Penny

Tears slid down my cheeks, hot and silent, tracking over skin that felt entirely too numb.

I wiped them away with the back of a trembling hand, but the moisture kept coming, blurring my vision.

Everything was moving at a terrifying, sickening speed. Just forty-eight hours ago, my life was simple.

We were poor, barely scraped by on my father’s mechanic wages and Mom’s part-time shifts at the diner. We were happy.

Then came the wet asphalt, the shattered glass, and the screeching metal.

My parents were buried yesterday. The red clay soil from the cemetery was still caked on the arches of my worn-out sneakers.

I hadn't even had time to process the suffocating weight of my grief before reality slammed into me with the force of a freight train.

There was no money. No life insurance. Just stacks of unpaid bills and a yellow eviction notice waiting like a vulture on the kitchen counter.

And then there were the men who had knocked on our door last night—shadowy, brutal men demanding my father's unpaid debts with threats that made my blood run cold.

I knew what had to happen today. I knew why Holland Stevens was in my house.

I was going to marry him.

It sounded insane, but I had made up my mind. I had no choice. I was twenty, utterly penniless, terrified, and completely alone in the world.

Holland was my father’s oldest friend. They had grown up together in the same grimy neighborhood, but while my father stayed and struggled, Holland had vanished years ago, rebuilt himself, and returned as an untouchable titan of industry. Filthy, unimaginably rich.

When he offered to clear the violent loan sharks, pay off the debts, and give me a legal shield through marriage, my survival instincts overrode my shock.

"Penny! Come downstairs, please."

The voice echoed up the stairwell.

It wasn't unkind, but it carried an undeniable authority that made my stomach twist into tight, painful knots.

My body shook violently as I forced my legs to move down the creaky stairs, my hands clutching the handrail for balance.

Holland was standing in our small living room, making the cramped space look absurdly tiny.

Beside him stood a sharp-looking man in a tailored charcoal suit—a lawyer, holding a leather briefcase and a sheath of crisp white documents.

Holland turned as I reached the bottom step. The man was fifty years old, but he carried it like a weapon.

Broad-shouldered, impossibly muscular beneath his bespoke suit, with silver-dusted hair and dark eyes that seemed to see right through me.

He was dangerously handsome in a way that commanded total obedience.

"Penny," Holland said, his deep voice filling the room as he took in my trembling frame. He stepped forward, placing a heavy, warm hand on my shoulder to steady me. "It's time."

The lawyer stepped forward, fanning out the thick set of papers on the battered wooden coffee table and handing me a pen.

"This is for the best, my sweet girl," Holland said softly, though the edge beneath his words was absolute steel. "It's for your own good. Your parents are gone, and your father's old debts will destroy you if you stay here. If you are my wife, my legal standing guarantees you full protection, a name, access to my wealth, and absolute safety. No one can touch you. No debt collector will ever dare step foot near you again."

I looked at the legal document fanned out on the table. Marriage Certificate.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.

My mind reeled from how fast my life had dissolved, but as I thought of those men at the door last night and the crippling weight of my dead parents' debts, I knew Holland was my only lifeline.

With shaking fingers, I pressed the tip of the pen to the paper and signed my life away.

"Pack what you need," Holland instructed calmly. "Only what matters to you. The car is outside."

I retreated to my bedroom, my head spinning. I pulled a beat-up canvas duffel bag from the closet and began throwing in a few worn sweaters, jeans, and old photo albums.

My gaze drifted up to the poster taped to the slanted wall above my bed.

It was a giant, glossy poster of the Ice Eagles—the city’s premier professional hockey team.

Right in the center was their star player, mid-skate, eyes fierce behind his helmet, radiating raw power and effortless grace.

I had saved up for months just to go to one of his games last year. Like every other girl my age, I had a massive, embarrassing crush on him.

I used to stare at that poster and dream about what it would be like to marry someone like him—someone young, passionate, dangerous, and electric.

Instead, I was marrying a fifty-year-old billionaire who felt more like a guardian deity than a husband.

A quiet sigh escaped my lips as I pulled the poster down, folded it carefully, and tucked it into the bottom of my bag.

Dreaming was over. Reality had taken its place.

