Taming the Bitch (COMPLETED)

Chapter XXI - Helipad

"Welcome to Burj Al Arab, Mr. & Mrs. Walton!" The guest service executives greeted them with radiant smiles as they stepped into the world's only seven-star hotel, set to be the stage for what was supposed to be their honeymoon.

The front officers, dressed in elegant blue gowns, stood in neat rows alongside a man in a kundura, all presenting traditional Emirati delicacies: stuffed dates, juice shooters, and rosewater-scented face towels. They had just disembarked from the private jet that flew them from London to Dubai—a flight that had been quiet, suffocatingly so.

For Vincent, the silence had been torture. He wanted desperately to speak to Gabrielle, to bridge the chasm that had formed between them, but he knew any attempt would be met with cold indifference—or worse, anger. She had dozed peacefully on the queen-sized bed in her suite for most of the flight, while he lingered on the nearby reclining chair, trying to find solace just being close to her. Hours passed, filled with the competing rhythms of their breathing.

He had awoken first, brewing green tea for her as Teresa had advised. When he offered it, Gabrielle merely raised a brow regally, drinking without a word of thanks.

Now, she strode ahead of him toward the main door of the helipad, ignoring the welcoming smiles of staff and the faint congratulations for their recent marriage.

"Mrs. Walton, we have a small congratulatory gift for you," said a middle-aged man, introducing himself as Akhmed Abdullah, Director of the Rooms Division. He handed her a bouquet of pink and white tulips.

Gabrielle barely glanced at him before raising an eyebrow, signaling that the flowers were useless to her. "Oh... appreciate it, Mr. Abdullah. But perhaps you should give them to my husband. He's the one you should be congratulating. And just so you know—I'm allergic." She lifted her chin and continued walking, leaving the man speechless and the staff awkwardly silent.

Vincent accepted the bouquet with a smile. He knew she didn't mean the flowers—they were a symbol of all the congratulations and forced celebrations she was allergic to. "Nothing to worry about," he said lightly to the older man. "Excuse her. She's exhausted from the flight."

"Mr. Walton, your father-in-law also wanted me to inform you to go straight to The Terrace."

"The Terrace?" Vincent asked, following Gabrielle's confident stride. She clearly knew this hotel intimately, as she had known so much else of the world from childhood—everything except true peace or happiness.

"The Terrace is opening tonight—the Extension Island of the hotel. As the first couple members of the Burj Al Arab Lifestyle Membership, you are invited to the opening night."

Vincent frowned. "We... are what?"

"Mr. Davis made sure you were the first couple members. Attendance is requested tonight."

Vincent sighed, already anticipating Gabrielle's reaction. An hour until the next social obligation. She would kill him.

They entered one of the hotel's fastest elevators, rising to the 25th floor in mere seconds. The suite was a vision of opulence: a circular matrimonial bed with curtains framing it, gold accents, and intricate paintings. Vincent marveled, though he didn't want to consider the cost. Luxury had never been his concern—saving people from poverty, now that was real wealth.

Gabrielle went straight to a large box on the bed, pulling out a letter, scanning it, then throwing it back on top of the bed. "Bloody hell," she muttered, collapsing onto the mattress.

Vincent stared at her. "What is it?"

"Sure you know... bloody idiot," she said, covering her face. "The last thing I want is to be in the same room as you, the next... another party with you. Bloody... bloody... bloody..."

"We don't need to attend," he said softly, trying to soothe her. She glared.

She exhaled sharply, realizing non-attendance could jeopardize her mother's delicate recovery. "Yeah right... we don't, huh?"

"But some people need us—your grandfather, my father... with everyone believing in this... marriage." She flopped back onto the bed, voice dripping sarcasm.

"Bloody marriage..." Vincent repeated, exhaling.

"Why are you blaming me, Vincent?" she asked, voice quieting. "You also said yes. You also said I do when the priest asked me. Why...?"

She didn't answer. Her eyes glimmered with fresh tears, threatening to fall.

Vincent rose and sat beside her, shoulders heavy. "I know I'm just a gold-digging swine in your eyes. But you can tell me... let me help you. Let me prove my intentions aren't as bad as you think. I can be your friend... again." His hand brushed hers—a tender gesture—and she turned her eyes to him, conflicted.

"You..." she gulped, closing her eyes, memories of friendship and trust flashing painfully. "You were never my friend... you lied to me, Walton. Made me feel stupid for believing your acts of kindness..." A single tear fell, and she pulled her hand away, standing abruptly.

Vincent clenched his jaw. Frustration, guilt, helplessness—he felt it all.

Will she ever forgive him?
Will they ever get a chance to make this work?

He didn't know.