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This is stupid. I should call Madison's lawyer friend right now. Get this mess annulled before Michael Hawthorne discovers I drunkenly married his daughter days before he gave me the world on a silver fucking platter.

But then I remember how Cassie looked at me. Not like I was Jackson Holt, hockey's golden boy, but just...Jax. A guy she wanted to know.

"Fuck," I mutter under my breath.

"Everything okay?" the dealer asks.

"Yeah, sorry. Just... thinking."

My fingers hover over the cards. I've spent my entire life working for this moment. The draft, the contract, the chance to escape my past and make a new life.

And now, one scandal could tank everything.

But something about Cassie felt real. Even drunk, even stupid with tequila and bad decisions, there was something between us that I've never felt before.

Hell, she convinced me to marry her for Christ's sake.

I take a deep breath. This is insane. I'm actually considering—what? Pursuing a woman I married by accident? A woman who's the daughter of the most powerful man in the organization that's about to own my life?

My heart pounds against my ribs as I make a deal with myself.

Right here, right now, I'll let fate decide.

If I hit blackjack—21 exactly—I don't call the lawyer. I find Cassie. I tell her who I am. I see if whatever sparked between us was real or just Vegas 'magic'.

Anything else, any other number, I walk away. Get the annulment like she asked and pretend this never happened.

"Here goes nothing," I whisper, flipping the first card.

Jack of spades. 10 points.

My pulse quickens. I flip the second card.

Ace of hearts. 11 points.

Blackjack.

The red heart symbol in the center seems to pulse with my own heartbeat.

"Blackjack!" the dealer announces, even though we're the only ones at the table. "Congratulations, sir."

The air rushes from my lungs. I stare at the cards, the Jack and Ace forming a perfect 21. My fingers trace the edge of the Ace of hearts. Of all the cards in the deck, this one found me.

I look up at the dealer, who's waiting patiently for my next move. But I already know what I'm going to do.

"I'm cashing out," I say, gathering my chips.

My decision is made. Not by my brain, which is still screaming about careers and contracts and bitter fucking consequences for what I'm about to do.

But by my heart, which hasn't stopped thinking about Cassie Hawthorne since the moment she took my hand at that pool.

Blackjack. Twenty-one. The universe has spoken.

I'm going after my wife.

Chapter Seven

Cassie