I slung the heavy duffel over my shoulder, took one last, heartbreaking look at my childhood bedroom, and walked out into my new life.

Outside, a sleek, pitch-black Maybach was idling at the curb, flanked by two formidable SUV security escorts.

Holland was waiting by the open door. He took my bag, tossing it into the trunk as effortlessly as if it contained feathers, and guided me into the leather-scented interior.

The ride was suffocatingly quiet. Smooth, silent luxury swallowed us as the city bled into sprawling, gated estates.

"Nervous?" Holland asked, breaking the silence as he leaned back, resting a thick, ringed hand on his knee.

"A little," I admitted, staring down at my lap.

"You have nothing to fear in my home," he said smoothly. "Though... you should know we won't be alone. My boy is staying at the estate right now."

His boy?

I blinked, turning to look at him. Holland had mentioned a son once or twice to my dad, but I had always pictured a small, rowdy kid—maybe a ten-year-old running around in pajamas.

The thought made me slightly less nervous; a child would be a welcome distraction from the heavy, suffocating silence of this arrangement.

"Oh," I whispered, forcing a small smile. "That's fine. I'm good with kids."

Holland gave a subtle, enigmatic smirk, but said nothing more as the car rolled through massive iron gates and up a long, winding cobblestone driveway.

The mansion was breathtaking—a towering titan of glass, dark wood, and modern stone. It looked less like a home and more like a fortress.

The moment the car stopped, Holland’s phone buzzed in his jacket. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and frowned slightly.

"Business," he muttered, stepping out of the car and opening my door. "Go on inside, Penny. The front door is unlocked. I need to take this call from the courtyard."

"Okay," I murmured.

I grabbed my heavy duffel bag from the trunk and walked up the grand stone steps alone.

Pushing open the towering front door, I stepped into a high-ceilinged foyer with marble floors so polished I could see my reflection.

The house was dead silent, echoing with a cool, distant luxury.

Feeling completely out of place in my faded clothes and battered sneakers, I began to wander deeper into the main floor, trying to find a bathroom or a living room.

I turned down a wide hallway and followed the dim lighting into an enormous, state-of-the-art kitchen.

A single light was illuminated near the massive stainless-steel refrigerator.Someone was standing in front of the open fridge, bathed in its soft glow.

I stopped dead in my tracks. It wasn't a little kid.

It was a boy—no, a young man. Broad-shouldered, lean, and toweringly tall, wearing only a pair of grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips.

His bare back was a map of hard, carved muscle, glistening faintly with a sheen of sweat, and a sharp, jagged scar ran down his left shoulder blade.

The sound of my sneaker squeaking on the tile echoed softly in the quiet room.

He froze, then slowly turned around.

The breath slammed out of my lungs. My pulse spiked into an absolute frenzy.

My hand went limp.

The heavy duffel bag fell from my fingers, hitting the marble floor with a loud, hollow thud…

Chapter Two: The Illusion

🪶Penny.

Oh no. No, no, no... this has got to be a dream.

I blinked once, twice, holding my breath and waiting for the nightmare or the delusion to melt away into the quiet darkness of my old bedroom.

But when I opened my eyes, he was still standing there.

Messy dark hair. Sharp, cut-glass jawline. Cold, storm-grey eyes that burned with a mixture of raw exhaustion and lethal anger. And a mouth full of sharp, sinful arrogance.

It was him. The boy from my poster. The star of the Ice Eagles.

My crush!

His dark eyes raked over my body, lingering on my flushed cheeks and my trembling lips, before settling coldly on my eyes.

The tension in the air snapped like a live wire, thick with something dangerous, suffocating, and entirely forbidden.

I felt paralyzed under his glare, my pulse hammering so loudly in my ears it drowned out the hum of the massive refrigerator behind him.

He didn't move. He didn't speak. He just stared at me like I was a piece of trash that had washed up on his pristine marble floors.

"Ah, there you are, Penny!"

Holland’s deep, resonant voice shattered the quiet like glass.

I flinched, turning my head quickly as Holland walked into the vast kitchen, his hands casually shoved into the pockets of his suit trousers.

A warm, pleased smile touched his lips when he saw us standing in the dim light.

