Chapter 4 - Landing in Aspen
The descent into Aspen-Pitkin County Airport was famously breathtaking and notoriously tricky. Mountain peaks dusted in brilliant white snow rose sharply on either side of the valley, casting long shadows across the airfield. Below us, private jets sat parked in immaculate rows outside the fixed-base operator terminals, their polished fuselages gleaming under the crisp, freezing mountain sky.
When the wheels touched down on the tarmac, the First Class cabin erupted into a flurry of preparation. Mason was already barking orders into his AirPods, confirming car rentals and ski passes, while Chloe adjusted her oversized designer sunglasses in her vanity mirror.
Patricia stood the moment the seatbelt sign chimed, smoothing her cashmere sweater and throwing a patronizing glance in my direction.
"Well, Nora," she said, loudly enough to draw the attention of the surrounding passengers who were reaching for their coats. "I assume you have enough sense to call a local shuttle into town. Our private Cadillac Escalade only seats five, and between Mason’s luggage, Chloe’s ski gear, and our luggage, there simply isn't room for someone on an Economy budget."
I stood up, took my wool coat from Elena—who handed it to me with a silent, conspiratorial smile—and slung my leather tote over my shoulder.
"Don't worry about my transportation, Patricia," I said smoothly. "I rarely take public shuttles."
Mason snorted as he pulled his heavy garment bag from the bin. "Right. What, you gonna hike up the mountain in those boots? Save your pride, Nora. If you beg nicely, we might let you sit in the trunk with the bags."
Chloe giggled, adjusting her fur headband. "Mason, stop, that’s so mean. The luggage space is reserved for my Moncler coats."
Richard remained silent, quickly shuffling down the jet bridge without making eye contact with anyone. He walked with his head down, clutching his briefcase as if it held the secrets to his survival.
We walked through the small, rustic terminal toward the baggage claim area. Aspen was buzzing with high-society energy; chauffeurs in black coats held up digital signs displaying the names of tech founders, oil heirs, and real estate moguls.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling glass doors, a sleek black Escalade was indeed idling in the passenger loading zone, its exhaust puffing into the sub-zero air. Standing beside it was a driver holding a sign that read BENNETT CAPITAL.
"See?" Patricia crowed, stopping right in front of the sliding doors and turning back to face me. "Real wealth plans ahead. Enjoy your weekend in whatever motel room you managed to scrounge up on the outskirts of town, Nora. And remember—the dinner tonight is black tie. If you don't have something appropriate, do us all a favor and stay away. We wouldn't want the partners at Summit Ridge thinking Richard’s daughter lives like a vagrant."
Before I could answer, a man in a tailored charcoal overcoat stepped briskly through the automated doors from the VIP tarmac gate. He bypassed the line of waiting drivers, ignored the general crowd, and walked straight toward our group.
Patricia’s face lit up with opportunistic charm. She immediately recognized the pin on his lapel—the emblem of the Aspen Mountain Club, an ultra-exclusive enclave where memberships had a ten-year waiting list.
"Oh! Excuse me," Patricia said, stepping forward with an outstretched hand and a practiced society smile. "Are you with the mountain concierge? Richard, darling, look—the resort sent a private greeter for us!"
The man stopped, looked at Patricia’s outstretched hand with mild bewilderment, and stepped smoothly around her without touching it.
"Pardon me, ma'am," he said politely, his eyes locking onto mine.
He stopped directly in front of me, bowed his head with crisp professional courtesy, and took the small leather tote from my shoulder before I could protest.
"Welcome to Aspen, Ms. Nora Bennett," he said in a clear, resonant tone that echoed across the quiet terminal lobby. "I am Thomas, your private liaison for the weekend. The ground operations team radioed ahead from JFK to let us know you were on the incoming flight."
Patricia froze mid-step, her hand hanging awkwardly in the freezing draft of the open doors.
Mason’s eyes narrowed. "Wait, what? Who are you? She didn't book anything. Dad’s company paid for this entire trip!"
Thomas glanced at Mason with the cool detachment of someone who dealt with entitled billionaires for breakfast. "I am not with Bennett Capital, young man. I represent the Alpine Private Estate Management. Ms. Nora Bennett is the sole registered owner of the Peak Ridge Chalet, as well as the majority shareholder of the regional aviation logistics wing that operates this terminal."
The silence in the baggage hall was so complete you could hear the soft whir of the automated luggage conveyor belt.
"The... Peak Ridge Chalet?" Chloe stammered, pulling off her sunglasses. "Wait, Mason, isn't that the massive glass compound at the top of Red Mountain? The one your mom said we were renting?"
Patricia’s voice shook, her carefully constructed composure cracking down the center. "That’s impossible! We booked that chalet through a premier agency six weeks ago! We paid a sixty-thousand-dollar deposit!"
Thomas offered a polite, razor-sharp smile. "Indeed, Mrs. Bennett. You booked the guest lease. But Ms. Nora Bennett owns the deed. And as the owner, she has full authority over the property’s guest registry."
He turned back to me, ignoring the three statues staring at us in horror. "Your private Maybach is waiting on the tarmac side, Ms. Bennett. The heated seats are prepared, and your legal counsel, Mr. Harrison, has already arrived at the estate with the merger paperwork."
May you like
I looked over at Patricia, whose skin had turned the color of stale chalk.
"Well, Patricia," I said, buttoning my coat with effortless elegance. "It seems we’re heading to the same address after all. Just make sure your driver doesn't block the main driveway. I hate clutter on my property."
