C2 CHAPTER 2

The rest of the flight to Teterboro executive airport passes in a blur of champagne toasts and stiff small talk. Bastian’s hand remains possessively clamped on my knee the entire time while he regales his “darling cousins” with tales of European escapades I can scarcely follow. My gaze keeps darting warily to Cyrus, who nurses a tumbler of amber liquid in moody silence, continuing to assess me with unreadable eyes each time I force a thin laugh at one of Bastian’s quips.

I feel palpable relief when the jet touches down smoothly in New Jersey less than an hour after taking off from Paris. Attendants bustle about, collecting crystal flutes and adjusting leather seats back into upright positions. Bastian cheerily helps me back into my white wool coat as I stand carefully on still-uncertain feet.

“Shall we give the press another glimpse of newly engaged bliss before we ferry you home?”

His question whispers discretely in my ear but allows no room for objection. I nod dutifully. Bastian takes my arm and escorts me back down the metal stairs ahead of his relatives into the awaiting public spotlight.

The biting winter wind feels less harsh this time across my exposed skin, almost muted. Perhaps because shock has sufficiently numbed all senses that aren't attuned to self preservation. I brace my most polished socialite smile as flash bulbs detonate around us walking across the tarmac. Despite the Flatiron building’s imposing silhouette visible in the distance reminding me we are back in Manhattan, being at Bastian Whitmore’s side makes the familiar metropolis feel all at once foreign and filled with menacing uncertainty.

We pose strategically for a few moments at the bottom of the jet bridge while liveried drivers collect luggage. Bastian beams on cue for the cameras while keeping firm grip above my elbow, likely to prevent any chance I stumble drunkenly in my stilettos again on the icy pavement. But the off-ramp area is now clear of snow and salted thoroughly. The efficient aviation staff know if a single Whitmore should fall and sully their overpriced travel attire, heads more junior than Cyrus’ may swiftly roll.

I nod politely when Bastian prompts in low voice that we should be going. He sweeps me toward an elongated Rolls Royce idling twenty paces from the jet fuselage without a glance backward to his family members now descending.

Another uniformed man I hadn’t noticed before opens the sleek vehicle's rear door and Bastian motions me to slide across leather seats inside to the far window. I stare mutely down at the giant diamond now weighing heavily on my left hand as the engine purrs quietly to life once Bastian settles beside me. He seems utterly unaffected by the whirlwind day that has just turned my world on end.

“I must say, your father continues selecting only the finest additions to Cunningham’s fleet,” Bastian remarks offhandedly. “I remember this being his prized Bentley model when I left for boarding school, no?”

I follow his conversational cue as expected. ”Yes, Father upgraded to this Rolls less than a year ago. He prefers British made, obviously as you know. I’m sure he will be tickled you noticed and remembered.”

We make small chat about custom details on Father’s latest opulent vehicle purchase as upper Manhattan’s imposing architecture flies past the window in rapid succession. Having this banal discussion while being chauffeured back into the city feels absolutely surreal. I should be weeping openly into my mother’s consoling shoulder right now, not discussing horsepower stats with a man who is still essentially a well-mannered stranger...and now my betrothed.

But poise and dignity in presentation is the Cunningham way I have been rigorously conditioned to uphold, no matter the chips or champagne flutes falling around me. I chance a side glance at Bastian, who stares ahead distractedly at the partition while thumbing rapidly through messages on his smartphone screen.

Seeing his handsome profile illuminated by the passing street lamps, I realize with unsettling awareness that I barely know this man at all. Bastian departed for schooling in Europe when I was still engrossed with playing palace with fairy wings and plastic tiaras. Our contact ever since then has been limited to the occasional family holiday card from the Whitmore’s ever changing international list of residences. Yet all the adults speak so confidently about what a perfect golden pair Bastian and I shall make ruling the endless ballroom galas ahead as Manhattan royalty.

Suddenly the space inside the luxury town car feels stifling and confined. As if the expansive leather and alleged British craftsmanship are steadily shrinking in on me. I crack the window slightly, hoping the rush of cold wind will slacken the choking tension gathering in my chest.

“Oh come now darling, it’s practically arctic out there,” Bastian frowns. “We can’t have New York’s newest darling debutante catching influenza already. Not when Page Six is declaring you the most coveted arm charm in season.”

He reaches over my leg to rapidly close the window again and smiles confidently. “There now, safe and warm as we should stay. At least until the wedding night!” His hand gives my knee a comedic squeeze and I stifle an impulse to slap it away violently. Bastian seems oblivious to my disgust as he resumes his scroll through a full queue of waiting messages and emails.

Ten silent minutes drag by until the first hairpin turn. We leave the bustling mid-rise business district and its banking high rises behind for the tree-lined brownstones of the Upper East Side. The Rolls glides sedately into my neighborhood, one of respectful old money and heritage. An address requires boastful familial history along with bountiful cash flow to take root here among the fifth-generation elm trees.

