Chapter Text
I woke up naked, sore, and with a hand on my boob.
Not my hand.
Which, honestly, should have been enough information for my brain to start working.
It did not.
For a few seconds, I just stared at the wall.
Not my wall.
Not my hotel room.
Not my bed.
My skull felt like someone had filled it with glitter, tequila, and every bad decision I had ever almost made but usually stopped myself from making because I had a team, a publicist, and a career that could be destroyed by one blurry photo outside a club.
My mouth tasted like champagne and regret.
My thighs ached.
Deeply.
Accusingly.
Oh God.
I had gotten laid.
Not politely, either.
Not one of those careful, forgettable, post-breakup mistakes where you wake up and think, Well, that was unfortunate, but at least nobody pulled a hamstring.
No.
My entire lower body felt like it had been involved in a sporting event.
Possibly a playoff.
Possibly the finals.
Behind me, the man shifted in his sleep.
His hand flexed over my breast.
Like it belonged there.
Like he had signed a lease.
Then something hard pressed against my ass.
My body, traitorous little bitch that it was, noticed before my brain caught up.
I went completely still.
Memories came back in pieces. Not enough to help. Just enough to ruin me.
Music pounding. Neon everywhere. My back against an elevator wall. Hands on my waist. A mouth on my neck. Me laughing too loudly. Someone saying something low in my ear that had made me shove at his chest and then pull him closer.
A bottle of something expensive.
A chapel?
No.
Absolutely not.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
Bad move.
More flashes.
Kissing.
A lot of kissing.
A man’s laugh against my mouth.
His hands.
My hands.
Then sex.
Then sex again.
Then, judging by the deep, smug ache between my legs, sex a third time.
“Oh, God,” I whispered.
I looked down.
The hand on my boob was large. Male. Tanned. Long fingers. Annoyingly nice hand, actually, which was offensive. I was not in the mood to appreciate the hand of a stranger who had apparently helped me throw my dignity off a balcony.
My gaze darted around the floor.
Dress.
Heel.
His shirt.
My bra hanging from a lamp like a slutty little surrender flag.
And near the bed, three condom wrappers.
Three.
Well.
Fantastic.
Responsible slut behavior.
Somehow comforting and not comforting at all.
The man behind me shifted again, his palm sliding slightly, and his erection nudged my backside.
My stomach flipped.
Not entirely from horror.
Which felt rude.
I grabbed his wrist to move his hand.
That was when I saw the ring.
Plain gold band.
Left hand.
My blood went cold.
No.
No, no, no.
I shot up so fast the room tilted.
His hand dropped away. The man made a rough, sleepy sound and rolled onto his back, completely unaware that I was five seconds away from committing a felony.
I turned to look at him.
Dark curls.
Bare chest.
Ridiculous shoulders.
A jaw sharp enough to ruin lives.
Stupidly hot.
Of course he was stupidly hot.
Apparently even my moral collapse had taste.
And he was wearing a wedding ring.
I, Hannah Julia Wells, Grammy-winning singer-songwriter, public cautionary tale, and recent victim of Cass Donovan’s one-man pity parade, had slept with a married man.
I had helped some asshole cheat on his wife.
I was the other woman.
“Oh my God.”
He did not move.
Rage cut through the hangover so fast I almost saw sparks.
I slapped his chest.
Hard.
His eyes flew open. “What the fuck?”
His voice was rough. Deep. Annoyed.
Good.
He should be annoyed.
He should also be ashamed. He should be crawling naked through the desert while his poor wife hunted him for sport.
I slapped him again, because one slap did not feel like enough for adultery.
“Get the fuck out.”
He blinked at me, hair a disaster, mouth parted like he was still trying to remember what planet he lived on. “What?”
“Out,” I snapped. “Get out of my hotel room, you cheating asshole.”
His eyebrows pulled together. “My what?”
“My hotel room.”
He looked past me.
Then around the room.
Then back at me.
Slowly, like he was speaking to someone who might bite him, he said, “This is my room.”
I opened my mouth.
Closed it.
Looked around.
Dark blue duffel bag by the closet.
