Chapter Text
I woke up naked, sore, and with a hand on my boob.
Not my hand.
That was the first clue that my morning had taken a sharp left turn into a ditch.
The second clue was the solid, unmistakable press of a hard-on against my ass.
For three full seconds, I did not move. I just stared at the blurry wall of what was definitely not my hotel room and tried to force my brain into working order. It resisted. Hard. My skull felt packed with glitter, tequila, and regret. My mouth tasted like champagne and poor decision-making. My thighs ached in a way that made one thing very, very clear.
I had gotten laid.
Enthusiastically.
Possibly athletically.
Possibly by a professional athlete, judging by the way my entire lower body seemed to be writing a formal complaint.
Hazy flashes slipped through my head in pieces. Music thumping hard enough to live in my ribs. Neon lights. Someone’s hands on my waist. My back against an elevator wall. A hot mouth on my neck. Laughter. Dancing. A bottle of something expensive that Allie would have called a crime scene in glass form. More kissing. A man’s voice in my ear, low and amused, saying something that had made me laugh and shove at his chest.
Then sex.
And sex again.
And, judging by the deep, smug soreness between my legs, sex a third time.
Oh God.
I carefully looked down.
The hand currently cupping my boob was large. Male. Tanned. Long fingers. Very nice hand, actually, if I were in the mood to appreciate the hand of the stranger who had apparently raw-dogged my dignity into another dimension.
Except, no.
Not raw. My eyes flicked around the floor and caught the faint metallic glint of condom wrappers near the bed.
Three of them.
Fantastic. Responsible slut behavior. That was comforting, in a way that did not make me want to die any less.
The man behind me shifted in his sleep, his palm flexing over my breast like he owned real estate there, and his erection nudged my backside again.
My stomach flipped.
Not entirely with horror, which was frankly rude of my body.
I grabbed his wrist to move his hand off me.
That was when I saw the ring.
A plain gold band sat on his left hand.
My blood turned to ice.
No.
No, no, no.
I shot upright so fast the room tilted.
The hand fell from my boob. The man behind me made a sleepy, irritated sound and rolled onto his back, and I twisted to stare at him through the pounding in my head.
Dark curls. Bare chest. Ridiculous shoulders. A jaw sharp enough to ruin lives. He was stupidly attractive in a way that made the whole thing worse, because apparently even my moral collapse had excellent taste.
And he was wearing a fucking wedding ring.
I, Hannah Julia Wells, Grammy-winning singer-songwriter and public cautionary tale of the month, had slept with a married man.
I had helped a married man cheat on his wife.
I had become the other woman.
“Oh my God.”
He didn’t move.
Rage punched through the hangover.
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 be ashamed. He should be crawling naked through the desert while his poor wife hunted him for sport.
I slapped his chest again, because one slap felt insufficient for adultery.
“Get the fuck out.”
He blinked up at me, hair a disaster, mouth parted like he was trying to remember which planet he was 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, with the kind of patience that made me want to smother him with a pillow, he said, “This is my room.”
I opened my mouth.
Then closed it.
Then looked around.
Dark blue duffel bag by the closet. Men’s suit jacket over a chair. A watch on the nightstand that did not belong to me. A room key packet beside it with a name I could not 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.
The moment I did, the sheet ripped off him too.
And there it was.
All of him.
A lot of him.
My eyes dropped against my will.
Then immediately shot back up.
“Cover yourself.”
He looked down at his own lap like he had forgotten he possessed a dick, which, based on last night’s vague memories, seemed unlikely.
Then he grabbed a pillow and shoved it over himself. “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’s not the point.”
He sat up, pillow clamped over his lap, the muscles in his arms flexing in a way I absolutely did not have time to notice. “Who the hell are you?”
I stared at him.
He stared back.
Something flickered in his expression. Recognition, maybe. Not real recognition. Celebrity recognition. The kind where people knew they had seen my face on billboards, award shows, social media, possibly a breakup headline involving Cass Donovan being the human equivalent of a wet sock.
His eyes narrowed. “Wait. I know you.”
“Oh, good,” I said. “Then maybe you can tell your wife you cheated on her with someone famous. That should really spice up the divorce proceedings.”
“I don’t have a wife.”
I pointed at his hand. “You are wearing a wedding ring.”
He looked down.
The pillow shifted dangerously.
I snapped, “Do not drop that pillow.”
He ignored me, staring at his left hand.
His face went blank.
Then confused.
Then alarmed.
“I’m not married.”
I gave him a look that said I had written three albums about men with this exact level of emotional accountability.
“Really? Because your finger seems to disagree.”
He turned his hand over like the ring might explain itself. “What the fuck?”
