PENELOPE
I'm getting ready for this big day. Dylan has sent up stylists who are friendly enough. They meticulously tend to every detail, ensuring I look flawless. The dress they've chosen is a masterpiece of ivory lace and silk, fitted to perfection with delicate beadwork shimmering in the light. As I slip into it, I can't help but marvel at its elegance, though my heart feels heavy with the weight of this charade.
I glance at myself in the mirror and sigh inwardly. Despite the expertly applied makeup and the stunning gown, I feel far from beautiful. Dylan's harsh criticisms echo in my mind—his disdain for my appearance, his indifference towards me. I wonder if he'll ever look at me with anything other than contempt.
Tears threaten to blur my vision, but the makeup artist notices my distress. "Hey, don't worry, you look amazing," she says, her tone reassuring. "Mr. Campbell chose you for a reason, remember that. He is madly in love with you."
Her words offer a brief respite from my knowledge of how fake all this is, but another stylist, a sharp-eyed woman with a smirk, shoots me a disdainful look. I catch snippets of her conversation with another stylist as they adjust my veil.
"Can you believe she's marrying him?" the sharp-eyed stylist whispers with a snide tone. "I heard she's just another trophy."
The other stylist chuckles knowingly. "Well, I've had my turn with Mr. Campbell. He knows where to find me if he gets bored."
My heart sinks as their words sink in. I feel a mix of humiliation and pity for myself—trapped in a marriage orchestrated by our fathers, with Dylan's true intentions laid bare. He sees me as nothing more than a pawn in his game, a means to uphold appearances while he indulges in his privileged lifestyle.
I force myself to hold back tears, not wanting to ruin the makeup that the stylist has painstakingly applied. I feel a pang of sadness for the life I'm about to enter, the facade I must maintain. The gown feels like a cage, its beauty mocking my plight.
The time finally arrives to walk down the aisle. I have no one to accompany me, a stark reminder of my isolation in this grand affair. As I step into the ornate ceremony hall, I feel a wave of scrutiny from the gathered guests—strangers, all of them, their gazes assessing and appraising.
Ahead, I see Dylan, his expression unreadable. Is that a smile? For a fleeting moment, I allow myself to imagine he might see me differently, that his cold exterior might crack with genuine warmth. But reality soon sets in, dispelling any hopeful thoughts.
The priest begins the ceremony, and I go through the motions mechanically, my mind racing with conflicting emotions. When the moment comes to exchange vows, Dylan's voice rings out with practiced ease, his words devoid of any sincerity.
As the priest pronounces us husband and wife, he says the words, you may now kiss the bride. I feel a moment of hesitation from Dylan as he bends to my height and whispers to me, "Make it look real" and then he takes my lips with his and kisses me. For a second I am still but I have to play my part and I kiss him back. I feel his lips moisten mine and his tongue push mine open and our lips just linger there and just when I feel the kiss and want to pull him closer, he withdraws from me. I couldn't help but wonder if he liked it. I notice a flicker of something unfamiliar in Dylan's eyes when he looks at me. It's almost... surprise? Confusion? I can't quite decipher the emotion, and it's gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his usual mask of indifference.
"You belong to me now, Penelope," he declares, his eyes meeting mine briefly before drifting away.
The reception follows in a blur of congratulations and forced smiles. Dylan guides me through the crowd, introducing me to his business associates and acquaintances. Some are cordial, others openly flirtatious, but all treat me like a curiosity—a new acquisition in Dylan's privileged world.
As we mingle, Dylan's mother approaches us, her face alight with pride. "Penelope, my dear, you look absolutely radiant," she gushes, enveloping me in a warm embrace that feels strangely genuine amidst the artifice.
"Thank you, Mrs. Campbell Sr.," I manage to reply, my voice betraying none of the turmoil inside me.
"Nonsense, call me Mum," she insists with a smile. "You're family now."
Dylan's grip on my hand tightens imperceptibly as his mother mentions the honeymoon she's arranged for us in Malibu. "Mum, we've discussed this," he interjects, his tone sharp with irritation. "I don't have time for a honeymoon because of business."
His mother looks taken aback, confusion flickering across her features. "Oh, Dylan, this is the one thing I have done for you since your father died. Don't say no, you will break my poor heart. Besides, I already booked and paid for everything. All you have to do is show up tonight."
"Mum," he cuts her off tersely. "Fine, but we'll talk about you giving me some space. I am no longer a child."
Mrs. Campbell Sr. regards us both with a searching gaze, her concern evident as she smiles triumphantly. "Dylan, dear," she begins tentatively, "why didn't you bring Penelope around sooner? Introduce her to me before marrying her so quickly? Or is she pregnant?"
Dylan's response is swift, a practiced smile curving his lips. "She is not pregnant mum. I couldn't wait any longer," he says smoothly, his voice carrying a hint of feigned sincerity. "Penelope is everything I've ever wanted. I wanted to make her mine before anyone else had a chance. You can get to know her better with time."
I play along with his lie, smiling as convincingly as I can manage. "He's right," I say softly. "We've been looking forward to this day for a long time."
Mrs. Campbell Sr. looks between us, her expression softening with apparent relief. "Well, I'm just glad to see you both happy," she says warmly, though a hint of doubt lingers in her eyes.
Dylan's gaze flickers towards me briefly, a silent warning in his eyes. "Thank you, Mum," he replies smoothly, guiding me away from his mother's probing gaze. "We appreciate your understanding."
As we move through the crowd, I feel a mix of relief and apprehension. Dylan's ability to manipulate his own mother, to maintain the facade of a loving husband, sends a chill down my spine. I know now more than ever that I must tread carefully in this new life—where appearances deceive and truths remain buried beneath layers of deceit.
YOU ARE READING
HEALING THE SCARS
RomanceUNDER HEAVY EDITING AND COMPLETION What happens when your life is falling apart?When all you have left is a crappy contract that your father signed with his competitors to have you married off in order for his enterprise to remain in his family? We...