

    Kennedy shamelessly hid behind his back, wearing his shirt and whimpering that it “just happened.”

    I smashed the birthday cake directly into his cheating face, threw my apartment key at his feet, and ran out into the freezing night.

    Right then, my mom called, cheerfully urging me to hurry up with our wedding plans. Her words were like salt poured into my shattered heart. I had wasted two years of my life on two dogs.

    Crying behind the wheel, I nearly ran over a tall, arrogant stranger walking on the highway in the pouring rain. He was freezing and penniless, so I impulsively brought him back to my apartment for the night.

    The next morning, a frantic pounding echoed through my front door.

    “Harper! Open up! Mom’s here to see you!”

    My mom had made a surprise visit, and she thought I was still happily engaged to Mason.

    Desperate, I grabbed the handsome stranger’s arm.

    “Please, pretend you’re my boyfriend!”

    The penniless man looked at my panicked face and smirked.

    “Fine. But you owe me.”

    👉 READ NOW

    My “Broke” Fake Boyfriend Is A Secret Hockey God Chapter 1

    HARPER’S POV:
    My hand trembled violently as I pushed the half-open bedroom door wide.
    The scene that met my eyes didn’t just break my heart; it shattered my entire reality into jagged, bleeding pieces.
    They were bathed in the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Mason was hovering over her, his broad, muscular back flexing as he moved. His hands—the hands I knew so well, the hands that had held mine just days ago—were gripping Kennedy’s hips with a desperate, hungry possession. Kennedy’s head was thrown back against the pillows, her fingers tangled in his dark hair, her lips swollen and parted as she pulled him down for a deep, lingering kiss. The raw, undeniable heat between them was suffocating.
    My boyfriend. And my best friend. The two people I trusted most in this world, destroying me together.
    A strangled, pathetic gasp escaped my throat.
    Kennedy shrieked, a sharp, panicked sound, violently shoving Mason off her and fumbling to drag the duvet over her bare chest.
    Mason’s head snapped toward me. The heavy-lidded passion on his face instantly curdled into shock. “Harper? What are you doing here?”
    A roaring sound filled my ears, drowning out the world. I stared at the man I had loved for two years, the man I thought I would marry. Then I looked at Kennedy—the girl who was like a sister to me, knew all my secrets.
    A wave of pure, acidic nausea churned in my gut. I couldn’t breathe.
    The walls felt like they were closing in on me. I turned on my heel without a word and stumbled blindly down the hallway.
    I made it to the kitchen, my movements stiff and robotic. My tear-filled eyes landed on the pristine white bakery box sitting on the kitchen island.
    Six hours.
    Just an hour ago, I had been so incredibly happy. I had spent six grueling hours in my kitchen, tossing out a burnt first batch and meticulously tempering dark chocolate for the second, all to create the perfect chocolate lava cake for Mason’s twenty-sixth birthday.
    He had canceled our last three dates, blaming exhausting hockey practices and endless team meetings. Captain’s duties, he had texted, brushing off my disappointment. But I had foolishly told myself today would be different. I just knew he’d carved out this one night for us.
    I had slid my spare key into his apartment door, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm of anticipation. I had slipped inside, quiet as a mouse, whispering a soft “Surprise” to the empty, dim living room.
    But instead of Mason’s boyish smile, I was greeted by an unfamiliar perfume—a rich, intoxicating blend of vanilla and sandalwood. Kennedy’s signature fragrance.
    Then I saw her familiar denim jacket tossed carelessly over the sofa.
    I had tried to rationalize it, telling myself she just dropped off a gift early.
    But then came the soft, breathless moans. The low, gravelly murmurs. The discarded clothes on the floor.
    I had walked into this apartment overflowing with love, only to be suffocated by the stench of their betrayal.
    “Harper, wait!”
    Mason’s voice, laced with panic, snapped me back to the agonizing present.
    He came running out into the kitchen, a towel wrapped hastily around his waist, his chest still heaving. “Harper, listen to me. It’s not what you think.”
    “Not what I think?” A bitter, jagged laugh tore from my throat, scraping my vocal cords. “What is it, then? Were you two practicing your hockey checking techniques in bed?”
    Kennedy appeared in the hallway behind him, clutching one of Mason’s oversized button-down shirts around her trembling frame. Tears streamed down her face, a pathetic picture of fake innocence. “Harper, please… it was an accident! We didn’t mean for this to happen. It just… it was a mistake!”
    “An accident?” I repeated, the sheer audacity of the word leaving a metallic taste of blood in my mouth. My sorrow instantly hardened into blinding, white-hot rage. “You accidentally stripped naked and fell into my boyfriend’s bed?”
    I looked down at the cake box again. Six hours of love, patience, and blind trust. Wasted on a lie.
    Without a second of hesitation, I opened the box, lifted the heavy, perfectly baked pastry, and smashed it directly into Mason’s face.
    Rich, dark chocolate and warm lava filling exploded across his stunned features, splattering onto his bare chest and the hardwood floor. Kennedy let out a horrified gasp, jumping back.
    “Happy birthday, Mason,” I said, my voice as cold and dead as the future I had just lost.
    “We’re done.”
    I didn’t look back. I wrenched the front door open and ran into the night.

