HEALING THE SCARS

CHAPTER 10

DYLAN

I still cannot believe that Penelope and I are now married. She's afraid of heights, a fear I didn't know she had until now and I can't help but wonder how many more things about her I don't know. I knew her as a young girl, well, knew of her since our fathers were friends. She eventually falls asleep, looking peaceful despite the situation. I find myself admiring her beauty despite the anger and resentment that churn inside me. I wish she would let her hair down the way she had when we first met. Even at our wedding, she kept it tied up in a bun. I wanted to tell her how stunning she looked in the dress I chose for her, but I couldn't bring myself to say it. After all, this marriage is just a formality to me.

I only agreed to marry Penelope because of a contract stipulating I would receive my inheritance only after marrying her and staying together for a year. I feel betrayed by my father, who made me go through this despite all my hard work. It feels like he lied to me, making me do something extra to gain ownership of everything. This whole situation makes me resent Penelope, even though it's not her fault. I'm angry and not used to being denied what I want. I'm especially frustrated because Penelope isn't giving in as easily as I expected. I had expected her to be meek and submissive but she surprised me when she put up a fight and stood up for herself.

I've never been in a steady relationship, and women are just objects to me—disposable and replaceable. I'm Dylan Campbell, the most eligible bachelor. This marriage doesn't change that. Yet, there's something about Penelope that catches my eye. She's clumsy and gullible, qualities that irritate me, but she still manages to captivate me. As I watch her sleep, I'm tempted to reach out and touch her hair, loosen the bun, and see her relaxed. But I hold back. This isn't the time for sentimentality. Penelope mutters something in her sleep, but I can't make out the words. I have important business emails to focus on, so I grab my iPad and start working next to her. 

I must have dozed off because when I wake up, I find Penelope's hand on my chest, her legs entwined with mine. She looks so serene, and for a moment, I smile. I can't help but remember the brief first kiss we shared at the church. She had kissed me like she was scared. I had kissed like I wanted to get it over with. But then the feel of her lips on mine had made me deepen it but my senses had made me pull away before she got the chance to reciprocate. I had noticed the confusion in her eyes but she had quickly masked it with a fake smile for the congregation. 

On the car ride home I kissed her again but this time she had fully given in and I let myself fall into it too. We both had the urgency in us, our lips and hands telling different stories. At that moment all I had wanted was to take her right there and then, not caring whether the driver was still there or whether we were still on the road. The way she had removed my coat and her eyes looked at me with desire filled in them. I wonder who taught her to kiss like that. Was she in a relationship before I kidnapped her? The way she had pulled away and had guilt and shame written all over her face.

I run my fingers through a strand of her hair and a small smile appears on her lips. But then it hits me. What am I doing? What if she read the contract and is trying to manipulate me? The contract has a clause stating that if Penelope gets pregnant before the year is up, there will be no divorce, and she will be entitled to half of what I get. The thought infuriates me. I'm not going to let that happen.

I shove her off me, and she lands on her back on the floor, looking shocked and in pain. "Ouch, oh my God, what the hell!" she screams.

"Don't pretend you don't know what you're trying to do," I say, my voice cold and harsh. "I know what you're up to. You're trying to manipulate me."

Penelope looks up at me, her eyes wide with confusion and hurt. "What are you talking about, Dylan? I was asleep. I haven't done anything. I didn't mean to—"

"Save it," I cut her off. "I've read the contract. I know you're trying to get pregnant so you can trap me into staying with you. I'm not going to let that happen."

Her face flushes with frustration. "That's not true! I haven't even had the time to read all of it. Why would I try to manipulate you? I'm just as trapped in this marriage as you are."

I don't know how to respond. Her words make me question my anger, but I push the thought away. "I don't want to hear it. Just stay away from me," I say, turning on my heel and leaving the room.

After storming out of the bedroom, I make my way to my seat, leaving Penelope behind. I feel a pang of guilt for throwing her to the ground like that. But then I remind myself that she might be pretending to get my attention. We're almost arriving in Malibu anyway. It's good that I have business to attend to there, so I won't have to see much of her. My best friend, who couldn't make it to the wedding, will also be in Malibu for the weekend. At least I'll have some company and a break from this complicated situation.

 I signal to the flight attendant,  "Get me a drink," I say curtly, "preferably whisky."

Within moments, she returns with a glass of Glenfiddich. The amber liquid swirls in the crystal glass, catching the light. I take a sip, savoring the smooth, smoky taste. It's a momentary escape, a brief respite from the turbulent emotions roiling inside me. The whisky burns slightly as it goes down, a sensation that mirrors the simmering anger and confusion within me. As I sit there, lost in thought, Penelope quietly enters the main cabin and takes her seat. She doesn't look at me, her posture stiff and uncomfortable. Her face is a mask of composed calm, but her eyes betray a hint of hurt and confusion. She asks the flight attendant for some water, her voice barely above a whisper.

The attendant, now showing a different side, serves Penelope with a dismissive air, her body language subtly disrespectful. As she hands over the glass, she leans slightly toward me, her eyes lingering a little too long, her smile coy and flirtatious. Penelope shifts uneasily in her seat, her discomfort palpable. I catch the subtle look of unease on Penelope's face, and something unexpected stirs within me. 

"That's enough," I say sharply to the attendant, my voice cold and authoritative. "You will not treat my wife that way. And if I see such behavior again, you can consider yourself fired."

The attendant straightens, her face flushing with embarrassment. She mumbles an apology, casting a quick, nervous glance at Penelope before hurrying away. Penelope turns slightly toward me, her eyes wide with surprise and something else—perhaps a flicker of gratitude. Her lips part as if she's about to say something, but she quickly looks away, her expression guarded.

I take another sip of my whisky, feeling a mix of emotions. This marriage may be a means to an end, but no one disrespects what's mine, even in this complex and strained relationship. The tension between us is palpable, a silent acknowledgment of the complicated emotions we both feel but cannot express.