Page 9

Chapter Seven

Cassie

T he foils in my hair catch the light as I scroll through my phone, deleting wedding photos one by one.

Tap, delete, confirm. Tap, delete, confirm.

A methodical erasure of the most chaotic night of my life.

"More coffee, Ms. Hawthorne?" The salon assistant appears with a fresh iced latte, condensation beading on the glass.

"God, yes. Thank you." I take a long sip, the cold caffeine a welcome shock to my system.

After yesterday's killer hangover, Luxe Salon & Spa is exactly what I need right now. The perfect temple of control and transformation. Gleaming white marble counters, crystal chandeliers, and the comforting hum of blow dryers creating order out of chaos.

It's the exact opposite of my current life situation.

I pause on a photo of Jackson and me outside the chapel, his arm around my waist, my lipstick smeared across his jaw. His sea-glass eyes crinkle at the corners, dimples cutting deep into his cheeks.

He looks... happy. We both do.

My thumb hovers over the delete button longer than it should.

"We're going to process for another fifteen minutes," my stylist Alicia says, adjusting a foil near my temple. "You're going to look absolutely stunning when we're done. Thinking of going anywhere special tonight?"

"Work event this weekend," I say, quickly closing the photo app. "Just something I need to look professional for."

Professional . Not like someone who marries strangers in Vegas chapels and then agrees to work for her estranged father out of financial desperation.

I open my emails and pull up the draft event brief, forcing myself to focus on the words rather than the faint memory of Jackson's hands on my body.

The event is just days away. I barely have any time to transform from desperate disaster to polished event coordinator. To forget that…technically… I'm still married.

I scroll through the event details, trying to absorb the information. The league wants a VIP reception. Eye-catching media wall. Player introductions. Top prospects meet-and-greet.

The words "top prospects" make my stomach clench. I haven't watched hockey in years, have no idea who the players are anymore.

And that's exactly how I wanted it.

My phone buzzes with another email from Dana, the lady from the NHL I'm due to meet right after my hair is finished: Confirmed list of draft prospects attached. Familiarize yourself, some of the Icelandic names are difficult. See you soon.

I open the attachment, but immediately close it again. No. I refuse to Google any of these hockey players. I might have taken the event on, but I'm not about to change everything I've stood for these past few years.

"Your hair is going to be gorgeous," Alicia says, checking another foil. "You'll look like a hostess goddess."

I force a smile. "Perfect."

My phone buzzes again, this time with a text from my father:

Need you at the arena tomorrow morning. 9 AM. Meet the draft prospects. Bring the event timeline.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

The Cassie who married a stranger in a chapel is gone. That was temporary insanity brought on by career desperation and too much tequila.

The new Cassie—the one emerging from this salon chair—is focused, professional, and absolutely not thinking about Jackson Holt.

He's getting an annulment. I'm getting my career back on track. End of story.

The stylist pulls off the cape with a dramatic flourish. I catch my reflection in the mirror. New hair, fresh face, and a spark in my eyes I haven’t seen in months.

Yeah… I look like someone who has her life together.

Now I just have to convince the rest of Vegas that it’s true.

I slide my card across the counter, leave a ridiculous tip, and smile as I step out into the dry Vegas heat.

And that’s when I see it.

A newly laid out, massive, glossy poster slapped on a billboard outside the hotel. NHL DRAFT WEEKEND: Produced by Big Mike’s Daughter.

"You're kidding," I growl to myself.

Not Cassie Hawthorne . Not Independent Event Producer Extraordinaire . Just Big Mike’s Daughter , like I’m some spoiled hockey princess with a clipboard.

Heat floods my cheeks. I mutter a curse under my breath and shove my phone back into my bag. I take a steadying breath, remind myself this is temporary, and force my feet forward toward the event room.

Soon, the doors swing open to a world I deliberately left behind. Workers swarm like ants, transforming the space into hockey heaven… or my personal hell.

