C1 CHAPTER 1

I clutch my cooling tea, seeking any warmth against the bitter winter wind. But it does little to ease the tense pit in my stomach as I stand on the empty tarmac. In my silk party dress and open spring coat, I shiver in the December chill. It matches how unprepared I feel inside about the destiny arriving by private jet to meet me in mere minutes – the man I’m promised to marry.

We were just toddlers when our families arranged it. Back then, Bastian and I were playmates, our matching pale curls prompting adults to muse about us wedding one day. It would join my family’s shipping empire with Bastian’s father Cyrus’ oil billions. An alliance of wealth and prestige that Father has focused intensely on achieving since I was small.

Of course, I never truly envisioned Bastian as my husband. When his family sent him overseas for school, our childhood marriage pact faded in my memory. Bastian became no more real than the imaginary unicorn friends I entertained at childhood garden tea parties.

That was before I met leather jacket-wearing Nathan with his untamed amber eyes. He introduced me to the thrill of following true passions instead of just staid duty. Our electric connection had to stay hidden though. My pedigree family would never allow their princess to love a boy from the gritty side of town who didn’t own a tailored tuxedo.

So I learned the deception game. I hid details about my brooding artist beau from Manhattan high society. With Nathan, I felt free and fully myself for the first time.

Which makes today’s airport reunion feel so painfully surreal. Because 72 hours ago, globetrotting Bastian resurfaced asking for my hand in marriage. One sweeping transatlantic call to my father delivering the news was all it took to unravel the beautiful secret refuge I had built these past four years with Nathan.

No more laughing into urgent stolen kisses under sprawling oaks or riding his motorcycle out to Coney Island beach far from expectations. Our future now belonged to the past - to a current of assumption that I would wed whoever my family decreed, no matter what hopes I held dear.

When jetsetting Bastian came asking for me, my fate drowned under loud celebration toasts drifting from my father’s imposing study. By next day’s formal family brunch, his society friends already phoned with premature congratulations about the renewed marital merger of Cunningham and Whitmore.

I stared numbly at my childhood bedroom walls afterward, Mother prattling enthusiastically downstairs about wedding venues and guest lists. Mere days were all it took to upend everything joyful and wondrous I had discovered in Nathan’s protective embrace.

I scarcely register Bastian bounding down his jet's steps, crisp Burberry coat billowing dramatically behind him. My stomach drops as he embraces me in loud kisses that make me shrink back. His hand at my waist makes me recoil even through the thickness of my coat and dress.

Up close now on the tarmac, his azure eyes shine with proprietary intent I cannot place despite his wide grin for the cameras. He resembles every inch the cultured aristocrat home to claim his promised bride. But it’s all pageantry and spectacle for the circling photographers. There is no tenderness in his choreographed touch or words. Nothing at all like laughing into Nathan’s beautifully reckless kisses.

Bastian cheerfully escorts me toward his idling jet, his strong grip feeling more like manacles locking my destiny. I drag reluctant feet across the frigid concrete, blinking back confused tears. Because I know somewhere beyond the popping flashbulbs lies an ocean now separating me forever from the calloused hands that truly laid loving claim to my body and soul when I came of age.

Cyrus marches behind our procession, leonine face severe with practiced swagger. I shudder feeling his deep-set eyes bore into my back, no doubt scrutinizing if I appear worthy of the prized heir and stallion he has evidently groomed his son to become. Bastian lightly steadies me after I stumble on icy pavement, shooting his father a warning glare. My unease grows like creeping ivy, wondering what manner of den I will soon unwittingly step into between these two enigmatic men of power.

I fix a porcelain smile in place as we halt at the aircraft's narrow metal stairs, flecks of snow nipping at my uncovered hair. “Ladies first!” Bastian pronounces with a grand flourish. "You must meet my darling cousins inside, positively frothing with ideas for our ceremony and reception!”

I force unwilling legs up each frigid step on cue. But a familiar high-pitched laugh rings out from the luxurious cabin above that I instantly recognize as belonging to Brynn Davenport – the spoiled blonde horse heiress who was my freshman roommate at the elite all-girls boarding school I suffered through after one summer’s indiscretion led to Father closely policing any future suitors.

It makes no logical sense why a rodeo princess like Brynn would possibly be awaiting my arrival here. Her people are six-figure-earning ranch owners out West who wouldn’t know a baccarat champagne flute from Baccarat crystal. I shoot Bastian a questioning look as we reach the top platform entrance, but his returning gaze holds only strange mischief.

“Welcome the future Lady Whitmore into our aviation abode!” Bastian announces loudly the moment we walk inside. Four sets of eyes turn our way from the plush leather seats closest to the well-stocked bar. I recognize only Brynn from her mane of cornsilk curls. The other two unknown women appear curiously at odds - one an auburn-tressed beauty with piercing eyes, the other a sleek Parisian vision with inky bobbed hair.

Their string of sophisticated names volley past me in crisp mutual air kisses as we take our seats. Brynn smiles almost wickedly, crystal flute in hand as Bastian possessively squeezes my knee. “We girls all have so very much catching up to do, darling. I can see you and these dazzling cousins of mine shall become such fast sisters!"

I nod uneasily, even more uncertain why at least one if not both exotic creatures flanking my former schoolmate radiate the aura of romantic rivals more than relatives. Cyrus settles into an immense leather captain’s chair with slow menace, something undeniably sinister glinting in his hooded eyes. All assessing gazes regard me with unsettling expectation until the aircraft engines drown conversation. Through willed steady breaths against our violent ascension, I sense with cold certainty that greater forces now propel my life toward some dangerously uncharted horizon.