Page 27 of Pucked In Vegas

The 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. Hissea-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 takenthe 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.

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