Men’s suit jacket over the chair.
A watch on the nightstand.
A room key packet with a name I couldn’t read because my vision still had tequila subtitles.
Shit.
He was right.
This was not my room.
That did not make him less of a cheating asshole. It just made me a trespasser with excellent skin and no underwear.
I scrambled out of bed, dragging the sheet with me.
Unfortunately, the sheet came with me.
All of it.
Which meant it left him with nothing.
And there he was.
All of him.
A lot of him.
My eyes dropped.
Against my will.
Then shot right back up.
“Cover yourself.”
He looked down like he had forgotten he owned a dick, which, based on last night’s vague memories, seemed unlikely.
Then he grabbed a pillow and shoved it over his lap. “You’re the one who stole the sheet.”
“You’re the one who cheated on your wife.”
His head snapped up. “What?”
“You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“I’m sorry, are you insane?”
“Probably, but that is not the point.”
He sat up with the pillow clamped over himself. His arms flexed.
I did not notice.
Fine. I noticed.
I hated that too.
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded.
I stared at him.
He stared back.
Something shifted in his face. Not recognition exactly. More like he knew he had seen me somewhere. A billboard. An award show. A magazine cover. A headline about Cass Donovan being the human equivalent of wet socks.
His eyes narrowed. “Wait. I know you.”
“Oh, great,” I said. “Then you can tell your wife you cheated on her with someone famous. Really add some flavor to the divorce.”
“I don’t have a wife.”
I pointed at his hand. “You are wearing a wedding ring.”
He looked down.
The pillow shifted.
“Do not drop that pillow.”
He ignored me, staring at his left hand.
His face went blank.
Then confused.
Then genuinely alarmed.
“I’m not married.”
I gave him the look I reserved for men who thought accountability was a hostage negotiation.
“Really? Because your finger seems pretty committed.”
He turned his hand like the ring might explain itself. “What the fuck?”
I bent to grab my dress from the floor, already planning my apology to womankind and my move to a remote island with no Wi-Fi.
Then I saw my hand.
My left hand.
A diamond ring glittered on my finger.
Not a small diamond.
Not a tasteful little drunk-girl Vegas mistake.
A huge, stupid, sparkling diamond that looked like it had been chosen by two people with no budget, no judgment, and a blood alcohol level high enough to qualify as soup.
Everything stopped.
The room went quiet in that awful way rooms do right before your life falls apart.
I lifted my hand.
The ring caught the light.
And suddenly I was not in the hotel room anymore.
I was under bright lights.
Laughing.
There was red velvet. Gold trim. Fake flowers. An Elvis impersonator in a white jumpsuit, grinning at me like this was normal.
“Well, little lady,” Elvis said, “you ready to become Mrs. Graham?”
My own voice, drunk and delighted and completely fucking insane, answered, “I was born ready.”
A pen in my hand.
My signature on a form.
Hannah Julia Wells.
Beside it, bold and crooked.
Garrett James Graham.
My stomach dropped.
“Oh my God.”
The man in the bed, Garrett apparently, stared at my hand.
Then his.
Then me.
“No,” he said.
I barely heard him. I was already moving, clutching the sheet and searching through the wreckage of the room.
“My phone. Where is my phone?”
“Why are you wearing a ring?”
“Why are you wearing a ring?”
“I asked first.”
“I’m naked and famous. I get priority.”
“You’re famous?”
I whipped around. “You just said you knew me.”
“I said I know you. Like, from somewhere.” He squinted. “Are you an actress?”
I almost choked. “Am I an actress?”
“Reality show?”
“I have fourteen Grammys.”
He stared.
I stared back.
“So,” he said slowly, “not reality TV.”
“I’m a singer.”
“Right. Cool.”
Cool.
Cool.
I had spent a decade being chased by paparazzi, dissected by strangers, shoved onto magazine covers, and recently betrayed in public by a man whose emotional range peaked at damp cardboard.
And my alleged husband had just called my career cool.
I wanted to push Cass Donovan into traffic.
I wanted to push Garrett Graham into a hedge. Not traffic. A hedge felt fair.