A colossal ice sculpture of a puck glistens under temporary spotlights. NHL logos stretch across every available surface. Step-and-repeats with sponsor logos line one wall, ready for this weekend's media circus.

"Cassie Hawthorne?" A woman with a sleek bob and a tablet approaches. "I'm Dana Prescott, NHL Events."

Her handshake is firm, no-nonsense. I match it.

"Your father mentioned you'd be taking over." Dana taps her tablet. "Honestly, we're thrilled. When the other company pulled out last minute, we were scrambling. But your name came up, and Big Mike practically teleported your file to my inbox."

I nod, keeping my expression neutral despite the mention of my father. "I understand the timeline is tight."

"That's putting it mildly." Dana gestures around the ballroom. "We need someone who knows hockey culture. The optics, the flow, what the players expect."

We walk past a crew installing LED panels that will showcase highlight reels of the prospects. The familiar smell hits me. That unique blend of temporary carpet adhesive, fresh paint, and the faint whiff of testosterone that seems to permeate all hockey events.

"The commissioner arrives tomorrow for a pre-walk," Dana continues. "After that, we have the prospects meet-and-greet, media day, the family dinner, and then—"

"The actual draft," I finish. "I'm familiar with the schedule."

Dana's eyebrow arches. "Of course you are. You stepped in at just the right time. Nice to have contacts in the industry, huh?"

There it is. The assumption. Everything I've tried to escape ever since I left Iron Ridge.

I'm not here because I'm good. I'm here because I'm Big Mike's daughter.

I swallow the retort building in my throat.

"Let's review the flow," I say instead, pulling out my own tablet.

Dana walks me through the space, pointing out where the prospects will sit, where the team tables will be positioned, the green room setup. It's all coming back to me—the pageantry, the traditions, the ridiculous excess of it all.

“Media’s gonna eat this up." She gestures toward the stage area, where technicians are fussing with a lighting rig. "You’ve got a full backstage crew, dedicated PR liaisons, and three on-site stylists for the top ten picks.”

I nod, making a show of scribbling notes.

"We'll need you to coordinate with the broadcast team," Dana says, handing me a script. "The MC's lines need approval by tomorrow morning."

I scan the document, trying to focus.

But across the ballroom, a group of men in suits—team executives, by the look of them—laugh loudly.

One slaps another on the back. Just like they used to do in my father's office.

Just like they did when I was sixteen and bringing coffee to my father's meetings, trying to prove I belonged. Trying to get… well, here.

"...and you'll stand here during the first round," Dana is saying, pointing to a mark on the floor. "When each team makes their selection, you'll escort the player from the green room to the stage."

“Totally,” I say, like I haven’t spent the last five years running charity galas and celebrity parties just to not be around hockey ever again.

"The photographers will want shots of you with the top prospects," Dana continues. "Especially with the Icehawks' pick. Your father thinks—"

"I'll coordinate with the photography team directly," I interrupt, my voice sharper than intended.

Dana blinks, then nods. "You really struck gold with this gig. Most event planners would kill for this level of access."

I focus on my tablet, gripping it so tightly my knuckles whiten. The room suddenly feels too warm, too loud, too familiar.

A group of reporters walk by, already gossiping about which team might trade up for a better pick. Two executives discuss contract terms in hushed voices by the bar setup.

This world. This fucking world that reduced me to "Big Mike's daughter" for years.

And here I am, right back in it.

"The commissioner specifically requested you handle the VIP reception at the after party," Dana says, mistaking my silence for interest. "Seriously, I told you everyone's thrilled to have Big Mike's daughter running things."

I paste on my most professional smile, even as I scream internally.

I'm more than just his daughter.

But one big financial crisis later, here I am… right back where I started.

"Okay. I'll need the final guest list by tonight," I say, voice calm despite the storm inside me. "And the security protocols for the VIP section."

Dana nods approvingly. "You really do know your stuff."

I do. That's the worst part. I know this world inside and out. I was raised in it, shaped by it, and spent years trying to escape it.