I bent to grab my dress from the floor, already planning my escape, my apology to womankind, and possibly my move to a remote island without Wi-Fi.
Then I saw my hand.
My left hand.
A diamond ring glittered on my finger.
Not a subtle diamond.
Not a tasteful, small, drunk-girl Vegas mistake.
A big, stupid, sparkling diamond that looked like it had been chosen by two people with no budget, no judgment, and a blood alcohol content high enough to legally qualify as soup.
Everything inside me stopped.
The room went soundless.
I lifted my hand.
The ring caught the light.
For one horrifying second, I was not in the hotel room anymore.
I was under bright lights.
Laughing.
There was red velvet. Gold trim. Fake flowers. A man in a white jumpsuit and rhinestones grinning at me.
“Well, little lady,” Elvis said, “you ready to become Mrs. Graham?”
My own voice, drunk and delighted and completely fucking insane, said, “I was born ready.”
A pen in my hand.
My signature on a form.
Hannah Julia Wells.
Beside it, bold and crooked and masculine.
Garrett James Graham.
My stomach lurched.
“Oh my God.”
The man in the bed, Garrett apparently, stared at my hand.
Then at his.
Then at me.
“No,” he said.
I barely heard him. I was already moving, clutching the sheet around myself and searching the wreckage of the room.
“My phone. Where’s 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 spun on him. “You just said you knew me.”
“I said I know you. Like, from somewhere.” He squinted at me. “Are you an actress?”
I almost choked. “Am I an actress?”
“Reality show?”
“I have fourteen Grammys.”
He stared.
I stared back.
He said, “So not reality TV.”
“I’m a singer.”
“Right. Cool.”
Cool.
Cool?
I had spent the last decade of my life being chased by paparazzi, dissected by fans, shoved onto magazine covers, and recently publicly betrayed by a man whose vocal range had the emotional depth of 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 moderately less dangerous but still emotionally satisfying hedge.
“Do you seriously not know a single one of my songs?”
His expression turned defensive. “I listen to workout playlists and sports podcasts.”
“That is the saddest sentence I’ve ever heard.”
“I’m devastated you feel that way. Can you find your clothes and leave my room now?”
“Gladly.”
Except I still couldn’t find my phone.
I checked the floor beside the bed. More clothes. His belt. My heel. His shirt. My bra hanging from the lamp like some sort of slutty victory flag.
Three condom wrappers lay scattered near the bed.
I stared at them again.
He followed my gaze.
Silence.
Then he said, “At least we were safe.”
I slowly turned my head. “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.
Me giggling at a counter.
Garrett beside me, signing something, his arm heavy around my waist.
A bored clerk asking for IDs.
A license.
A marriage license.
My knees went weak.
“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 at the label. My assistant. My publicist at the agency. A number saved as Label Emergency, which I had always hoped was decorative.
My heart crawled into my throat.
Garrett was out of bed now, still holding the pillow in front of himself like modesty had suddenly become important after he’d spent the night rearranging my internal organs.
“What?” he demanded.
I didn’t answer.
I turned on the TV with shaking hands.
The screen came alive on TMZ.
I swear to God, I saw my own face before I heard anything.
Not my face from a red carpet. Not a music video. Not the carefully selected cover shot of a woman who had survived public humiliation with lip gloss and good lighting.
Me.
In a tiny Vegas chapel.
In the dress currently lying on the floor.
With my arms around the neck of the naked man behind me.
Kissing him at the altar.
The headline beneath the photo screamed:
HANNAH WELLS MARRIES NHL STAR GARRETT GRAHAM IN SHOCK VEGAS WEDDING
Under it, a graphic of the marriage license appeared.
Bride: Hannah Julia Wells.
Groom: Garrett James Graham.
I made a small sound. Not a scream. Not a sob. Something worse. Something that belonged to a raccoon seeing headlights.
Garrett stepped closer, pillow forgotten for one dangerous second before 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 the Elvis impersonator and you were a witness with benefits.”
He dragged a hand through his curls. “Holy shit.”
“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 barked out a laugh. “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 was still talking, gleeful and shark-eyed.
“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 jokes.
The goddamn conspiracy accounts that were going to dig through every lyric I had ever written and decide I’d manifested a hockey husband because I once used the word “ice” 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 slightly.
Then his phone started ringing somewhere across the room.
He found it in his pants and glanced at 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 searching for more clothes. “I need to call my lawyer.”
“I need to call Allie and then Sabrina. They'll know what to do.”
“I need to get this fucking annulled.”
The word slammed into the room.
Annulled.
Right.
Yes. Obviously. Of course.
