Page 42 of Pucked In Vegas

When I return to the bedroom, Jackson is still sleeping peacefully, one arm stretched across the space where I had been. The annulment papers sit on the nightstand, forgotten in last night's passion.

Not anymore.

I stare at the papers, the blank signature line mocking me.

This is my escape route. The clean break I need.

My hand trembles as I reach for the pen beside them. For a moment, I watch Jackson, his face peaceful in sleep. Last night floods back again. The way he made me feel. The words he said against my ear as he made me feel things I never have before.

But this world isn't real. It can't be.

I perch on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb him, and press the pen to paper. My signature looks shaky, almost to the point of being unrecognizable… like I'm someone else entirely.

Maybe I am.

I place the pen beside the signed papers and arrange them neatly where he'll see them immediately.

No note. No explanation.

What could I possibly say?Thanks for the orgasms?

A strand of hair falls across his forehead. I resist the urge to brush it away, to touch him one last time. If I do, I might not leave.

Instead, I gather my clothes from where they're scattered across the floor—silent evidence of how eagerly we'd undressed each other. I slip into my jeans and sweater, not bothering with my bra. I just need to get out of here.

At the door, I pause, one hand on the handle. I should feel relieved. This is what I wanted… what I came here for. Confirmation of what I thought was true. An end to this mistake.

So why does it feel like I'm making an even bigger one?

For the entire day, I've hurled myself into running this event like it's chocolate during a breakup. I'm an emotional wreck with a Netflix binge on standby the moment I get home tonight.

Every checkbox on my clipboard represents another second I don't have to think about Jackson's face when he wakes up to find nothing but signed annulment papers where I should be.

"The lighting in the southeast corner needs to be adjusted three degrees," I call out to the tech crew without looking up from my tablet. "And tell catering the ice sculptures need to be delivered at exactly 4:15, not 'sometime in the afternoon.'"

The room buzzes around me.

Workers are hanging banners with the NHL logo, sound technicians running last-minute checks, florists arranging elaborate centerpieces in team colors.

I move through it all like a general commanding troops, my heels clicking across the floor.

This is what I'm good at. This is safe.

Numbers, logistics, timelines. Things that follow rules and don't make me feel like my heart is being torn in two different directions.

"Cassie!" Dana's voice cuts through the noise as she approaches, clipboard in hand. "I just did a walkthrough and...wow. Seriously, girl. You've completely transformed this place."

I force my professional smile. "Just doing my job."

"No, this is beyond what we expected. I can see why your father speaks so highly of your abilities."

My stomach twists at the mention of my father. Again. Will it ever end?

"The commissioner's team just called," I say, redirecting. "They'll be arriving fifteen minutes earlier than scheduled."

Dana nods, impressed. "And you've already adjusted for that?"

"VIP entrance is prepped, security has been briefed, and we've rearranged the welcome reception timing."

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