Chapter 3
The Hostile Takeover
Max
The jet bridge at JFK smells like jet fuel, stale coffee, and the specific, acrid scent of four hundred people realizing their vacation plans have just been liquidated by a hedge fund.
"Clear the hole!" a paramedic shouts, pushing a stretcher past a knot of grumbling Business Class passengers who are more concerned with their frequent flyer miles than the man currently breathing through a luxury writing instrument.
On the gurney, our patient—Mr. Calloway, seat 12C—is conscious and giving a thumbs up to the crowd.
The silver casing of the Montblanc pen is still protruding from his chest, secured with three Band-Aids and a strip of heavy-duty duct tape Jax found in the galley.
It catches the fluorescent light of the terminal like a chaotic, impromptu medal of honor.
"Nice penmanship, Doc!" Calloway wheezes as he rolls past us, his voice raspy but surprisingly cheerful for a man with a collapsed lung.
"That was a terrible pun," Jax mutters, wiping a smear of blood off his cheek with the back of his hand. "He’s going to live, but his sense of humor is terminal. I should have ordered a psych consult."
We step out of the jet bridge and into the terminal proper.
Usually, Gate B12 is a place of transit—a liminal space of stress and Cinnabon.
Today, it is a throne room. The air conditioning seems colder here, the lighting harsher.
The ambient noise of the airport—the rolling suitcases, the crying babies, the announcements about unattended baggage—seems to die down as we approach the centre of the waiting area.
Standing there, flanked by two TSA agents who look like they have been personally tipped the GDP of a small nation, is Mother.
She is wearing a pantsuit that defies the laws of physics.
It is immaculate, sharp enough to cut glass, and somehow repels the grime of a rat infested international airport.
While the rest of the terminal is a sea of sweatpants and travel pillows, Mother looks like she has just stepped out of a Vogue editorial on corporate dominance.
She is holding a Starbucks cup like it is a scepter, her grip loose but absolute.
"Mother," I say, stopping ten feet away. I maintain a safe perimeter. With Mother, you always maintain a perimeter. "You grounded a Boeing 747 because you didn't like our itinerary."
"I grounded a Boeing 747 because the in-flight service was declining," Mother corrects smoothly, taking a sip of her latte.
She doesn't even look at me; she is inspecting the cuticle of her thumb.
"And because you were attempting to elope to a city that was built on bad decisions, neon lights, and polyester.
I was saving you from yourselves. Think of it as a preemptive strike against tackiness. "
"Mother," Preston says, stepping up beside me and brushing his hair back absentmindedly.
He doesn't look angry; he looks fascinated, like he is observing a new, particularly aggressive species of raptor in the wild.
"Kidnapping is a felony, not a love language. I’m going to need a new chapter in my case study for this.
'The Matriarch as Domestic Terrorist: A Field Guide. '"
"Don't be dramatic, Preston," Mother says, waving a hand dismissively. "It wasn't kidnapping. It was a logistical realignment. Besides, you were flying commercial. I did you a favour. Have you seen the legroom in Business Class lately? It’s insulting."
"HEY! YOU! LADY GAGA!"
The scream comes from behind us. It is distinct, nasal, and unmistakably from the Garden State.
The woman from row 5—the bride—marches toward us.
She is wearing a plastic tiara that says Bride Squad which is currently crooked, a pink sash that reads Future Mrs. Whatever, and enough leopard print to legally classify her as an endangered species.
Her mascara is running, but her acrylic nails are out and ready for war.
She is flanked by three bridesmaids who are holding their neck pillows like blunt force weapons.
The bride stops three inches from Mother’s face, popping her hip and chewing gum with aggressive velocity.
"Are you the bitch that ruined my bachelorette party?" she demands, her voice echoing through Terminal B.
Jax steps forward, his "Trauma Chief" instinct kicking in. He shifts his weight, preparing to de-escalate, but Preston holds up a hand.
"Wait," Preston whispers to Jax, his eyes gleaming behind his spectacles. "Let nature take its course."
Mother slowly lowers her Starbucks cup. She looks at the bride. She looks at the leopard print. She looks at the precarious structural integrity of the woman's hair extensions.
"I beg your pardon?" Mother says, her tone freezing the air around us.
"You heard me!" the bride yells, pointing a finger with a three-inch hot pink talon at Mother’s nose. "We were goin' to Vegas! I had tickets to Thunder From Down Under! We were gonna drink daiquiris out of plastic Eiffel Towers! Now I’m in Queens? You kiddin' me?"