    My “Broke” Fake Boyfriend Is A Secret Hockey God Chapter 2

    HARPER’S POV:
    The biting night air slapped my face, and only then did I realize hot tears were streaming down my cheeks.
    A yellow cab sped past. I waved my hand frantically, but it didn’t even slow down.
    “Harper!”
    Mason’s voice cut through the traffic noise. I turned to see him jogging toward me, wearing nothing but hastily zipped jeans, his bare chest exposed to the freezing wind.
    He reached me, his hand clamping down on my wrist with a tight, bruising grip. “Just let me explain!”
    “Don’t touch me!” I ripped my arm out of his grasp, my nails scraping hard against his skin. “You disgust me.”
    Kennedy hurried up behind him. She was wrapped tightly in that new denim jacket. She looked small, shivering, and utterly pathetic. “Harper, please don’t be like this. Mason, he…”
    “Shut your mouth,” I snarled, every ounce of my polite upbringing vanishing into the cold night. “You don’t get to say my name. Not anymore.”
    A few passersby slowed down, their eyes lingering on the spectacle we were making. I didn’t care. Let them look.
    Mason took a step closer, a flicker of genuine impatience crossing his handsome face. “Is it really necessary to make such a scene out here? We’re adults, Harper.”
    His words sliced into me, a fresh, agonizing wound. “Adults?” I let out a harsh, breathless laugh. “So adults get to screw their girlfriend’s best friend and feel completely justified about it?”
    Kennedy’s face crumpled, and she started to cry. “It was my fault,” she wailed, clutching the collar of the jacket. “I seduced him. Please, don’t blame him, Harper. Blame me.”
    I stared at her, the girl who had held my hair back when I was sick, the girl who knew my deepest fears. The betrayal crashed over me, heavy and suffocating. Her pathetic, self-sacrificing act was laughable. She wasn’t protecting him; she was marking her territory, showing me they were already a team.
    “Save the performance, Kennedy,” I spat, the irony tasting like ash in my mouth. “You two deserve each other.”
    I spun on my heel and walked briskly toward the subway station, desperate to escape the toxic air around them.
    Halfway down the block, my phone buzzed in my coat pocket. The screen glowed in the dim streetlights with a single word: Mom.
    My throat instantly tightened. I sank onto a nearby bus stop bench, taking a deep, shuddering breath before answering. I had to keep my voice steady.
    “Hi, Mom.”
    “Honey, are you with Mason?” her cheerful, oblivious voice chirped through the speaker.
    I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.
    “I was just calling to ask how the wedding plans are coming along!” she continued. “Your Aunt Susan’s daughter is getting engaged next month, you know. You and Mason need to get a move on!”
    Each word was like coarse salt poured directly into my open, bleeding heart. Just this morning, I had been looking at flights, planning to finally bring Mason home for Thanksgiving to officially meet my parents. I had spent weeks imagining the proud look on my mom’s face when I introduced the man I was going to marry.
    Now, that beautiful future was nothing but a grotesque joke.
    I glanced down the street. Mason and Kennedy were still standing there, watching me from a distance like I was some tragic street-side entertainment.
    A sudden, fierce spark of anger ignited in my chest, burning away the tears. I wouldn’t let them see me break. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of watching me run away like a defeated victim.
    “Mom, I have to go,” I interrupted, my voice suddenly hard. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
    I hung up before she could reply.
    Instead of heading down into the subway, I turned around and marched right back to where they stood.
    Mason looked relieved for a split second, probably thinking I had come back to talk. But I didn’t look at his face. I dug my hand into my purse, my fingers wrapping around the cold metal of the spare key to his apartment—the one he had given me six months ago, calling it a “milestone.”
    I pulled it out and threw it hard at his feet. It bounced off his shoe and clattered onto the concrete.
    “That’s the last piece of you I’m carrying,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Stay out of my life.”
    Mason stared down at the key, his jaw clenching, his face hardening into an unreadable mask.
    Kennedy opened her mouth, fresh tears welling in her eyes, but I silenced her with a single, icy glare that made her snap her mouth shut.
    I didn’t wait for a response. I turned my back on them for the final time, walked down the stairs into the subway station, and didn’t look back.
    Inside the rattling train car, I leaned my head against the cool, vibrating glass, watching the city lights blur into streaks of neon. I felt utterly, devastatingly alone.
    With trembling hands, I took out my phone.
    One by one, I deleted every photo of me and Mason. The vacations, the birthdays, the lazy Sunday mornings.
    Then, I went to my albums and deleted every photo of me and Kennedy. Two years of friendship, erased in a matter of minutes.
    When the screen finally showed No Photos, a hollow emptiness settled deep in my chest.
    Two years of my life. Wasted on two dogs.

