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.

🪶Penny

I woke up buried under a sea of dark silk and down comforters.

For a glorious, disorienting three seconds, I thought I was back in my small, cramped bedroom with the squeaky mattress and the faded floral wallpaper.

Then the scent of expensive sandalwood and crisp air-conditioning hit me. Reality crashed down like a lead weight.

I sat up, pushing my tangled hair out of my eyes. The master suite was washed in pale morning light.

Beside me, the silk sheets were smooth, cold, and undisturbed.

Holland hadn't slept here last night. He had given me my space, just as he promised, but the relief doing cartwheels in my stomach felt dirty.

I was a wife who was relieved her husband hadn't touched her.

A gentle knock sounded at the double doors before two women in crisp, dark gray uniforms pushed in a silver cart laden with fresh fruit, pastries, and steaming coffee.

"Good morning, Mrs. Stevens," the older maid said with a polite, practiced bow of her head.

Mrs. Stevens.

The title made my skin crawl. It felt like wearing someone else’s heavy, oversized coat.

"Oh, please... just Penny," I murmured, pulling the silk sheet up to my collarbone.

"Mr. Stevens requested we bring breakfast to your room, Mrs. Stevens," she replied smoothly, ignoring my plea entirely. "He is waiting for you in the glass dining room whenever you are ready to join him."

They left as silently as they had entered. I swallowed the lump in my throat, dressed quickly in a pair of my own worn denim jeans and a plain white sweater, and stepped out into the quiet, grand hallway.

I had only taken a few steps toward the main staircase when a door down the corridor clicked open.

I froze.

Cameron stepped out into the hall. He was clad in black hockey training pants and a tight, sweat-drenched grey compression shirt that clung to every lethal line of his chest and shoulders.

A towel was draped over his neck, his dark hair damp and curling against his forehead.

My heart did a violent, dangerous flip.

I stopped dead in my tracks. Cameron paused, his storm-grey eyes flicking up to meet mine.

The air instantly turned thick and heavy, charging with the lingering memory of last night—the dark driveway, the silhouette, the shadow of my body behind the thin curtain.

Did he see me? Had he looked?

His expression remained unreadable, cut from cold granite. He didn't say a word. He just adjusted the towel around his neck, walked right past me without so much as a glance, and disappeared down the servant stairs.

I let out a shuddering breath, my knees trembling as I made my way down to the dining room.

The glass dining room overlooked a sprawling, manicured garden.

Holland was seated at the head of a long mahogany table, dressed in a sharp charcoal suit, reading a tablet while sipping espresso.

"Good morning, my sweet girl," Holland said, setting his tablet down and offering a warm, possessive smile as I took a seat near him.

A plate of poached eggs and avocado was immediately set down before me by an attentive butler.

"Good morning, Holland," I whispered.

"Did you sleep well?"

"I... yes. Thank you."

"Good." Holland reached across the table, his thick, heavy hand covering mine.

The gold of his wedding band flashed under the morning light. He squeezed my fingers, dragging his thumb over my knuckles before lifting my hand to his lips and pressing a firm kiss to my skin.

"You look beautiful today. But we must set down a few rules for your safety now that you bear my name."

I stiffened slightly, pulling my eyes to his. "Rules?"

"The men who hunted your father are still out there, Penny," Holland said, his tone dipping into that dark, immovable authority. "And as my wife, you are a high-value target for my corporate rivals. Therefore, there is no going out alone. Ever. My security detail will drive you wherever you need to go, and you will have an escort at all times."

"Holland, I'm used to taking care of myself—"

"It is not up for negotiation," he interrupted smoothly, his grip on my knuckles tightening just enough to signal absolute finality. "It is for your own protection."

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement on the grand staircase overlooking the dining hall.

Cameron was standing on the mid-landing, leaning casually against the iron railing. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle was ticking in his cheek, his grey eyes fixed darkly on Holland’s hand resting over mine.

The moment Holland looked up, Cameron turned on his heel and walked away, his heavy footsteps echoing into the distance.

—-

By noon, the suffocating luxury of the mansion was driving me insane.

Trapped inside with security guards standing like statues at every exit, I decided to explore the endless corridors just to keep my mind off the crushing grief of my parents' absence.

