C3 CHAPTER 3

I awaken the next morning still feeling like I’m trapped in an endless surreal dream. Soft dawn light filters into my bedroom through ivory silk drapes as I lay staring up at the Wedgwood medallion embossed across the ceiling high above. I keep expecting to wake up for real back in my cozy studio apartment a few blocks away from Juilliard. Where I can text Nathan silly selfies from bed before he heads off to the woodshop and I go immerse myself for hours uninterrupted in my cello compositions.

But then the unwelcome memories from the last 48 chaotic hours override again. No, my secret romance-filled independent life vanished abruptly the moment Bastian strode boldly back into Manhattan declaring me his affianced before an enthralled global audience. And judging by the magnitude of noises drifting upstairs from what sounds like an entire party planning committee downstairs, everyone is embracing my renewed betrothal role with open arms except me.

I sigh, moving reluctantly out from beneath the towering four-poster draped in heirloom Belgian lace bedcovers that have been in my family for generations. My phone has blown up with so many exuberant messages that the device froze overnight. I finally manage to scroll the lengthy queue of overlapping group texts, emails, and social media notifications after a hard reboot.

The first few posts are bittersweet check-ins from Juilliard classmates who already know my family legacy means their coveted conservatory scholarship guarantees little chance of me ever performing cello as a pro soloist. But excitement still lines their words about me inspiring new compositions or teaching at the university level someday while balancing the high-powered spouse and social responsibilities I was born into. If only they knew the man who swept me tragically off the stage was no modern/*; Hamlet but rather a virtual stranger promising only continued confinement in this life of staid obligation I had momentarily escaped by secretly winning a spot in their world.

I grimace through cloying fangirl posts from distant boarding school “friends” wanting every vapid detail about my whirlwind reunion with Bastian in Paris. Sara and Vega were always the worst social climbers—no wonder they instantly updated their fawning history with me from hostile mean girls to bosom buddies now that flashing paparazzi lenses will trail my every move for a season. But the visceral reactions primarily hailing across social channels and tabloid gossip feeds make me queasy for a different reason.

Because scores of enraged strangers are already spewing vitriol at me for shattering New York’s most eligible celebrity bachelor heart. Magazines ran coy gossip suggesting Bastian pursued Euro heiresses and models all those years he was supposedly “studying finance”. So our splashy exclusive on Page Six ignited no shortage of broken hearts and seething jealously across international borders.

One glance at the top Google results for my name makes me wince before hurriedly closing the browser app. I remind myself the golden rule about reputations when your family crest has waved over Manhattan since the Gilded Era’s inception—ignore the public chatter entirely and float serenely above it all. Eleanor surely has our family publicist Danica dispatching strict orders across newsroom editors even now to stop fanning the flames. Any publicity is still good publicity for the genteel Cunningham brand, after all. We simply hold our position above the tabloid fray and avoid all unpleasantness.

A quick scan through my personal messages reveals no poetic texts of support...or bitter heartbreak from Nathan yet, which confirms my fear that he has gone completely radio silent now that pomp and circumstance have ripped away our private world without warning. I feel tears threatening again for this profound loss so I startle slightly at a delicate knock on my bedroom door.

Our head housekeeper Eliza enters bearing a silver tray with my usual morning cappuccino and biscotti. I accept it gratefully, desperate for any sense of normal routine to calm raw nerves as she draws back the curtains to reveal slate skies spitting icy rain outside.

“Dreadful day it seems,” Eliza frowns at the weather. “Your mother hoped to take you for final bridal selections at Vera Wang this afternoon and Bentley’s jewelry tomorrow. Shall I have Amos bring the car around front at two o’clock regardless if this tempest persists?”

I freeze mid-sip of foamy coffee as her words fully register, scalding my tongue. Bridal salon appointments already? Eleanor may as well have invoked some savage curse than speak this agony into existence so soon. But expectation dictates the initial pre-wedding planning begin instantly for a society bride. Especially one newly engaged to the global finance scion of Cyrus Whitmore’s empire now merging with Father’s aristocratic house.

Eliza continues chatting lightly about deliveries of French silk swatches and menus for wedding cake testing while I stare numbly back at her kind round face, feeling terrifyingly unmoored from my own reality. She smiles gently, reaching out to squeeze my hand in reassurance.

“I realize it all seems abundantly overwhelming this initial week, what with flash mobs and reporters trailing your every excursion probably until next spring! But try embracing the excitement when you can, my love. Some young brides would weep in awe simply to wear a custom Maggie Sottero gown from Vera, never mind one meticulously crafted by Mr. Wang himself!”

I nod woodenly and Eliza gives my hand another comforting pat before slipping out, murmuring cheerily about ensuring all my jewelry gets professionally cleaned before tomorrow’s heirloom browsing with Mother at Bentley’s. Alone again, I cross the enormous taupe and ivory carpet to my walk-in closet lined with designer apparel. My fingers half expect to pass through the rich fabrics like a ghost as I mechanically select a Burberry sheath and my warmest wool trench for the limo ride into Manhattan.

Because this still cannot truly be happening, my mind screams in endless refrain. I am not some vacuous heiress model fawning over gowns while callously casting aside the man who saw and loved my full, quirky soul in secret defiance these last precious years. The silk and tulle confections awaiting my assessment at Vera Wang’s elegant bridal atelier will surely vanish like mist through my fingers for I cannot be here selecting one while knowing my truest heart shall never stand beside me when it matters most. This is all still just a tormenting dream from which I must wake before the string orchestra strikes up Pachelbel's Canon transforming me unwillingly into Bastian’s jewelry-adorned bride.