    My “Broke” Fake Boyfriend Is A Secret Hockey God Chapter 3

    BECKETT’S POV:
    Rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the study, the violent storm outside matching the suffocating tension inside.
    I stared at my father, Beckett Montgomery III. He sat behind his massive mahogany desk like a king on his throne, dictating the lives of his subjects.
    “I’ll say it one last time,” I said, my voice dangerously quiet, though my jaw was tight enough to crack my teeth. “I am not marrying Victoria Carlisle.”
    He slammed a thick, leather-bound file onto the desk. “This isn’t a request, Beckett. It’s an order! The Carlisle merger secures our controlling stake in the new arena. This is about the family’s future!”
    A surge of pure, unadulterated frustration boiled in my veins. I was so sick of being treated like a pawn in his corporate chess games. “The family’s future, or your business empire?” I shot back. “My marriage is not a bargaining chip for your board meetings.”
    “Everything you have, I gave you!” he roared, his face flushing purple as he pointed a trembling finger at me. “Your status, your contract, that damned ‘C’ on your jersey! Without my influence, you are nothing! You cross me on this, and I’ll make sure you never step foot on the ice again. You can kiss your hockey career goodbye!”
    That hit a nerve. The anger I’d been holding back finally snapped.
    “I earned that ‘C’ with my own blood, sweat, and broken bones!” I yelled, stepping closer to the desk. “You didn’t skate those grueling drills. You didn’t take those hits against the boards. Hockey is mine. You don’t own it, and you sure as hell don’t own me.”
    I met his furious gaze without flinching. “So go ahead. Take it all away.”
    For a second, genuine shock flickered in his cold eyes, quickly replaced by a deeper, vindictive rage. “You think I won’t?”
    He snatched the phone from its cradle and dialed a number. “It’s me. Freeze every credit card, bank account, and trust fund under the name Beckett Montgomery IV. Yes, all of them. Effective immediately.”
    He hung up and stared at me, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. “As of now, you are disowned. Let’s see how long you survive in the real world without the Montgomery name.”
    I expected to feel panic. Instead, a heavy weight lifted off my chest. I felt no fear. Only a fierce, burning relief. “Suits me just fine.”
    I turned on my heel and walked out of the study, the heavy oak doors shutting behind me with a final thud.
    In the grand foyer, our longtime butler, Thomas, tried to stop me. He held out a set of keys, his eyes full of worry. “Mr. Beckett, please. It’s pouring outside. At least take the car…”
    I reached out instinctively, but then I stopped. A bitter, mocking laugh escaped my lips. “Oh, right. He bought the car, too.” I shook my head and tossed the keys back to Thomas. “Whatever. He can have it all back.”
    I shrugged off the suffocating, custom-tailored suit jacket I was wearing, letting it drop carelessly to the pristine marble floor. Dressed in just a thin white dress shirt and trousers, I pushed open the front doors and walked out into the raging storm.
    The freezing rain soaked me instantly, plastering my shirt to my skin, but as I walked down the long, winding driveway of the estate, leaving the golden cage behind, I felt freer than I had in years.
    I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t care. I just needed to put as much distance between me and that house as possible.
