Chapter 2: The Cold Handshake
1267 Words
Whitney’s POV
The two days between saying “yes” and meeting him felt like a strange ,slow nightmare. Our
house usually so full of life, even if it was just the TV or my mom humming in the kitchen, was
now a tomb. The silence was thick and heavy. When my parents did speak, it was in hushed,
careful voices, like they were afraid of waking a sleeping monster. They were treating me
differently. I wasn't just their daughter Whitney anymore. I was the “thing” saving them. It made
me feel like a stranger in my own home.
My mum tried to act norma. She asked me if I wanted a sandwich or if I'd seen her reading
glasses , but her smiles were wobbly and her eyes were always darting away from mine,full of
guilt she couldn’t hide. My dad spent most of his time locked in his office, probably talking to
lawyers and bankers, making sure the deal, the marriage was going perfectly. I stayed in my
room, staring at the wall. I tried to pack my bag, but what do you pack for a life you never
wanted? I put in a few favourite books , a worn-out from when I was little , and a photo of me
and my sister Clara, her arm thrown around my shoulder, both of us laughing. It felt like packing
for a trip to another planet.
The morning of the meeting, my mom came into my room holding a simple, navy blue dress. It
was nice, but it wasn't me . It was the kind of dress a quiet, polite girl would wear. “Wear this,”
she said.” You want to look…mature.”
I didn't want to look mature. I wanted to wear my ripped jeans and my favourite cozy sweater.
But I just nodded and took the dress. I put it on, and it felt like I was putting on a costume for a
play I never auditioned for.
The car ride to the city was the longest of my life . My dad drove, his hands clenched tight on
the steering wheel. My mom chattered nervously about the wether and the traffic, her words
tumbling out too fast. I sat in the backseat, watching our small town disappears, replaced by the
towering , intimidating building of Newyork City. It was so loud and busy. I felt small. Very, very
small.
The restaurant was called “Le Ciel,” which I learnt later meant “ The Sky.”It was on the top floor
of a glittering skyscraper. The walls were all glass, showing a dizzying view of the whole city.
The tables were covered in crisp white cloths, and the glasses were so thin and shiny I was
afraid to touch them. Everyone was dressed in black and white, speaking in low, important
murmurs. We were led to a table in the corner, and we sat there,the three of us ,like kids
waiting in the principals office.
Then he walked in.
It was like the whole room took a breath. People turned their heads. Waiters stood a little
straighter. He moved through the tables like he owned the space around him,and he probably
did. Charles Collins was even more imposing in person. He was so tall, and his shoulders were
so broad. He wore a suit that looked like it was painted on him, dark and perfect. His brown hair
was neat, not a strand out if place. But his eyes…they were the thing I couldn't look away from.
They were so sharp, scanned the room quickly like he was checking for weaknesses. There
was no warmth in them. None at all.
My parent shot to their feet like someone had electrocuted them. I stayed seated,my knees
locked together under the table.
“Mr. Collins,” my dad said, his voice too loud and too friendly. “So good of you to meet us. This
is my wife,Ami and this…this is our daughter, Whitney.”
Those sharp eyes landed on me. He didn't smile. He didn’t say “hello” or “nice to meet you”. He
just looked. He looked at my face, my hair, the dress my mom had picked out. It wasn't a friend
look. I felt myself shrink down in my chair.
“Whitney,” he said. My name in his mouth sounded like a statement, not a greeting. His voice
was a low, flat humble.
“Hello” I murmured, my eyes dropping to the fancy fork next to my plate.
He sat down, and immediately started talking to my parents. Not to me. He talked about
numbers I didn't understand. Debts, assets, investments. He talked about contracts and legal
agreements. He talked about me in the third person, like I was a car he was buying.
“The Wedding would be in three days” he stated. It wasn't a question. “It will be small. For
business contracts only. No fuss. She will move into my penthouse immediately after the
ceremony.
My mom nodded, her head bobbing up and down like a toy bird. “ of course, Mr Collins. Of
course. Whitney is very obedient. She won't be any trouble.
Obedient. The words made my skin crawl. They were talking about me like a pet. A well-trained dog.
The food finally came. It was tiny, fancy things arranged on big white plates like art. I couldn't
eat a single bite. My stomach was a hard tight ball. Charles ate neatly, precisely and continued
his conversation with dad. He never once asked me a question. Not “ What do you think about
marrying a stranger?” I was a ghost at the table. A piece of furniture they were discussing the
delivery of.
When the meal was over, we all stood on the busy sidewalk. The city noise was a roar in my
ears. His big, black car,so shiny I could see my reflection in it. Slid it up to the curb. A driver in a
uniform jumped out and held the door open.
“I'll see you on Saturday,” chazza said, his tone final.
Then he did the wierdest thing. He held out his hand. Not to put it on my shoulder. Not to give
me a hug. But to shake my hand.
It hit me then, harder than ever. This wasn't a romance. This wasn't even a real engagement. It
was a business deal. I was the product, Nd we were closing the sale.
I slowly reached out and put my small cold hand into his big warm hand. His grip was firm and
strong. He shook my hand once again, a single solid up and down movement. It was the most
impersonal touch I had ever felt. Then, he let go.
“Goodbye,” he said. He turned, ducked into his car, and without a single look back, the car
pulled away into the traffic and disappeared.
My parents immediately started gushing, their voices full of wierd, relieved excitement. “Oh, he's
so impressive!” My mom said. “Did you see the way he carried himself?” My dad said, puffing
out his chest a little. “And that car!”
I just became mute. I looked down at my right hand, the one he had shaken.
It still felt cold from his touch, and a single, hot tear escaped and fell onto my palm, right where
our skin had met. And I felt something, something wierd and different. Have I started having
feelings for Charles Collins!
- Writer