That was what sane people did after accidentally getting married in Vegas to strangers with inconveniently good bodies.
They annulled.
Immediately.
No problem.
Garrett grabbed his boxer briefs and pulled them on under the pillow with the grim focus of a man defusing a bomb.
Then he stopped.
“Wait.”
I was halfway into my dress, which was wrinkled, smelled like nightclub, and had one strap twisted. “What?”
His expression turned weird.
“Can we annul it if we had sex?”
I stared at him.
He stared back, dead serious.
“What?”
“I mean, isn’t there a consummation thing?”
“A consummation thing?”
“Yeah. Like if you consummate it, is it still annul-able?”
I blinked. “Did you just use the word consummate while standing there with condom wrappers from our three rounds on the floor?”
He looked down at the wrappers.
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’s not usually dealing with 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 it has to be a divorce instead of an annulment?”
My stomach pitched again.
Divorce.
I was twenty-six years old, hungover, naked under a wrinkled dress, and apparently already discussing my first divorce with a man who didn’t know a single one of my songs.
A hysterical laugh bubbled out of me.
Garrett paused. “Are you laughing?”
“No.” I laughed harder. “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. I think I’m having a stroke.”
He eyed 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, quietly, “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 mercy Vegas offered me that morning.
No paparazzi in the hall. No hotel guests staring. No drunk bridesmaids gasping into their phones. No bachelor party chanting my name while I clutched my heels in one hand and the shredded remains of my dignity in the other.
Just me, a wrinkled dress, no underwear, a diamond ring I could not stop looking at, and the distinct, horrifying awareness that my inner thighs felt like I had spent the night auditioning for the athletic portion of a marriage license.
I made it to the door before Garrett said, “Wait.”
I turned, already braced for another stupid legal question involving consummation and whether three condoms counted as intent.
He stood there in boxer briefs, hair wrecked, face still pale under the hangover, holding something black and lacy between two fingers.
My bra.
Of course.
Because humiliation, like glitter, always found a way to stick.
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 technology and more like a threat. I shoved my key card into the door, missed twice, cursed Vegas, cursed tequila, cursed Cass Donovan for existing, and finally got inside.
My room looked untouched.
Pristine.
Mocking.
Like the bed had been personally offended that I’d chosen to destroy my life somewhere else.
I dropped my heels, locked the door, and went straight for the bathroom. I needed hot water, toothpaste, and possibly an exorcism.
The ring was still on my finger.
I tried to take it off before getting into the shower.
It didn’t move.
I twisted. 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 water until my skin went pink and my brain still kept producing tiny, devastating clips from last night. 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.
My forehead hit the tile.
Great.
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, which honestly 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, carrying a leather binder like she had been born in 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 stepped inside, followed by Sabrina, who was already on her phone.
“I’ve contacted Garrett Graham’s representation,” Sabrina said.
My stomach rolled. “His what?”
“His lawyer. Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis. He represents Garrett personally and does cleanup for the Blackhawks when necessary.”
“Cleanup,” I repeated.
Allie shut the door. “You are the cleanup.”
“Cool. Love being a spill.”
“There will be a sit-down in the hotel conference room before anyone leaves,” Sabrina said. “No one talks to press. No one posts. No statements without approval.”
“Yes,” I said quickly. “Great. Perfect. Annul it. Today. Right now. I’ll sign whatever.”
Allie and Sabrina exchanged a look.
I hated that look.
It was the look people gave me 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 set her folder on the table. “We need to discuss optics.”
“No, we need to discuss how to surgically remove a hockey player from my legal identity.”
“Hannah,” Allie said carefully.
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 folder and slid her tablet toward me.
The screen was full of headlines.
Some were gleeful.
Some were brutal.
Some had already paired my Vegas chapel photo with shots of Cass looking moody in black and white, because apparently men could cheat, write one bad song, and still get 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 had 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 looked up. “The shoulders are, unfortunately, a factor.”
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, beloved, good at hockey, and not 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 doesn’t 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’s not reinvention. That’s a Dateline cold open.”
Allie sat beside me. “Or it’s you moving on.”
I looked at her.
She did not smile.
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, more gently, “you need to consider the Super Bowl.”
My throat tightened.
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 ruining my life.
“How long?” I asked, though I already hated myself for asking.
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. 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 fixer and asking whether three rounds of sex meant divorce court.
I was in my hotel room with wet hair, no bra, and a best friend calmly suggesting I remain married for twelve months to a man who did not know a single one of my songs.
All because Cass Donovan had cheated, whined about it in minor key, and left me to clean up the blood.
A year.
The Super Bowl.
The NHL.
Garrett.
The ring would not come off.