“Do you seriously not know one of my songs?”
He looked defensive. “I listen to workout playlists and sports podcasts.”
“That is the saddest sentence I’ve ever heard.”
“I’ll try to survive your disappointment. Can you find your clothes and leave my room now?”
“Gladly.”
Except I still could not find my phone.
I checked the floor beside the bed. More clothes. His belt. My heel. His shirt. My bra on the lamp, still acting like it had won something.
The three condom wrappers stared up at me.
He followed my gaze.
Silence.
Then he said, “At least we were safe.”
I turned my head slowly. “That is your contribution?”
“I’m trying to find positives.”
“You have a wedding ring on your finger and no memory of marrying me.”
“You also have a wedding ring.”
“I’m aware, Garrett James Graham.”
He froze. “How do you know my middle name?”
Another flash hit.
Me giggling at a counter.
Garrett beside me, arm heavy around my waist.
A bored clerk asking for IDs.
A license.
A marriage license.
My knees nearly gave out.
“Because I think I watched you write it on our marriage license.”
His face drained.
“No.”
I found my phone under his dress shirt.
The screen lit up with so many notifications it looked like an emergency alert system.
Allie: CALL ME RIGHT NOW
Allie: HANNAH
Allie: WHERE ARE YOU
Allie: I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU ARE DEAD I WILL KILL YOU
Allie: WHY IS TMZ SAYING YOU GOT MARRIED
Allie: ANSWER YOUR FUCKING PHONE
Allie: HANNAH JULIA WELLS
Allie: Did one of those fake-ass model friends let you marry a hockey player?????
Allie: I hate everyone you went out with last night
Allie: I hate Vegas
Allie: I hate men
Allie: I especially hate men with cheekbones who play sports
There were missed calls from Allie. Sabrina. My manager. My assistant. My publicist. A number saved as Label Emergency, which I had always hoped was decorative.
My heart crawled into my throat.
Garrett had gotten out of bed and was still holding the pillow in front of himself like modesty mattered now, after he had apparently spent the night rearranging my internal organs.
“What?” he demanded.
I didn’t answer.
I turned on the TV with shaking hands.
TMZ filled the screen.
I saw my own face before I heard a single word.
Not red carpet me.
Not music video me.
Not carefully styled, lip-glossed, survived-a-scandal me.
Me.
In a tiny Vegas chapel.
In the dress lying on the floor.
Arms around the neck of the naked man standing behind me.
Kissing him at the altar.
The headline screamed across the bottom.
HANNAH WELLS MARRIES NHL STAR GARRETT GRAHAM IN SHOCK VEGAS WEDDING
Then the marriage license appeared.
Bride: Hannah Julia Wells.
Groom: Garrett James Graham.
A sound came out of me.
Not a scream.
Not a sob.
Something worse.
Something a raccoon might make if it saw headlights and understood taxes.
Garrett stepped closer. The pillow dipped.
I snapped my eyes shut. “Pillow.”
“Right.” Fabric rustled. “What the fuck is that?”
“That,” I said faintly, “appears to be our marriage license.”
“We got married?”
“Congratulations, Sherlock.”
“To each other?”
“No, Garrett. I married Elvis and you were a witness with benefits.”
He dragged a hand through his curls. “Holy shit.”
“Holy shit? That is where you’re landing emotionally?”
“What else am I supposed to say?”
“I don’t know. Maybe sorry for helping me detonate my career?”
“Your career?” He laughed once, sharp and disbelieving. “I have training camp in September. My team is going to lose its mind.”
“Oh no. Will the hockey boys be upset?”
“The hockey boys?”
“I don’t know sports.”
“I noticed.”
“And you don’t know music.”
“I know music.”
“Name one of my songs.”
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
I pointed at him. “Exactly.”
He scowled. “I know your name now.”
“You learned it from a legal document, dipshit.”
The TMZ host kept talking, practically vibrating with joy.
“Sources say Wells was in Vegas following her very public split from fellow artist Cass Donovan, whose latest single appears to blame Wells for his cheating scandal. Graham was in town for the NHL Awards, where the Blackhawks star made headlines earlier this week…”
I stopped hearing the rest.