My iPhone suddenly blares to life from the nightstand, startling my spiraling despair momentarily. But I refuse to lift my bleary eyes from the walk-in closet rotate slowly through silk, lace and designer label after meaningless label. Not even to verify if Nathan’s handsome face flashes urgently across the cracked screen demanding we finally talk. The device eventually falls silent except for the red digits at top condemning me further—now officially late to meet Eliza downstairs for my gilt-wrapped destiny.

I wipe angrily at spilling tears with the trench sleeve, forcing stiff legs to maneuver on autopilot toward the sweeping grand staircase visible through open doors of my suite. Each click of my Tory Burch heels against marble echos my pounding heart’s refrain—this remains a temporary nightmare you need only survive...just hold yourself together stronger than Grandfather weathered Nazi forces ripping his homeland apart...even if only long enough to regain sanity away from the stifling eyes all around perpetually assessing if I uphold their gilded expectations.

Soft weeping reaches my ears first at the top of the landing, followed by hushed voices drifting faintly up from the adjacent high-ceilinged lounge below. I halt frozen against cold pillared marble, peering cautiously downward through the iron filigree railing. Three silhouetted figures stand together beside windows overlooking Central Park. Even with only back profiles partially visible, I recognize Amanda’s elegantly coiffed blonde halo leaning into my mother’s familiar embrace.

Eliza hovers tentatively behind them, anxiously wringing her hands in the linen servant’s towel she perpetually carries. I hold breath, watching the intimate exchange with sovereign dread—Amanda’s anguished and uninhibited tears before Mother’s sympathy can only mean heartbreak has resulted already from my speedy status elevation to privileged bride-to-be.

I close eyes against a fresh wave of self-loathing while still unable to tear ears away from their conversation carrying faintly up the marble and mahogany throat of the cavernous stair landing. Amanda heaves muffled words between graceful palms while Mother gently strokes her trademark triple-strand Mikimoto pearl necklace in consolation.

“After...after almost eighteen devoted months together...I thought for certain he was going to propose while we were away this summer in Nice. But then Bastian came back this fall still single from traveling the globe all those glamorous years and...”

Amanda dissolves into a fresh spasm of weeping while I recede reflexively from the scene, back pressed to pillar as if its formidable ancestral heritage radiating through my gown’s fabric might steady pounding pulse. Amanda had been Bastian’s premiere girlfriend, according to gossip rags I occasionally glimpsed in line at Dean & Deluca. Page Six enjoyed speculating last winter which socialite heiress would finally land Manhattan’s wealthiest globetrotting bachelor.

Amanda embodied everything the Whitmore family surely approved in a pedigreed daughter-in-law—polished glamor fortified by new money shrewdness from her trader father. Seeing her golden persona now tarnished by such rare abandonment of poise means I am not the only collateral damage from last week’s surprise engagement bombshell.

Mother’s musical voice carries clear as a dinner bell up to my perch. “Oh my dearest, of course you believed Bastian was on the brink of pledging commitment after almost two years devoted together. What young woman wouldn’t imagine herself the next bride-to-be being squired so publicly around Paris then along the Riviera by someone of his standing?”

I chance another glimpse between iron banisters. Eliza presses monogrammed handkerchief discreetly into Amanda’s palm so she can dab delicately at leaking mascara without staining the front of her perfectly tailored Chanel suit. I expect callous ridicule to spew next about wounded egos or laughing off relegated exes from someone who regularly joins my mother dissecting pedigrees over ladies’ lunch. Instead, Eleanor pats Amanda’s shoulder gently.

“This certainly appears a surprising turn of fate. Though we never control timing in matters of the heart, I am terribly sorry for your pain, my dear. Please know you shall remain one of my favorite young women among New York society, regardless if derivations with any gentleman.”

Amanda nods in acceptance of this consolation though her eyes remain wounded. My own tears threaten renewed spill for sympathy is the very last emotion I expected to receive myself at some point from Eleanor. Her words echo with strange urgency through my mind as I take hurried steps backwards down the opposite grand hallway toward the sweeping front staircase.

You never control love’s timing...we cannot know where the heart will lead no matter standings or expectations of others. My mother's sage advice to the jilted former debutante trails me still as Amos ushers me into the idling town car at the foot of limestone front steps beneath my family’s formidable facade. I settle numbly onto supple leather while he maneuvers us expertly down slick streets through freezing rain toward Vera Wang’s elegant bridal atelier nestled amid the diamond district’s glittering towers.

You cannot control heart's prompts echoed again in rhythm of windshield wipers even over the steady hum of Mozart from surround sound speakers. Where might my heart have wandered if Nathan suddenly resurfaced like Bastian declaring himself my rightful groom...would I still somehow have found myself assessing lace appliques while being scrutinized by the designer herself today as insurance my pedigree wedding would dazzle American aristocracy?

I turn to stare miserably out rain-soaked windows at passing brownstone townhomes so elegant yet hiding such anguish and deception too often behind their own stately facades. My aching heart knows with sudden, wretched conviction that even if Nathan fought for me against the full weight of generations’ marital expectations, I would have lacked strength this week to resist their powerful gravity claiming me as Bastian's bride come June.

Thus my mother’s sympathetic grief counseling although kind still provides little consolation now. For no one but me can halt this forward lurch down destiny’s unrelenting gilt altar aisle so long as air fills my lungs. The only hope left is pray I wake safely on the other side without losing myself entirely to preserve their gilded legacy.