Chapter 20
Black Tie Gala
Preston
There are three things you need to know about being a York.
I am currently sitting on the counter of the kitchen in the York Estate, eating dry Froot Loops out of the box and watching the apocalypse.
"It is a disaster!" Mother shrieks, throwing a linen napkin onto the island like a gauntlet. "A catastrophe! The centrepieces are wilting, the lighting designer is trying to make us look like a nightclub, and the guest of honour is a... a cowboy!"
Father is sitting at the kitchen table, reading the Wall Street Journal and drinking coffee from a cup that costs more than my car. He looks delighted.
"He’s a surgeon, Catherine," Father corrects without looking up. "And a war hero. The press loves him. The Post called him 'Dr. Dreamy.' I believe that is a good thing. Though I would have gone with 'Dr. Steamy,' personally."
"Alistair, be serious!" Mother hisses. She begins pacing, her heels clicking a frantic rhythm on the marble. "He has tattoos. Visible ones. He drives a vehicle that looks like it was scavenged from a war zone and then set on fire."
"It was scavenged from a war zone," I chime in, crunching a red loop. "That’s the aesthetic, Mother. It’s called 'post-apocalyptic chic.' Very trendy. You wouldn't understand."
Mother turns her laser gaze on me. "Preston, get off the counter. You look like a gargoyle. And stop eating that chemical dye. It will rot your brain."
I don't move. "My brain is already rotted. I watched three hours of reality television this morning. I’m pretty sure I lost the ability to do long division."
Mother flinches. "Do not joke about your potential."
That’s the thing about Maxwell. For thirty-six years, he’s been the Golden Child. The Perfect Son. He did the grades, the medical school, the prestigious specialty. He let Mother dress him and Father manage his trust fund. He was boring.
But then he met the Trauma guy.
I liked Jax immediately. Mostly because he parked a muddy Jeep next to the Bentley, which was a power move, but also because he looked at my parents like they were interesting anthropological specimens he might have to dissect later.
"Maxwell has not grown a spine," Mother sniffs, adjusting her pearl necklace as if it were strangling her. "He has been... influenced. By that chaotic man. Alistair, you should never have fired Sterling. It emboldened them. Now Maxwell thinks he runs the hospital!"
"He does run the hospital," Father says calmly, turning a page. "Or at least, the parts that matter. He’s Alistair York’s son. Dominance is genetic. It just takes the right... catalyst to activate it."
"Catalyst?" Mother shrieks. "The man eats with his hands! He called the Mayor 'Buddy' when talking to the press about the rescue!"
"The Mayor liked it," Father notes. "He’s polling badly with the working class. Being called 'Buddy' by a rugged veteran is a PR dream."
Mother lets out a sound of frustration that is remarkably undignified. It sounds like a teakettle dying.
"And the ice!" she pivots, finding a new target. "The caterer brought cubed ice, Alistair. Cubed! For a gala! We need spheres! Spheres melt slower! Do they want the scotch to be watery? Do they want us to look like peasants?"
"I’m sure the peasants are very concerned about dilution rates," I mutter.
"Out!" Mother points a manicured finger at the door. "Both of you! I have to fire the ice man and I cannot do it with this... male energy clogging up my aura."
Father chuckles. He folds his paper. "Come along, Preston. Your mother is entering the Red Zone. Best to clear the blast radius."
We retreat to the library.
The library is the only room in the house that feels real. It smells of old paper and leather. Father goes straight to the hidden bar behind the globe.
"Scotch?" he asks.
"I’m eighteen," I remind him.
"You’re a York," he counters. "We age in dog years. Besides, it’s medicinal. It prevents you from turning into your mother."
He pours me a splash. I take it. It tastes like burning wood. I love it.
Father takes a sip of his drink. He looks at the portrait of Grandfather above the mantle—a stern man who looked like he ate gravel for breakfast.
"You like him, don't you?" Father asks, settling into his armchair. "The Cowboy."
"He’s cool," I admit, hopping onto the desk. "He taught me how to pick a lock."
Father raises an eyebrow. "When? You barely spoke two words to him at dinner."
"Yesterday," I say. "I snuck into the ICU while you were busy terrorizing the Board. He was bored. He showed me how to shim a padlock using the metal clip from a medical chart. He said lock-picking is an essential life skill. You never know when you’ll need to get into a supply closet or out of a bad date. "
Father laughs. It’s a loud, booming sound that shakes the dust off the first editions.
"He’s right," Father says, wiping his eyes. "And clearly, he is a bad influence. I approve."
Father swirls his scotch, a mischievous glint in his eye.
