Sinfully Falling For My Husband's Hockey Son

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!