A Penguin

Alanis’s POV:

I should’ve walked away the second I saw her.

Sitting in the grass, looking half-broken, with scraped palms and cracked glasses like some fucking storybook scene no one asked for.

But I didn’t.

Something about her stilled me. The way she blinked up, dazed but not afraid. Most people flinched when they saw me—hell, even my own brothers. But her?

She looked at me like I was a person, not a weapon.

I didn’t know why I crouched instead of kept walking. I didn’t do gentle. I didn’t do comforting strangers.

I fucked and blocked. That was my language. No promises, no time wasted.

And I definitely didn’t do soft-eyed girls in gardens with cracked glasses and a voice like cracked glass.

“You okay?”

I heard the words leave my mouth, and I almost laughed at myself.

I didn’t know how to be “nice.” That was Alek’s department. Or Adonis’s, with his fake smiles and wolf-in-sheep’s-clothing charm. Everyone thought I was the dangerous one because I didn’t pretend.

But the truth?

They don’t move unless I tell them to.

People saw me and thought brute, beast, bastard.

They didn’t see the one controlling the demons I have as brothers.

I dropped the cigarette as soon as she started coughing. The way she waved at the smoke—it hit. Asthma, maybe. She didn’t complain, just tried to breathe through it.

That alone told me she wasn’t weak.

She didn’t scream when I brushed her cheek either. Just flinched, small but honest. And I don’t know why that froze me. Maybe I expected her to run.

But she didn’t.

She let me look at her, touch her, check for shock.

And she probably didn't even know who I was.

I didn't even know why I told her about getting married to the model girl, that was more instinctual than logical.

The girl I’m supposed to marry in a month because of a fucking contract.

The modeling agency owns her name—literally. Her dad sold her image to my company for branding rights when she was seventeen. Her signature on those contracts? Doesn’t just sell clothes.

It ties our company’s multi-billion-dollar partnership to her. And without that face, those eyes, that “It Girl” persona, the marketing sinks and fast.

The fine print says if I don’t marry her by the fiscal deadline, the entire agreement collapses, and I don't get to keep her face... We started it with those face, everyone expects to always see the face.

Our competitors will take over, and the Caelum legacy goes with it. I don't have any issue with a personal company, I have mine actually, but this one is the legacy.

So, yeah. I have to marry her.

Even though she smells like cheap perfume and lies.

But the real problem isn’t even the model girl, it's the girl I met online.

It started as a dare—Alek and Adonis laughing their asses off, betting I wouldn’t last a full conversation.

They said I was too much of a dick to even pretend to be normal. I told them to fuck off, downloaded the app, and swiped at random.

She popped up. Her bio said "sweet n' short". Not even my type—too innocent, I thought.

But then she messaged first. Said something stupid. I don't even remember what it was. But it made me laugh.

And it only got worse from there.

She wasn’t trying to be cute—she was. Effortlessly funny without realizing it. She had this way of typing that made me hear her voice even though I didn’t know what she sounded like.

She was kind, but not naive.The kind of “good girl” who had no idea how dangerous that was around someone like me.

And then I was wondering if she was trying to be who she's not, around me. So I tested her, asked questions just to watch her hesitate. She never crossed a line she wasn’t ready for. And that’s how I knew she was real.

I didn’t even realize I’d fallen until she missed a day online.

No “hey,” no nothing.

I waited. And it hurt. Like someone had unplugged a part of me I didn’t know I needed.

Back to reality, she still hadn’t said a word.

Just stood there like a broken little ghost with scraped hands, wide eyes, and glasses she was clearly pretending weren’t cracked in the lenses behind her back.

I’d seen a lot of weird shit in my life—hell, I’d caused most of it—but this?

This felt like watching the start of something I hadn’t signed up for.

I looked at her; from her head to her feet. No shoes, just leggings, an oversized shirt hanging off her like a bedsheet, and a vest that looked like it belonged to someone’s grandfather.

Where the hell did she come from?

I chewed slowly, letting the sugar hit. Dried mango always had a pouch on me.

I needed sweet stuff every couple hours, or my stomach turned on me. Nausea, full system failure. It was some genetic curse or maybe stress, who knows.

The doctors called it “sugar-linked autonomic dysfunction.” I called it "bullshit that ruined everything".

None of the chefs in this damn house could get it right. Pretentious crap on silver trays with too many garnishes and not enough flavor. All style, no soul.

That’s why I only ate from Rhodesian Catering.

Old school, heavy flavor, spices that punched you in the mouth.

The Raynes had a problem with it, too “lowbrow” or some shit. But I didn’t care. I made sure Rhodesian catered this event.

Let Penelope’s—no, what was her name again? Right. Whatever. The model girl’s—family cry about it in their matching overpriced suits.

I popped another mango slice into my mouth and exhaled slowly.

“Every once in a while, if I don’t eat something sweet, I throw up,” I said out loud, almost absently.

“Not that anyone around here gives a damn. Chefs can't get it right. I have to keep ordering from Rhodesian—only food that doesn’t make me feel like I’ve swallowed acid.”

Still nothing from her. Not a blink, not a laugh. Just that same frozen expression, like she couldn’t decide if I was real or not.

'You haven’t said anything,” I pointed out, a little more flatly now.

"What are you doing out here anyway? You look like you got spit out of a laundry basket.”

She blinked as if she was startled. Finally, finally, I got some reaction. She glanced down at herself because she’d just realized what she was wearing.

Yeah, I wasn’t wrong.

“I’m not judging,” I added, brushing my hands off. “You just... don’t look like you belong inside that house.”

Time stretched thin between us, but it wasn’t tense—it was strange. Quiet in the kind of way that made your thoughts sound louder than your voice.

“You got a name?” I asked finally.

She hesitated, then whispered it so softly I barely caught it.

"Poppy.”

I raised a brow. “Penguin?”

She frowned, about to correct me—then saw the twitch at the corner of my mouth.

I smiled. A real one.

Penguin.

Yeah, it suited her.

That oversized shirt, bare feet, cracked glasses. Standing there like some lost little creature trying not to cry or combust. Funny, in an accidentally endearing way.

And for a second, I forgot about the model girl.

Forgot about the contract. And that I was supposed to be inside charming guests and playing puppet prince.

Because I was standing outside with a Penguin.

And somehow, that felt more real than anything I’d done in months.