"I visited him myself as well, you know. Yesterday afternoon, after I'd finished with the Board."
"You did?"
"Maxwell was stuck in a departmental budget meeting," Father explains. "I figured the 'patient' might be bored. And the hospital food is a crime against humanity. I wouldn't feed that gelatin to a dog, let alone a future family member."
He pauses, a look of genuine unease crossing his face.
"I ran into that head nurse—Ortiz? Terrifying woman. She blocked the door like a bouncer at a nightclub. I tried to use the 'I own the building' line on her."
"Did it work?"
"She laughed," Father says, shivering slightly. "She looked at the steak, looked at me, and said, 'Mr. York, if that meat isn't medium-rare, I will personally feed it to you via a nasogastric tube.' Then she stepped aside."
Father takes a large sip of scotch.
"I haven't been that frightened since I accidentally sat in the Queen's chair at a polo match. I respect her immensely. I think I’m going to buy her a new MRI machine as a tribute. Just to stay on her good side."
He clears his throat, regaining his composure.
"Anyway, once I got past the gatekeeper, I taught him how to count cards. We played Blackjack on the tray table for two hours. He picked up the probability count in five minutes. Five minutes! The man has a mind like a steel trap. If he wasn't saving lives, I’d hire him to run the hedge fund."
Father leans back, looking satisfied.
"I won fifty dollars off him, of course. Never let the new guy win. It builds character."
"You took fifty dollars from a man with four broken ribs?"
"He insisted," Father says. "He said he didn't want charity. I like that about him."
Father swirls his glass.
"Your brother is bringing him to the Gala tonight," Father says. "Publicly. As his partner. He said if his mother tried to seat Jax at the children's table, he would burn the whole seating chart."
"Maxwell said that?"
"He did. I was so proud I nearly cried."
"Mother is going to stroke out."
"Let her," Father says, popping a leftover Froot Loop he apparently smuggled from the kitchen into his mouth. "It will be the most interesting party we’ve thrown since 1998 when your aunt fell into the chocolate fountain."
He stands up, brushing crumbs off his silk robe.
"Go get dressed, Preston. Wear something rebellious. It annoys your mother, and I find that very entertaining lately. It keeps her blood pressure up, which is good for her circulation."
"I bought a leather jacket," I venture. "A real one. Not the vegan pleather stuff Mother tries to buy me."
Father winks. "Wear it. Maybe wear it over the tuxedo. That should really sell the 'disaffected youth' vibe."
"You want me to look like a delinquent?"
"I want you to look like a York who doesn't care what people think," Father says seriously. "It’s the ultimate power move, son. Maxwell is finally learning it. It’s time you did too."
I hop off the desk.
I look at my father. For years, I thought he was just another suit. Another part of the machine. But looking at him now—eating Froot Loops, drinking scotch at noon, and plotting chaos with his spare heir—I realize Alistair York is actually kind of a badass.
"You got it, Dad," I say.
"And Preston?"
"Yeah?"
"If you see the ice man," Father says, deadpan. "Tell him to run. Your mother has found the blowtorch."
I grin.
Maxwell thinks he’s fighting this war alone. He thinks he’s the only one trying to escape the York gravity well.
But as I walk up the grand staircase to my room to dig out my leather jacket, I realize something. The gravity isn't holding us down anymore.
We’re just using it to slingshot ourselves into something much, much more fun.
Maxwell
The St. Jude’s Annual Winter Gala is usually an exercise in torture.
It is a sea of black ties, bad champagne, and donors who want to tell me about their palpitations while eating shrimp cocktails. It is four hours of smiling until my face hurts and pretending that I care about the Board Chairman’s golf handicap.
But tonight feels different.
Tonight, I am not walking in alone. And I am not walking in afraid.
I stand in the foyer of the hotel ballroom, adjusting my cuffs. I am wearing my tuxedo—the Tom Ford, midnight blue, peak lapel. It is perfect.
Beside me stands Jax O’Connell.
He is wearing the charcoal suit from Giovanni’s. But he has made... adjustments.
He is not wearing a tie. The top two buttons of his crisp white shirt are undone, exposing the tanned column of his throat and just a hint of the dark ink of his chest piece.
And on his feet, instead of the patent leather shoes I suggested, he is wearing a pair of pristine, polished black combat boots.
He looks like a rock star who crashed a funeral. He looks magnificent.
"You’re sweating," Jax whispers, leaning close. He smells of cedar and expensive whiskey (he had a shot before we left the loft "for nerves").
"I am regulating my body temperature," I correct. "The ambient heat in this room is excessive."