Marrying the Mafia's Daughter

Elena's POV

"Your marriage certificate is a $50 souvenir, Ms. Vance."

The words hit me harder than any stray puck I'd ever dodged on the ice. I just stared at the man across the desk, Officer Miller, whose face was as sterile and cold as the government office we were sitting in.

"I'm sorry?" I finally managed, my voice sounding like it was coming from underwater. "That's a legal marriage certificate. I've had it framed on my nightstand for a year."

"The registration number is invalid. The seal is decorative." Miller corrected, his tone dropping an octave, devoid of even a shred of empathy.

He tapped the ornate, gold-embossed paper with a heavy finger. "It's the kind of thing you buy at a Vegas gift shop so you can pretend to be married for the weekend. In the eyes of the United States government, you are single."

The room began to spin. The low, irritating hum of the fluorescent lights above suddenly felt like a drill boring into my skull. My hand went instinctively to the diamond ring on my finger, modest, elegant, and suddenly feeling like a burning brand of shame.

“It's the playoffs, El,” Liam's voice echoed in my head, smooth as velvet, the same voice that had charmed millions of fans and convinced me to marry him in a secret, midnight ceremony. “Coach will kill me if I miss practice. Just handle the paperwork. You're the smart one.”

I was the smart one.

I was the head team doctor for the New York Glaciers.

I had spent my career stitching up jagged lacerations and popping dislocated shoulders back into sockets while twenty thousand fans screamed for blood. I was trained to handle high-pressure, life-or-death situations with surgical precision.

And yet, I had been living a lie for three hundred and sixty-five days.

"There has to be a mistake," I stammered, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. "My husband, Liam Sterling... he's the star forward for the Glaciers. His management team handled the filing. His lawyers, "

"Mr. Sterling's lawyers didn't file anything for you, Ms. Vance," Miller interrupted, leaning back and removing his glasses. "And even if they had tried, it wouldn't have mattered. Liam Sterling couldn't have legally married you last June. Or ever."

"Why?" I whispered. The word felt like a shard of glass lodged in my throat.

"Your husband, well, Mr. Sterling's already married to someone else." Miller turned his computer monitor around.

The blue light of the screen blinded me for a second. When my vision cleared, I saw a database record. It was Liam's name. And right next to his name, under the heading Spouse, wasn't my name.

It was a name I knew better than my own.

Sophia Cruz, his manager.

"Legally," Miller said, the words falling like guillotines, "Mr. Sterling has been married for three years."

Sophia.

The name was a slapshot to my solar plexus, knocking the wind out of me so violently I nearly fell off the plastic chair.

The woman who handled Liam's schedule, his endorsements, and his public image.

The woman who sat across from me at team dinners, calling me "sweetie" while sipping expensive wine.

The woman who had literally helped me pick out my wedding dress for that "private" Vegas ceremony.

“Oh, Elena, you look like an angel. Liam is going to die when he sees you.”

She hadn't been helping me pick out a wedding dress. She had been picking out a costume for the fool playing the role of the secret wife.

"They share a mortgage on a property in the Hamptons," Miller continued, his eyes finally showing a flicker of something, pity?

"They filed a joint tax return last year. They are husband and wife in every sense that the law recognizes. You, Ms. Vance, are simply a guest in the country whose time is running out."

"Professional commitments," I choked out, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in my chest. "He said he couldn't be here because of professional commitments."

"Well, he's certainly committed," Miller said, sliding my 'souvenir' certificate back across the desk.

"I suggest you sort this out with 'Mr. Sterling' immediately. Your work visa is tied to your status as his spouse, a status you don't actually have. You have thirty days to rectify this, or you will be deported."

Thirty days.

I stood up, my legs feeling like they were made of jelly. I didn't remember grabbing my folder. I didn't remember walking out of the office. I just remembered the cold, biting air of the New York afternoon hitting my face, jarring me back to reality.

I wasn't a wife. I was a cover story. A prop used to protect the "Ice Prince" while he lived a double life with his real wife.

I got into my car and drove, my hands shaking so hard I could barely grip the steering wheel. I didn't go home. I went to the one place where I knew I would find him. The arena.

As the team doctor, I had a key card to the private staff entrance. I moved through the concrete tunnels of the stadium like a ghost, my heels clicking a death march on the rubber mats. I reached the locker rooms, my mind a storm of rage and betrayal, but as I reached for the door handle to the medical suite, I heard a sound that stopped me cold.

Giggling.

"Liam, stop... the boys will be back from the ice any minute."

It was Sophia. Her voice was breathless, high-pitched, and intimate.

"Let them look," Liam's voice followed, husky and deep. "I'm tired of hiding you, Soph. Once we get Elena to sign those 'adoption' papers for the baby, we can finally be a real family in public."

"You think she'll buy the 'war orphan' story?"

"She's desperate for a family, Soph. And she's 'the smart one,' remember? She's so busy fixing everyone else, she never notices what's right in front of her. She'll raise our kid and thank me for the privilege."

They laughed together, a cruel, harmonious sound that shattered the final remains of my heart.

I stood in the hallway, staring at the heavy metal door.