"I was looking all over the main floor for you," Holland said smoothly, stepping past me and putting a heavy, reassuring hand on my shoulder. "I see you've already bumped into each other."

I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat feeling like a jagged stone.

I couldn't pull my gaze away from the young man standing by the fridge, but my mind was screaming, tumbling over itself in sheer panic.

"Penny, this is my son, Cameron," Holland introduced, his tone laced with standard paternal pride, completely oblivious to the electric current humming between us. Holland turned his dark, commanding eyes down to me, his grip on my shoulder tightening just a fraction in possessive warmth. "Cameron, this is Penny. My wife."

The word ‘wife’ hung in the air like heavy smoke.

Cameron didn't flinch. Not a single muscle in his sculpted face moved, but his grey eyes darkened, turning as cold as ice on a frozen lake.

His gaze flicked slowly from Holland’s face, down to Holland’s hand resting on my shoulder, and then back to mine.

A subtle, dangerous flicker of disgust danced in his eyes.

"Enjoy your stay," Cameron said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that sent a shiver straight down my spine.

Without waiting for a response, he reached into the open refrigerator, grabbed a cold bottle of water, and slammed the heavy door shut.

He turned his back on us and walked out of the kitchen, his bare shoulders flexing with every stride, his heavy footsteps echoing down the hallway until a door slammed shut somewhere in the distance.

I stood frozen, my knuckles white as I clenched my hands into fists.

Holland chuckled softly beside me, shaking his head. "Don't mind him, Penny. He's always like this when he meets new people. Taciturn. Guarded. Give him a little time, and he’ll come around."

"Right," I choked out, forcing my voice to sound somewhat normal. "Sure."

"Come on," Holland said gently, picking up my heavy duffel bag from the floor as if it weighed nothing. "Let me show you up to our room."

My stomach plummeted at the phrase our room, but my numb legs simply followed him back out into the grand foyer and up a sweeping marble staircase.

The second floor was just as absurdly lavish as the first, lined with high-end artwork and soft wall sconces that cast long, dramatic shadows over the hardwood floor.

Holland stopped outside a set of heavy double doors at the end of the long hall.

He pushed them open, revealing a bedroom that was larger than my family's entire house.

A massive king-sized bed dominated the space, draped in dark silk sheets and plush pillows, looking out over floor-to-ceiling windows that faced the moonlit estate grounds.

"I had the maids make you a little something to eat," Holland said, gesturing to a silver tray sitting on a small table near the balcony, laden with fresh fruit, pastries, and tea. "I figured you must be exhausted after everything today."

"Thank you, Holland," I murmured, standing awkwardly near the center of the room.

He set my bag down by the closet, then walked over to me.

Slowly, deliberately, he leaned in.

My whole body instinctively stiffened as his arms folded around me, holding me close against his broad chest.

He didn't push for more—instead, he leaned down and planted a warm, gentle kiss right on my forehead.

"I promise you, Penny," he whispered softly into my hair. "Everything is going to be alright now. I promise."

I swallowed the bile rising in my throat, forcing a small, tight smile onto my face as he pulled back.

"I know you need some time to process everything that's happened today," Holland added, taking a step back toward the doorway. "I'll give you your space for now. Get some rest. We have a long road ahead of us."

"Thanks, Holland," I said, my voice barely a thread.

"Don't mention, my sweet girl."

He stepped out into the hallway and pulled the heavy doors shut, the latch clicking into place with a definitive, heavy snap.

The moment the door locked, the fake smile crumbled from my face.

I let out a long, ragged exhale that rattled through my chest.

Dropping my head into my hands, I began pacing the plush rug, my heart beating so fast I felt sick to my stomach.

This couldn't be happening. It couldn't.

It felt completely unreal, like some twisted, dark movie I had accidentally stepped into. My parents were dead, I had signed my life away to a fifty-year-old billionaire for protection, and now... now this?

His son has been my crush?

Terror clawed at my throat. Oh God. Oh my God. What am I supposed to do now?!

Panic slammed into me like a wave. I paced back and forth, from the foot of the massive bed to the dark windows.

How was I supposed to live in this house? How was I supposed to look at Holland, a man who just declared his love for me, knowing that his son was the very boy whose picture I had stared at every night before going to sleep? The boy I had spent months daydreaming about?

