Chapter Twenty-Five
The Newman townhouse tells of Upper East Side money that predates income tax. The five-story Beaux Arts mansion is tucked behind manicured hedges and gates that look borrowed from Versailles.
Inside, the air has that specific quality of expensiveness. The ceilings stretch toward heaven. Crown moldings remain untouched by time or taste, restored rather than replaced because when you have this kind of money, you preserve history rather than update it.
Bunny Newman moves through these rooms like she was born to them, though a quick Google search (conducted in a moment of pre-meeting panic) revealed she married into this altitude of wealth.
She’s wearing what I assume is casual wear for the obscenely rich: silk that whispers when she moves, jewelry that glimmers and blinds but somehow isn’t ostentatious.
“You have a beautiful home,” I say, taking a sip from a bone china cup so delicate I’m afraid my hands might crush it through proximity alone.
She smiles from her throne—sorry, Louis XVI armchair—upholstered in velvet.
“Thank you, dear. It’s been in Harold’s family since the early nineteen-aughts. Before that, one of the Rockefellers owned it back when this part of the city was only for the old-money elite.” As opposed to now, when it’s for…the old-money elite plus Russian oligarchs.
I let my gaze wander the museum-quality room that somehow still feels lived in. “You kept a lot of the original features.”
She nods. It’s obvious she’s never had to choose between authenticity and affordability. “The fireplaces, the moldings, even the mahogany paneling in the library—all original. Though I did redo the kitchen. No one wants to cook in a gilded age relic from the 1880s.”
I chuckle, carefully setting my tea down on a marble coffee table.
“So, thanks again for agreeing to meet with me,” I say, sitting forward in a chair that makes me hyperaware of my posture.
“Of course, dear. What is it that you wanted to discuss?”
Here goes nothing. Or everything. Possibly both.
“Well, I’m not sure if you remember, but at the ballet gala a few weeks back, Petra mentioned that her younger sister, Claire, was going to be attending Parsons.”
Bunny’s smile remains but sharpens. “Yes, of course. The school is thrilled to welcome its newest class. We’ve introduced a whole host of new professors this semester, top minds in the design world.
Our last board meeting approved an expansion plan to ensure Parsons remains the preeminent design school in the world.
” She delivers this like someone who’s practiced it for donors, which she probably has.
“So, without boring you with the details… Claire didn’t actually get accepted into Parsons.”
Bunny stirs her tea once, twice. No other reaction. Just stirring.
I press forward into the silence, which looks like I need to fill it with the details.
“She told Petra she did because she was scared Petra would take the offer to join the Royal St. Petersburg Ballet as a principal. She didn’t want to lose her sister to another continent.
It wasn’t malicious—she just panicked, and it snowballed.
” Like every lie that starts small and ends up requiring congressional hearings.
Bunny sits back, studying me. Finally, she exhales quietly, her gaze drifting toward the room’s bay windows that probably have historical significance and were imported from some European country.
“Ah,” she murmurs, like she’s discovered something in the bottom of her teacup.
“The ripple effect of our actions.” She takes a slow sip before continuing.
“When I was younger, I lied to my mother once. Told her my father had stopped drinking.” Her eyes find mine, sharp despite the soft delivery.
“I thought if she just believed it, they’d stay together. That everything would fix itself.”
I stay silent because this feels like she’s about to dispense some wisdom.
“Of course, it didn’t,” she continues. “He never stopped drinking and she knew all along. So, she left him.” A small smile emerges on her face. “But for a while, I thought I was helping.”
She taps her fingers on velvet. “I understand Claire’s impulse. We rarely anticipate the full consequences when we’re young. We just act. And we pray it turns out alright.”
Somewhere, deep down, I sense hope.
“So,” she says, “I want to help.”
I’m caught off guard by the simplicity, the willingness.
“Every year, there’s turnover before students matriculate,” she continues, smoothing an invisible wrinkle in her cashmere sweater that definitely doesn’t wrinkle.
“Students withdraw, change their minds. These things happen. And so, as students withdraw, spots open up. They always do.” She pauses, stirs, then looks at me square.
“I can ensure Claire Montgomery will be part of this upcoming Parsons class.”
The relief is instant. “That’s incredible… Mrs. Newman, I don’t even know what to say.”
“Say ‘thank you,’” she suggests with the practicality of someone who’s solved harder problems before breakfast.
“A thousand thank yous. Claire will make the most of this opportunity. I promise.”
Then Bunny turns back toward those bay windows.
“So,” she says, and that single syllable contains more subtext than a Russian novel. “You understand the importance of doing what you must to support your loved ones, Liam.”
A wave of queasiness threatens to turn to nausea. “I sure do,” I say, already knowing this is about to cost more than gratitude.
She nods, then she turns back, smile intact but weaponized now. “That’s good. Because I, in turn, could use your help.”
The room suddenly feels smaller, the walls taller. I’ve seen this before—the moment when someone reveals they’ve been playing chess while you’ve been playing checkers.
“Of course, Mrs. Newman,” I say. “You name it.”
“Harold has been stressed lately. Balancing his businesses, investments, the Sentinels. You know how it is.”
I nod slowly, though I definitely don’t know how it is to balance multiple business empires.
“I know there’s talk of a players’ holdout,” she continues, reaching for her teacup without drinking, the gesture purely theatrical. “The players standing firm against the league and its ownership groups. That kind of uncertainty…. It’s bad for business.”
The floor doesn’t actually tilt, but my world sure feels like it’s teetering.
“I’m the players’ rep for the team and league,” I say, stating the obvious because sometimes you need to hear yourself say things to believe them.
“Yes, you are,” she says. She’s already three moves ahead. She has been from the start.
“You’re asking me to—”
“I trust you’ll make the right decision.”
She doesn’t need to spell it out. The transaction is crystal clear, just like the candlestick holders positioned on the fireplace mantle: She gets Claire into Parsons if I betray every teammate who I convinced to stand together. Simple and clean. Also, devastating.
I sit there, staring at Bunny Newman in her inherited palace, and realize I’ve walked into a trap that was set before I even knew there was a game being played. She holds Claire’s future in her hands, and all I have to do is sell out my teammates, my principles, and whatever’s left of my integrity.
My tea has gone cold.
Bunny waits. She’s never had to rush for anything. She knows what I’m going to choose. We both do. Because that’s how these things work in rooms like this—everyone gets what they want, and everyone pays more than they can afford.
“I’ll need some time to think,” I finally say. There’s nothing to think about. Just the price of admission to a world where favors come with brutal consequences.
“Of course, dear,” she says. “Take all the time you need.”
But we both know time is exactly what I don’t have. The lockout vote is coming. Claire’s lie’s expiration date is looming. And I’m sitting in an Upper East Side mansion, learning that wealth doesn’t shout, it whispers, and what it’s whispering is: “Everyone has a price. What’s yours?”
The worst part? I think I already know the answer.