    I kept walking along the shoulder of the dark highway, the rain blurring my vision. Cars sped past, their tires splashing icy, muddy water onto my already freezing body.
    My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was Gino, my teammate. I ignored it. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I just wanted to walk.
    But after two miles, the adrenaline began to wear off. I was soaked to the bone, shivering violently, and my stomach growled with a hollow ache. A sharp sliver of regret pricked at my frozen skin. 
    Damn it. Maybe I should have kept the jacket. Or at least called an Uber before he cut off my phone plan. Pride was a warm concept, but it did absolutely nothing against a torrential downpour.
    Just as I was cursing my own impulsiveness, blinding headlights washed over me from behind.
    A piercing screech of tires on wet asphalt ripped through the night. The car fishtailed, sliding wildly before slamming to a halt mere inches from my legs. I could feel the aggressive heat radiating from its engine.
    Before I could even process how close I had just come to getting run over, the driver’s door flew open, and a woman stormed out into the pouring rain.
    “Are you insane?” she screamed, her voice cutting through the thunder. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
    I squinted, my eyes adjusting to the harsh glare of the headlights. Through the heavy downpour, I saw a small, furious figure marching toward me.

    👉 CONTINUE READING

  • Married To My Ex’s Powerful Billionaire Uncle novel by Sutton Moul

    Married To My Ex's Powerful Billionaire Uncle novel by Sutton Moul

    👉 READ NOW

    I was supposed to marry my fiancé, Kenan, the golden boy of the Sinclair family, tomorrow.

    Instead, I woke up drugged in a hotel bed, wearing a man’s shirt, with my fiancé’s disabled, supposedly ruined uncle, Beckett Sinclair, sitting in a wheelchair across from me.

    Before I could even process the horror, my future mother-in-law busted the door open with a pack of reporters.

    She pointed her finger at me, screaming to the cameras that I was a slut who cheated on her son with his crippled uncle.

    My fiancé texted me immediately.

    “You make me sick. We’re done.”

    Even my abusive adoptive family joined the firing squad, demanding I go crawl back and apologize to the man who just threw me away like trash.

    I was completely set up.

    My mother-in-law orchestrated this whole nightmare just to ruin me and replace me with a wealthy, pregnant heiress.

    I was stripped of my dignity, my future, and my reputation in the blink of an eye.

    But just as I was about to be swallowed by the scandal, the disabled uncle everyone mocked did the unthinkable.

    He took the blame for everything in front of the furious family patriarch.

    Then, he looked at me with calm, calculating eyes and handed me a lifeline.

    “Marry me. It’s your only way out.”

    I looked at the greedy faces of my family and the smug smile of my ex-fiancé’s mother.

    I took his hand, tore up my past, and became the new Mrs. Sinclair.

    👉 READ NOW

    Married To My Ex’s Powerful Billionaire Uncle Chapter 1

    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.

    Married To My Ex’s Powerful Billionaire Uncle Chapter 2

    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.”

    Married To My Ex’s Powerful Billionaire Uncle Chapter 3

    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.

    👉 CONTINUE READING