Cass.
Super Bowl.
The label.
The committee.
The headlines.
The think pieces.
The fan edits.
The conspiracy accounts that were going to comb through every lyric I had ever written and decide I manifested a hockey husband because I used the word ice once in a bridge.
My entire life had become content overnight.
Again.
Except this time, I had signed paperwork.
I pressed a hand to my mouth.
“I fucked everything.”
Garrett looked at me.
For the first time since he woke up, his irritation slipped.
Just a little.
Then his phone started ringing somewhere across the room.
He found it in his pants and checked the screen.
His jaw tightened.
“Logan.”
“Who’s Logan?”
“My teammate.”
“Does he know?”
Garrett looked at the TV, where our altar kiss was looping again.
“I’m guessing yes.”
He ignored the call and started looking for clothes. “I need to call my lawyer.”
“I need to call Allie. And Sabrina. They’ll know what to do.”
“I need to get this fucking annulled.”
The word slammed into the room.
Annulled.
Right.
Yes.
Obviously.
That was what sane people did after accidentally getting married in Vegas to strangers with inconveniently good bodies.
They annulled.
Immediately.
No problem.
Garrett pulled on his boxer briefs under the pillow with the grim focus of a man defusing a bomb.
Then he stopped.
“Wait.”
I was halfway into my dress. It was wrinkled, smelled like nightclub, and had one twisted strap. “What?”
His expression changed.
“Can we annul it if we had sex?”
I stared at him.
He stared back, completely serious.
“What?”
“I mean, isn’t there a consummation thing?”
“A consummation thing?”
“Yeah. Like, if we consummated it, can it still be annulled?”
I blinked. “Did you just say consummated while standing next to three condom wrappers?”
He looked down.
Then back at me.
“Technically, that feels relevant.”
“You think?”
“I don’t know. I’m not a marriage lawyer.”
“I thought you had a lawyer.”
“He doesn’t usually handle my accidental drunk chapel sex-marriages.”
“Shocking. You seem so prepared.”
Garrett grabbed his pants. “I’m asking because if we fucked, and we did, apparently three times, does that mean divorce instead?”
My stomach twisted.
Divorce.
I was twenty-six years old, hungover, naked under a wrinkled dress, and already discussing my first divorce with a man who did not know a single one of my songs.
A laugh bubbled out of me.
Awful. Hysterical. Not cute.
Garrett paused. “Are you laughing?”
“No.” I laughed harder. “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. I think I’m having a stroke.”
He watched me carefully. “Do you need water?”
“I need a time machine.”
“Don’t have one.”
“A new identity?”
“Probably expensive.”
“A shovel for Cass Donovan?”
That made his mouth twitch. “Who’s Cass Donovan?”
“My fake ex-boyfriend. Real asshole. Fake boyfriend.”
Garrett stared. “You had a fake boyfriend?”
“Yes.”
“Like for PR?”
“Yes.”
“And now you have a real husband?”
I stopped laughing.
He stopped smiling.
The TV showed the photo again.
Me and Garrett, kissing under cheap chapel lights like the world wasn’t about to eat us alive.
I looked at the ring on my finger.
Then at the man in front of me.
He was still mostly naked, hair wrecked, shoulders broad, mouth swollen in a way I had probably caused. He looked like a mistake with abs.
A very tall, very inconvenient, legally binding mistake.
My phone buzzed again.
Allie.
Garrett’s phone buzzed too.
For a second, neither of us moved.
Then Garrett said, quieter this time, “What the fuck happened last night?”
I looked at the TV.
At our names.
Hannah Julia Wells.
Garrett James Graham.
Married.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But I think we’re about to find out from the internet.”
Garrett’s room was two elevator rides below mine.
That was the only kindness Vegas gave me that morning.
No paparazzi in the hallway. No hotel guests staring. No drunk bridesmaids whispering into their phones. No bachelor party chanting my name while I clutched my heels in one hand and whatever was left of my dignity in the other.
Just me.