I stopped dead in my tracks, staring at my reflection in the dark glass of the balcony door.

Wait.

A sudden, sharp thought pierced through the haze of my hysteria, bringing me to a complete standstill.

What if... what if it wasn't him?

I pressed a trembling hand against my burning forehead. Was I losing my mind? Grief did strange things to people.

I was traumatized, exhausted, hungry, and terrified out of my skin.

Maybe my brain was playing cruel tricks on me. Maybe Holland's son just happened to have messy dark hair, sharp features, and cold grey eyes.

Maybe they just looked alike. It wasn't impossible for two people to bear a striking resemblance, especially under the dim, shadowy lighting of an unfamiliar kitchen.

I was just seeing things, I tried to convince myself, desperately clinging to the idea like a lifeline. It’s just a coincidence. A trick of light. It has to be.

Driven by a sudden, desperate urge to prove myself right, I sprinted over to my duffel bag on the floor.

I unzipped it with frantic fingers, digging past my sweaters until my hand hit the bottom. I pulled out the folded poster of the Ice Eagles star player and snapped it open under the bedside lamp.

I stared down at the glossy print, then looked toward the bedroom door, my breath catching in my throat as a terrible, sickening realization settled over me.

The scar.

The boy on the poster had a distinct, jagged scar running down his left shoulder. A souvenir from a brutal hit against the boards during his rookie season.

And the boy in the kitchen... had that exact same scar.

It wasn't a trick of the light. It wasn't a coincidence.

It was him!

Cameron

I slammed my bedroom door so hard the glass in the high windows rattled in their frames.

"Fucking hell!"

The roar tore out of my chest as I paced the floor of my room, the hardwood slick beneath my bare feet.

My pulse was a violent drumbeat behind my ribs, every breath tasting like acid.

I looked down at the icy bottle of water gripped tight in my hand, knuckles white, veins straining against my skin.

With a guttural curse, I hurled the bottle with everything I had.

It smashed against the far wall with a deafening crack, the plastic bursting and spraying cold water all over the dark wood paneling before bouncing onto the floor.

I collapsed onto the edge of my bed, dropping my head into my hands, digging my fingers into my hair until it hurt.

But physical pain couldn't drown out the toxic fire burning in my gut.

Eleven years.

Eleven damn years since my mother had laid in a sterile hospital room, her body withered to skin and bone by leukemia, gasping for her final breaths.

I was seven years old, holding her cold, fragile hand, watching the tears slip down her hollow cheeks as my father swore a sacred vow to her.

He had pressed his lips to her pale forehead and promised—promised on his life, on his soul—that he would never love another woman. That she was his only one.

I had watched her die believing that lie. I had carried her memory like a shield while my father built an empire on blood, grit, and ruthless ambition.

And now? Now he sweeps into the mansion with some stray he picked up off the street. A girl.

I gritted my teeth, a vein throbbing at my temple. How old is she even supposed to be? She had soft, wide eyes that pooled with unshed tears, cheeks that flushed too easily, and a fragile, delicate body that looked like a stiff breeze could break her in half.

A fucking child.

And my father called her his wife. The word made me want to tear the mansion down brick by brick.

Knock. Knock.

"Cameron? Are you in there?"

Holland’s voice drifted through the thick wood of the door. Authoritative. Calm. Unbothered.

I didn't answer. I stayed frozen on the edge of the mattress, my jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached, waiting for him to just go away.

The brass handle turned. The door creaked open, and Holland stepped into the dimly lit room.

He stopped almost immediately, his sharp, dark eyes dropping to the puddle of water and the crushed plastic bottle lying on the floor.

He didn't flinch. He didn't yell. He just let out a slow, heavy exhale, the look of a man who knew exactly what kind of fire he was walking into.

"I know how you feel, Cameron," Holland said softly, his voice dropping into that quiet, measured register he used when negotiating multi-million-dollar deals.

"You don't know shit," I growled without looking up.

Holland walked deeper into the room, stepping over the puddle. "Her name is Penny. Her parents were buried yesterday. They died in a head-on collision on the highway."

I kept my eyes locked on the floor, but my chest tightened despite myself.