I wandered down a subterranean hallway on the lower level, following the faint, echoing thuds that vibrated through the floorboards.

I pushed open a heavy set of double doors and stepped into a massive, private indoor ice rink and gym facility.

The air was frigid, smelling sharply of cut ice and rubber.

And there he was.

Cameron was on the ice, completely shirtless despite the freezing temperature of the room. Sweat glistened over the hard sculpted contours of his back.

He was moving with terrifying, explosive speed, sliding across the ice, his stick whipping back and slamming black pucks into the net with deafening, gunshot-like CRACKS.

He was furious.

Every movement radiated a dangerous, volatile energy.

I knew I should turn around. I knew I should walk out. But my feet felt rooted to the concrete perimeter.

SLAM!

He unleashed a wrist-shot so powerful the puck ricocheted off the steel post with a sickening screech, flying straight off the ice, over the plexiglass barrier, and zooming directly toward my head.

I gasped, throwing my hands up in sheer terror.

Before I could even scream, a hand shot out in front of my face with lightning speed.

THWACK.

Cameron caught the flying rubber puck mid-air, just inches from my nose.

The force of his movement brought him slamming up against the plexiglass wall right in front of me. Cold air, the heat of his body, and the sharp scent of sweat swept over me.

He stood on the ice, leaning over the barrier, his bare chest heaving up and down, his storm-grey eyes burning into mine with pure venom.

He dropped the puck to the floor. It hit the ground with a dull thud.

"Are you fucking blind?" he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rasp that vibrated in my chest.

"I—I'm sorry," I stammered, taking a trembling step back. "I was just... getting lost."

"Then get lost somewhere else," Cameron snapped, pushing himself off the barrier and glaring down at me with absolute contempt. "What, did you get bored counting my dad's money already?"

Anger flared through the terror in my veins.

I stepped right back up to the glass, gripping the edge. "I am not after his money!"

"Right. Sure," Cameron scoffed, a bitter, cruel smirk twisting his sinful lips. "A twenty-year-old girl marries a fifty-year-old billionaire two days after her parents die. You think this is a game? You think you're smart, slipping into his bed to secure a payday?"

"I didn't have a choice!" I yelled back, my voice cracking with raw emotion. "My parents left behind debts to dangerous people! I was going to lose everything—my home, my safety, my life! Holland offered me protection!"

"Protection," Cameron repeated, the word tasting like poison on his tongue. "He bought you. And you sold yourself."

"You don't know anything about me," I whispered fiercely, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Cameron stepped closer to the barrier, leaning down until his face was just inches from mine.

The hostility in the air was so thick it was suffocating, yet beneath the hatred, a terrifying, electric current snapped between us.

"Stay out of my way, Penny," he warned softly, his deep voice sliding over my skin like dark velvet.

He turned to walk back to the ice, but just before he pulled away, his dark eyes dipped. For one agonizing, breath-stealing second, his gaze dropped from my eyes straight down to my trembling lips.

He swallowed hard, his chest heaving, before tearing himself away and gliding across the ice without another word.

—--

That night, I lay in the massive silk bed, staring up at the grand ceiling.

The bedroom door opened quietly, and Holland stepped inside. He had stripped off his suit jacket and unbuttoned his collar.

He walked over to the bed, sitting down on the edge beside me.

He didn't make a move to touch me inappropriately, but his presence was heavy, possessive, and suffocating.

"Did you see Cameron today?" Holland asked softly, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. His touch was warm, but it felt like an iron weight. "He's going through a rough time, Penny. Don't mind him if he's cold to you."

"It's fine," I whispered, holding my breath until he pulled his hand away.

Holland smiled gently, pulling the dark duvet up to my shoulders and patting my head as if I were a child.

"Get some sleep, my girl." He kissed my temple and walked out, closing the double doors behind him.

The moment the lock clicked, the silence of the room crashed down on me.

I lay in the dark, my breath ragged, trembling beneath the covers.

Slowly, helplessly, I lifted my hand and touched my own lower lip, the exact spot where Cameron’s dark, furious eyes had lingered just hours ago.

This is a sin, I thought, closing my eyes as terror and unwanted desire tangled inside my chest. He's my stepson. I can't want this…