And now it's pulled me back in, like it always knew it would.

"Okay. The lighting needs to be adjusted for the team logos," Dana says, pointing toward the main stage.

I nod, pretending to make a note on my tablet, but the words blur together. My mind drifts to annulment paperwork and how quickly I can file it once this weekend is over.

"And the walkway needs—"

Suddenly Dana's voice fades and something electric pulses through me. That feeling when you're being watched.

I glance up, scanning the crowded ballroom.

There, leaning against the wall near the hallway leading to the press rooms, is Jax. My husband. Jackson Holt. In black jeans that hug his thighs and a crisp white shirt with sleeves rolled to showcase forearms that make my thighs automatically squeeze together.

Oh god. What is he doing here?

Our eyes lock across the room. His sultry gaze pins me in place, the corner of his mouth lifting in that same crooked smile that convinced me to say "I do" to a stranger.

The room keeps moving—crew members hauling equipment, executives in suits clustered in conversation—but everything slows down around us.

My heart hammers against my ribs.

"The commissioner wants the prospects to enter from this side," Dana continues, oblivious to my internal meltdown. "We'll need you to coordinate with security about—"

I can't look away from him. He pushes off the wall, standing taller. The movement highlights the breadth of his shoulders, the lean strength in his frame.

And that's when it hits me.

He has the body of a… no . He can't be.

But the room is full of them. Tall men, like him, hardened with muscles upon muscles.

He fits the bill of a stereotypical hockey player perfectly.

But… he can't be… can he?

"—and the media badges need to be color-coded by outlet," Dana's voice filters back in. "Are you getting all this?"

"Mmhmm," I manage, forcing myself to break eye contact with Jackson.

"Cassie? Are you okay? You look flushed."

I blink rapidly, shaking away memories of his lips against my ear, whispering that I was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

"Fine," I lie, straightening my shoulders. "Just low blood sugar. Haven't eaten since breakfast."

Dana frowns. "There's a grazing table set up near the green room. We should—"

"Perfect. Let's head that way." I gesture in the opposite direction from where Jackson stands, my pulse racing.

The universe is clearly having a laugh at my expense.

I manage to dodge Jackson for the next two hours, burying myself in last-minute details and avoiding the section of the ballroom where I last saw him.

By six o'clock, the setup crew begins filtering out as I dismiss them for the night. The space transforms from chaotic construction zone to polished event venue.

So far, I've already helped with the team banners hanging at precisely the right angle, perfected the lighting and got the stage gleaming under the bright spotlights.

"That's a wrap for today," Dana announces, checking items off her clipboard. "Excellent work, Cassie. I can see why your father speaks so highly of your organizational skills."

I force a smile. "Thanks. I'll just finish up a few things and head out."

Once Dana disappears through the double doors, I exhale heavily and slump against the registration table. My feet throb in these heels, but… I did it.

I've survived day one without a complete meltdown.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

Probably Mia checking if I've filed for divorce yet. Or my father with another impossible request.

I pull it out, squinting at the screen.

Jax: Room 241. Come see me when you're done. We need to talk. (HEART EMOJI)

My breath catches. A heart emoji? Seriously?

Heat floods my body, starting at my chest and radiating outward until my fingertips tingle. I read the message three more times, my thumb hovering over the screen.

The ballroom lights dim as the crew shuts down for the night. Around me, the massive space falls quiet except for the distant hum of the hotel beyond the doors.

I should ignore this. Delete it. Block the number.

Instead, I'm remembering his mouth on my collarbone. The way his hands felt in that chapel bathroom. How he laughed against my lips when I nearly fell trying to climb him like a tree.

"He probably just needs my signature for annulment paperwork," I whisper to the empty room. "That's it. That's what he wants."

My body knows better. The ache between my thighs certainly knows better.

I pocket the phone without replying.

But I don't delete the message either.

Before I can talk myself out of it, my feet are turning toward the elevators at the back of the ballroom.