Wrinkled dress.
No underwear.
A diamond ring I could not stop looking at.
And the horrible, very specific awareness that my inner thighs felt like I had spent the night trying out for the athletic portion of a marriage license.
I made it to the door before Garrett said, “Wait.”
I turned around, already preparing myself for another dumb legal question about consummation and whether three condom wrappers counted as intent.
He stood there in boxer briefs, hair destroyed, face still pale from the hangover, holding something black and lacy between two fingers.
My bra.
Of course.
Because humiliation was like glitter. Once it got on you, it never really left.
I snatched it from him.
His mouth twitched.
“Don’t,” I warned.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought something.”
“Probably.”
I left before I could ask what.
By the time I reached my room, my phone had buzzed so many times it felt less like a phone and more like a threat. I shoved my key card at the door, missed twice, cursed Vegas, cursed tequila, cursed Cass Donovan because it felt necessary, and finally got inside.
My room looked untouched.
Pristine.
Judgmental.
Like the bed was personally offended I had chosen to ruin my life somewhere else.
I dropped my heels, locked the door, and went straight for the bathroom. I needed hot water. Toothpaste. A new bloodstream. Possibly a priest.
The ring was still on my finger.
I tried to take it off before I got in the shower.
It did not move.
I twisted it.
Pulled.
Yanked hard enough to make my knuckle burn.
Nothing.
“Of course,” I muttered. “Of course you’re committed.”
The shower helped exactly none.
I stood under the hot water until my skin went pink, and my brain kept playing tiny, awful clips from last night like it hated me personally.
Garrett’s hands on my hips.
His laugh against my mouth.
Me saying yes to something.
Me saying yes to several things, apparently.
His body over mine.
Under mine.
Behind mine.
I pressed my forehead to the tile.
Great.
Perfect.
I had married a stranger, and my body had the audacity to send a thank-you note.
When the knock came, I nearly slipped and died.
Honestly, it would have simplified the press cycle.
I wrapped myself in a robe, shoved my wet hair out of my face, and opened the door.
Allie stood there in sunglasses, leggings, and the expression of a woman who had aged six years since sunrise.
Beside her was Sabrina James.
Perfectly dressed.
Perfectly composed.
Holding a leather binder like she had been born inside a deposition.
Allie looked me up and down.
Then at my hand.
Then back at my face.
“I leave you alone for one night.”
“I know.”
“One night, Hannah.”
“I know.”
“You were supposed to get drunk. Maybe cry in a bathroom. Maybe make out with someone forgettable.”
“I overshot.”
“You married a hockey player.”
“I did notice that part.”
Allie walked in. Sabrina followed, already on her phone.
“I’ve contacted Garrett Graham’s representation,” Sabrina said.
My stomach turned. “His what?”
“His lawyer. Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis. He represents Garrett personally and handles cleanup for the Blackhawks when necessary.”
“Cleanup,” I repeated.
Allie shut the door behind them. “You are the cleanup.”
“Cool. Love being a spill.”
Sabrina set her binder on the table. “There will be a sit-down in the hotel conference room before anyone leaves. No one speaks to press. No one posts anything. No statements without approval.”
“Yes,” I said quickly. “Great. Perfect. Annul it. Today. Right now. I’ll sign whatever.”
Allie and Sabrina looked at each other.
I hated that look.
I knew that look.
It was the look people gave me right before saying things like, We think Cass would be good for your crossover appeal.
Or, The label loves the vulnerability angle.
Or, Maybe don’t publicly call him a talentless man-waffle, even if the description is accurate.
“No,” I said.
Sabrina sat down. “We need to discuss optics.”
“No, we need to discuss how to surgically remove a hockey player from my legal identity.”
“Hannah,” Allie said gently.
Absolutely not.
I pointed at her. “Do not use your publicist voice on me. I am damp, furious, and still wearing last night’s bad choices on my finger.”
Sabrina opened the binder and slid her tablet toward me.
The screen was full of headlines.
Some were gleeful.
Some were brutal.