I feel my chest tighten for an entirely different reason as we approach the majestic limestone facade of my family’s nine bedroom Stanford White original. Fifteen perfect years of manners instilled since infancy will be put to the test as soon as Bastian and I walk through the front gates into my family’s embrace.

A household staff member who has been with us since before my birth stands ready to assist me at the curb before our chauffeur can complete his task. I flash grateful eyes at Amos, our butler, stepping out onto the narrow sidewalk while flashes from the paparazzi’s lenses ricochet from across Central Park West. He shields me protectively toward our front entrance from both the glare and glare of scrutiny.

I hear my mother’s voice cascade brightly down the front steps before I see her face emerge between the massive Doric columns framing our arched doorway.

“Welcome home dearheart! We could barely contain excitement when your flight tracker landed ahead of that dreadful storm system!”

In seconds, Eleanor Cunningham enfolds me within cashmere and the familiar rose water scent I have known since childhood. As she pulls back, manicured hands still gently brace my shoulders in inspection. I see my own grey-green eyes reflected in hers—striking and quick to catch nuance despite the well-practiced warmth in her wide socialite’s smile. Those eyes narrow subtly in question until Bastian steps into my mother’s keen sightline behind me.

I hold my breath, uncertain why I half expect her to react in dismay that I have returned from the Paris flight with a stranger on my arm now bound to me for life. But Eleanor beams smoothly at Bastian instead, embracing him with Continental air kisses while cameras flash eagerly beyond the property's granite walls.

“Bastian, we are simply thrilled for your return and this engagement surprise! You shall have to regale us later with the full romantic tale of how this all transpired in the City of Light!”

Bastian steps back with an easy smile, saying nothing of the reality that biting winter wind was the only romantic backdrop to him announcing abruptly out of the blue at 30,000 feet that we would be wed.

I trail numbly behind my mother and polished fiancé into the marble opulence of the grand front foyer. Our footsteps echo off the coffered ceilings towering above twin sweeping stairwells while Amos ushers us toward Father’s favorite lounge at the rear. I brace for this imminent encounter too but the oak-paneled room is empty when we arrive.

“Silas got held up on an earnings call but should be back momentarily,” Eleanor pronounces. “He has been utterly consumed since Cyrus’ call about Bastian’s little revelation in Paris. We must have the families together as soon as possible! I shall make certain Diedre at my club secures the grand ballroom for a formal party this weekend to make the announcement in style. Oh I knew this day would come!”

I stare silently down at emerald velvet damask while Mother bubbles effusively about wedding details and guest lists. Bastian pipes up intermittently about hoping the Plaza and Four Seasons aren’t already fully booked next June. It’s as if I have been relegated already to polished architectural ornamentation in my own home, present yet unseen while adults chart the grand course of my privileged destiny.

The enormous sheet of rain self-portraits Nathan surprised me with last month flash suddenly in memory—his attempt to capture the myriad faces of inner me. I had squealed in astonishment opening the gift, never dreaming anyone would see so much nuance inside my spirit or care enough to try rendering its complexity on canvas.

The lounge doors open abruptly again before melancholy roots further. ”Well the prodigal prince returns at long last to claim his prize!” Father pronounces in crystalline voice while crossing the Aubusson carpet. He extends a strong hand to shake Bastian’s and beams approvingly. “And with exquisite timing to announce your renewed intentions, I should say. Both our companies’ shareholders shall rest easier once the media broadcasts an heir is imminent to inherit the merged empire.”

Bastian returns my father’s ebullient grip. “Naturally I could wait no longer to cement this dynasty now that global oil futures are rebounding so profitably, sir. Marrying your gem of a daughter will be irritation enough for one lifetime.”

Father guffaws loudly at the crude remark while Mother’s smile grows painfully wide. My face burns hot, uncertain how to react. Bastian surely made some attempt at humor given everyone else’s laughter. I cross ankles tighter and sip awkwardly at my untouched champagne until Father turns sparkling eyes my way.

“My child, we should discuss a special addition to your engagement gift.” He pours three fingers of Scotch neat from a crystal decanter on the bar. “Since your betrothed has matured so astutely in financial interests while abroad all these years, I have decided to name Bastian junior partner in my latest hedge fund acquisition.”

I blink rapidly and tilt my head in question, uncertain if I misheard. Bastian as a business partner under my father’s globally feared tutelage?

Father raises his glass merrily. “We shall make it official at the party this weekend when we announce your engagement, yes? The newly merged Cunningham-Whitmore Ventures will be a global force beyond any fund Cyrus has produced. My analysts can school you in all the details before then.”

“I assure you, Mr. Cunningham, I shall dedicate myself fully behind the Cunningham crest.” Bastian lifts his glass, appearing to have been holding a prepared response. Our eyes meet briefly but I turn away, even more uncertain what manner of alliance I have stepped blindly into with the formidable men surrounding me.