HEALING THE SCARS

CHAPTER 16

PENELOPE

Why does he look so confused? Or is it disgust? I already know he doesn't find me attractive; he doesn't have to look at me like that to prove it. He even told me himself on the first day we met.

"Penelope," he says, his voice clipped and detached. He seems lost for words, which is rare for him. I step closer, placing my hand on his chest and caressing his shoulders down to his abs. His body is perfectly sculpted, and despite his cold demeanor, I can't help but feel drawn to him. I don't dare look into his eyes. My hands move over his body, silently begging for him to touch me. He is already very hard and huge. How did that fit inside me? Just when I think he will touch me, he grabs my wrists, his grip firm but controlled.

"Penelope, no," he says, his tone icy. "You don't want this. I can't take you and fuck you right now; this isn't right."

I flinch at his bluntness, but press on, desperation tinging my voice. "Dylan, please, touch me. I need this."

He shakes his head, his expression unyielding. "This won't fix things," he states flatly. "It won't make you feel better. It'll just make everything worse."

Tears prick my eyes as anger and humiliation flood through me. "You already fucked me once. What's stopping you from doing it again? Is it because I'm not a virgin anymore? Did you get what you wanted, and now that I'm worthless, you see no point in having me? Or do you only want me when it's convenient for you? Tell me!" Dylan remains silent, his face a mask of indifference. His cold, calculating nature shines through as he simply watches me break down.

"Don't tell me I'm not ready. I know myself. Don't tell me I'm still hurting. I'm not some damaged girl. I've heard that men will sleep with anything that walks, right? Isn't that why you fucked me? So don't you dare tell me to be patient with myself when you already see me as worthless." I hit his chest, my fists weakly pounding against him. He doesn't react, his stoic expression is unchanged. He just stands there, letting me vent my frustration. Eventually, I collapse, the water from the shower mixing with my tears as I sit on the floor, sobbing.

As I sit there, I wrestle with a conflicted thought. Part of me wants to tell Dylan that, despite everything, I had enjoyed it. I had wanted it. I can't even admit it to myself. How could I admit that? It feels wrong like I'm betraying myself and everything I'm supposed to feel. Yet, I can't shake the memory of how he made me feel, the way his touch ignited something inside me that I can't explain. The shame, guilt, and confusion swirl within me, making me question my own feelings. How can I feel this way after everything that's happened?

Dylan stands there, his gaze distant. Despite his cold exterior, I can see a flicker of something else—perhaps regret or frustration. But it's fleeting, and soon his mask is back in place. He hesitates for a moment, then steps out of the shower without another word, leaving me alone with my thoughts and my pain. I continue crying, wondering if I'm still in shock, still desperate for his love to cover up the emptiness inside me. I watch him go. I know that the distance between us is not just physical but emotional. It's a barrier I can't easily cross, and maybe I shouldn't try.

After what feels like an eternity, I finally pull myself together enough to leave the bathroom. My legs are shaky as I make my way to the walk-in closet. As I enter, I see Dylan already dressed in a sharp, tailored suit. His back is to me, but I can see his reflection in the mirror. His face is set in that usual cold, unreadable expression. The sight of him dressed so formally makes me pause. Where is he going?

I grab a pair of jeans and a simple top from the closet, opting for something casual. As I start to get dressed, I can feel his eyes on me. He's watching, but I can't tell if it's with any sort of emotion or just detached curiosity. His silence is suffocating, and I can feel the tension in the air.

Finally, unable to bear it any longer, I break the silence. "Are you going to see one of your mistresses?" The words slip out before I can stop them. They sound bitter, even to my own ears. I instantly regret asking. What right do I have to question him? Ours is an arranged marriage, a contract bound by obligations rather than love. I shouldn't care where he goes or who he sees.

He doesn't answer immediately, and for a moment, I think he's going to ignore the question altogether. His eyes narrow slightly, a flicker of something—annoyance? Amusement?—crossing his features before he masks it again. His silence only heightens my insecurity. Why do I care? Why do I feel this gnawing jealousy and insecurity for a man I barely know? I'm not supposed to care about his affairs, about the other women he might be seeing. But the thought of him with someone else twists my stomach in knots. It makes me feel even more insignificant, more worthless.

Dylan finally speaks, his voice low and cold. "You shouldn't concern yourself with where I'm going or who I'm seeing." His words are like ice, cutting through the room. "Our arrangement doesn't include that kind of... concern."

His words are a reminder of the reality of our situation. We're bound together by duty, not affection. I'm just another part of his carefully curated life, a piece of the puzzle that fits into his plans. There's no room for emotions or attachments.

Dylan's words sting, but before I can react, he adds, "I have a meeting in town. That's where I'm headed." His tone is clipped, but there's a slight shift in his demeanor as he speaks. It's almost as if he's trying to soften his earlier harshness, though his expression remains impassive.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady my racing heart. The tension in my shoulders eases slightly at his explanation. At least it's not another woman he's going to see. For a moment, I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. I remind myself that despite these fleeting moments of concern and curiosity, I don't really know him. And he doesn't know me. This is an arranged marriage, bound by obligation and convenience, not by love or mutual understanding. I don't have the right to question his choices or his actions. He is a stranger to me, and I am a stranger to him.

Pushing these thoughts aside, I focus on getting dressed. As I pull on my top and adjust my jeans, I try to regain some semblance of normalcy. My emotions are a tangled mess, but I need to maintain my composure. I can't let him see how much his words and actions are affecting me. After I dress, I make my way to the balcony and sink into one of the plush seats. The gentle ocean breeze feels soothing against my skin as I watch the waves roll in and the surfers carve through the water. I curl up, letting my thoughts wander.

I find myself thinking about my younger brother, Andrew. I worry about how he's doing and if Dylan's mother is treating him kindly. I hope she's showing him the warmth and care he deserves. I mentally remind myself to ask Dylan to make a call home so I can hear from Andrew and make sure he's alright.

My thoughts then turn to my best friend, Mabel. She must be frantic, not knowing where I am, especially since Dylan threw my phone away. I feel a pang of guilt for not being able to reassure her. I think about asking Dylan for the new phone he bought me, but I feel too proud to do so. It's not just pride, though; there's something deeper holding me back. I don't want to seem desperate or needy. So, despite my growing frustration, I decide against asking him. As I sit there, the waves provide a calming rhythm, but my mind remains turbulent, caught between worry and pride.