Some had already paired the Vegas chapel photo with old pictures of Cass looking moody in black and white, because apparently men could cheat, write one bad song, and still be treated like tragic poets instead of walking yeast infections.
Allie swiped through reactions.
Cass’s fans were everywhere.
Calling me desperate.
Calling it a stunt.
Calling it proof that Cass had been right about me being cold. Fake. Impossible to love.
One post had half a million likes.
HANNAH WELLS GETTING MARRIED DAYS AFTER CASS’S SONG IS THE MOST UNHINGED THING SHE’S EVER DONE.
I sat down slowly.
The room tilted again, but not from tequila this time.
“They’re making it about him,” I said.
Allie’s face softened. “They were always going to try.”
“He cheated.”
“I know.”
“He cheated during a fake relationship that he begged for because his album was tanking.”
“I know.”
“And now I’m the crazy one because I accidentally married a man with stupid shoulders?”
Sabrina glanced up. “The shoulders are, unfortunately, part of the problem.”
I blinked at her.
Allie made a pained sound. “The internet likes him.”
“The internet doesn’t know him.”
“The internet doesn’t care,” Allie said. “He’s hot. He’s beloved. He’s good at hockey. And he isn’t Cass. Right now, half your fans are calling him an upgrade, and the other half are writing think pieces about whether you’re spiraling.”
“I am spiraling.”
“Privately,” Sabrina said. “That’s the goal.”
I stared at them.
No.
No, no, no.
“What exactly are you asking me to do?”
Allie took off her sunglasses.
That was how I knew I was fucked.
Sabrina folded her hands on the table. “We need to consider a controlled narrative.”
“Which means?”
“You and Graham met in Vegas. There was chemistry. It was impulsive, but not shameful. You’re taking time to figure out what this means.”
I laughed once. “It means I need an annulment.”
“It could,” Sabrina said. “But an immediate annulment makes this look like a drunken mistake.”
“It was a drunken mistake.”
“Yes,” Allie said. “But the public does not need the director’s cut.”
Sabrina’s voice stayed calm. “You are in a vulnerable image position because of Cass. If you rush to erase this, the story becomes humiliation. If you own it, the story becomes reinvention.”
“Reinvention?” I repeated. “I married someone I met twelve hours ago. That is not reinvention. That is a Dateline cold open.”
Allie sat beside me. “Or it’s you moving on.”
I looked at her.
She was not smiling.
The room went quiet.
Sabrina tapped the tablet. “There may also be interest from the NHL and the Blackhawks in a broader arrangement. Your association with Graham has commercial value.”
“Oh my God.”
“And,” Allie said, softer now, “you need to consider the Super Bowl.”
My throat tightened.
The fans didn’t know about that.
The internet didn’t know I was on a shortlist so secret even my nightmares signed NDAs. They didn’t know I had spent months being discussed in rooms full of men asking whether I was too young, too female, too emotional, too associated with breakup drama, too much.
Cass had already made me look like a woman unraveling.
This could bury me.
Or, apparently, sell jerseys.
I looked down at the ring.
Still stuck.
Still sparkling.
Still absurdly pretty for something currently ruining my life.
“How long?” I asked, and hated myself the second the words came out.
Sabrina did not hesitate.
“A year would be safest.”
My head snapped up. “A year?”
Allie winced.
“A year of what? Pretending I’m in love with him? Living with him? Letting the world call me Mrs. Hockey?”
“Temporarily staying married,” Sabrina said. “With terms. Boundaries. An exit strategy. Public appearances. No unauthorized intimacy in public beyond agreed parameters.”
I stared at her. “Unauthorized intimacy?”
Allie cleared her throat. “There may be an intimacy coordinator.”
I closed my eyes.
Somewhere two floors below, Garrett Graham was probably calling his expensive lawyer and asking if three rounds of sex meant divorce court.
And I was in my hotel room with wet hair, no bra, and my best friend calmly suggesting I stay married for twelve months to a man who did not know a single one of my songs.
All because Cass Donovan had cheated, cried about it in a minor key, and left me to clean up the blood.
A year.
The Super Bowl.
The NHL.
Garrett.
The ring would not come off.