"Her father was my oldest friend," Holland continued, his tone laced with a quiet, undeniable gravity. "They were dirt poor, Cameron. When they died, they left her with nothing. Loan sharks were already knocking down her door. They would have destroyed her. She was terrified, starving, and entirely alone. I brought her here to protect her. I gave her my name so no one in this city could ever lay a hand on her again."

He paused, stepping closer until his expensive leather shoes were right in front of me.

"I'm asking you to accept her," Holland said quietly. "Not for me. For the sake of decency. She's lost everything."

Slowly, I lifted my head. My storm-grey eyes locked onto his dark, unyielding ones.

I looked at the man who had promised my dying mother total devotion, only to parade a girl my age into our home a decade later.

A cruel, bitter smile flexed the corner of my mouth.

"I don't give a fuck, Dad," I rasped out, my voice laced with venom. "You want to play savior? Go ahead. You can marry five more wives for all I care. It means nothing to me."

Before he could answer, I stood up, brushing past him.

I walked straight to my walk-in wardrobe, ripped a black T-shirt off a hanger, and pulled it over my head. I grabbed a heavy leather jacket from the hook, shoving my arms through the sleeves.

"Where are you going?" Holland asked, turning to face me.

"Out," I snapped.

I strode out of the closet, heading straight for the bedroom door. Holland was standing in the path, but I didn't slow down.

I shoved right past him, deliberately slamming my shoulder hard into his as I stormed out into the hallway. He didn't move an inch, but I didn't care.

I bounded down the grand marble staircase, my fists balled tightly at my sides, the skin over my knuckles white.

The air inside the mansion felt thick, poisonous, suffocating. I needed to drive. I needed to hit the gas until the speedometer hit triple digits and the wind drowned out the rage screaming in my head.

I shoved open the heavy front doors and stepped out into the cool night air.

My black Dodge Charger was parked down the cobblestone driveway, looking like a shadowed beast under the dim estate lights.

I snatched my keys from my jacket pocket, disarming the alarm with a sharp beep-beep.

I reached for the driver's side door handle, but as I pulled it open, my eyes instinctively drifted upward.

Directly above the garage was the master suite. The large, floor-to-ceiling windows were illuminated, throwing a warm, golden glow out into the dark night.

The sheer, thin white curtains were drawn shut, but from where I stood on the driveway, the backlighting turned the room into a shadow box.

A silhouette was moving behind the fabric.

Penny.

I should have gotten into the car. I should have turned the ignition, slammed my foot on the gas, and left this fucking circus behind.

But I didn't. My hand froze on the cold metal door handle. My feet felt glued to the cobblestones.

Through the translucent sheer of the curtain, I watched her.

She moved with a slow, hesitant grace, oblivious to the fact that the dark night outside made her private room a stage. She lifted her arms, her fingers reaching up to the collar of her worn sweater.

My chest went tight. I held my breath.

Slowly, she pulled the sweater over her head, tossing it aside onto the bed. All she wore up top was a thin, simple bra.

The warm light traced the soft, curved outline of her waist, the delicate line of her spine, the gentle slope of her hips.

I told myself to look away. Look away, you sick bastard. That's your father's wife.

Instead, my grip tightened on the car door until my fingers hurt.

Her hands reached around her back. With a subtle flick of her wrists, she unhooked the clasp. The straps slid down her smooth shoulders, and the fabric fell away.

The light hit her from the side. Through the thin curtain, the faint, shadow-profile of her chest was entirely exposed—the subtle, perfect peak of her nipples highlighted against the golden glow of the room.

My breath slammed to a complete halt in my throat. Blood roared in my ears, hot and sudden, surging straight down to my gut.

Damn.

The word burned through my brain like wildfire.

I tore my eyes away, dragging my heavy body into the leather driver's seat and slamming the car door shut.

The heavy thud echoed in the quiet night, sealing me inside the dark cabin.

I slumped back against the headrest, my hands gripping the steering wheel so hard the leather groaned under the pressure.

I stared blankly through the windshield, my heart hammering a dangerous, chaotic rhythm against my ribs, her shadow still burned into the back of my eyelids.

God help me.

I knew right then, with terrible, sickening certainty, that keeping my hands off my father's new wife was going to be an absolute fucking nightmare.