She turns to her friends and hands one of them her oversized hoop earrings.
"Hold my hoops, Tina," the bride commands, rolling her neck. "I’m gonna drag her. I’m gonna drag this lady right here in front of the Sbarro."
"Ma'am," one of the TSA agents starts to step in.
"Back off, rent-a-cop!" the bride screeches.
She turns back to Mother, bouncing on the balls of her feet like a prizefighter.
"You think you can just buy the sky? Who do you think you are? I’m from Jersey, sweetheart.
We don't play this game. I will mess up that pantsuit so bad you’ll have to shop at T.J. Maxx!"
Mother doesn't flinch. She doesn't step back. She simply looks at the bride with the same expression one might use when discovering a cockroach on a piece of fine china.
"I am the woman who just upgraded your entire party to the Presidential Suite at the Ritz-Carlton Central Park for the weekend," Mother says, her voice bored, flat, and terrifyingly calm.
The bride stops bouncing. "The Ritz?"
"I have also arranged for a private viewing of Hamilton—front row, obviously, with backstage passes to meet the cast," Mother continues, checking her watch.
"And a spa credit at the Guerlain Spa that is worth more than your fiancé’s Honda Civic.
You will be drinking vintage Dom Pérignon instead of whatever neon-coloured gasoline you were planning to consume in the desert. "
The bride’s mouth drops open. The gum falls out.
"Dom P?" the bride whispers. She looks at Tina. Tina drops the neck pillow.
"Get over yourself, dear," Mother snaps, her voice cracking like a whip. "I have provided you with a story you will tell at dinner parties for the rest of your mediocre life. Now, take the voucher from my assistant and stop vibrating. You’re wrinkling my airspace."
She gestures vaguely to a terrified personal assistant standing by the gate desk. The bride stares at Mother for one second longer, then grabs her hoop earrings back from Tina.
"Okay, you’re not a bitch," the bride decides, nodding respectfully. "You’re a boss. I respect that. Call me if you need anyone beat up."
She snaps her fingers at her squad. "Move it, girls! We’re goin' to the Ritz!"
They sprint toward the assistant like a herd of glittery gazelles.
"Incredible," Preston murmurs, pulling a small notebook from his pocket and scribbling furiously.
"She weaponized generosity to silence dissent.
She literally bought their outrage. The efficiency is.
.." He pauses. His pen stops moving. "..
.I was about to say erotic, and I need everyone to understand that I am aware of exactly how that sounds, and I am choosing to blame Freud entirely. "
"It’s terrifying," Luke says flatly, standing beside Preston with his arms crossed. He doesn't look scared; he looks tired. "It’s high-functioning sociopathy with an unlimited budget."
Mother turns back to us, ignoring the entire interaction as if it never happened. Her eyes scan our disheveled appearance—Jax’s blood-stained designer jeans, my unbuttoned collar, the sheer exhaustion radiating off us like heat waves.
"You look terrible," she observes. "Heroism is messy.”
"We are not doing it, Catherine," Jax says. His voice is low, dangerous. It’s the voice he uses when he has to tell a family that their loved one isn't coming back.
"We are not doing Notre Dame. We are not doing the horses.
And if you try to put me on a boat, I will vomit on your shoes.
That is a promise, not a threat. I get seasick in a bathtub. "
"I second the motion," I add, stepping up beside him to present a united front.
"The logistical complexity of a European wedding is functionally impossible given our surgical rotation.
If you want this merger to happen, it happens on domestic soil.
Or it doesn't happen. We will go to City Hall in jeans before we get on another plane. "
Mother stares at us. For a long, terrifying moment, the silence stretches. I calculate the odds of her buying the airport just to spite us.
"Fine," she says finally.
I blink. The data does not compute. "Fine?"
"Domestic," she concedes, waving a hand. "The French are difficult anyway. Emmanuel refused to let me install a temporary helipad on the Seine. It was very short-sighted of him. And the Vatican was being incredibly petty about the playlist."
"So... we’re doing City Hall?" Jax asks, hope blooming in his chest.
Mother laughs. It is a cold, tinkling sound.
"Don't be absurd, Jackson. We are compromising. You want local? We will do local. But it will be York local."
She pulls a slim, leather-bound notebook from her purse.
"I have arranged a perimeter check for three potential venues within the five boroughs," she announces. "We start tomorrow at 0800 hours. If you agree to the tours, I will unlock the fuel reserves for the ambulance fleet, which I also briefly acquired during your flight."