Chapter 4 #2
"You didn't fail," Preston says. His voice is shaking with a cold, quiet rage. "You were a child, Max. You were brilliant, and sensitive, and you saw the world differently. And instead of helping you navigate it, she paid a stranger a fortune to force you into a box that didn't fit."
He grips my shoulder harder.
"By the time I was old enough to know you," Preston says quietly, "the damage was already done. You were already the Ice King. She fixed you before I even got a chance to know the real you. I spent twenty years trying to emulate a glitched operating system. I feel defrauded."
I look up at him. Preston isn't looking at the screen anymore. He is looking at me. For the first time, I don't see the little brother trying to unscrew my arm. I see an ally.
"I’m sorry," Preston says.
"For what?" I ask. "You weren't even born yet when Catherine did this. And then when you were growing up, I was a teenager and you were busy eating paste."
"For believing the branding, once I was old enough to have an opinion," Preston says, ignoring the jab. "I thought you were arrogant. I didn't realize you were just trying to survive the 'calibration'."
I swallow past the lump in my throat. I reach up and touch his hand on my shoulder.
"I survived," I say. "I built my own protocols. I found surgery. The OR is perfect, Preston. It’s quiet. It’s structured. It’s the one place I don't have to mask."
"And you found Jax," Preston adds, withdrawing his hand to adjust his glasses, regaining his composure. "Who is... admittedly, a lot of noise. A significant amount of noise. He is essentially a human air-horn with a medical degree."
"He is a chaos variable," I agree, a small smile touching my lips. "But he operates on my frequency."
I glance toward the dark hallway leading to the master bedroom.
"Also," I add, turning back to Preston with clinical detachment.
"Regarding your theory on investment banking.
Jax's ability to maintain a sustained erection during high-stress intervals is in the ninety-ninth percentile.
No absence is required to achieve 'ballistic' results.
His baseline volatility is quite sufficient. "
Preston chokes on his tea. He coughs, eyes watering, creating a very un-York-like sputtering sound.
"Maxwell!" he hisses, putting the mug down with a clatter. "I did not need that data point! I am your brother! I do not want to know about the structural integrity of the Trauma Cowboy! I am going to bill you for the lobotomy I now require."
"You brought up the explosives," I say calmly. "I am merely providing the counter-evidence. He is loud, but effective."
"I am never drinking tea in this house again," Preston mutters, wiping his mouth with a silk sleeve. "Just... print the files. Before you tell me about his refractory period."
"The NDAs?"
"All of it," Preston says, his voice hard again. "The payments to Dr. Aris. The 'Social Calibration' fees. The NDAs."
"What are we going to do with it?" I ask. "Blackmail her?"
"No," Preston says. "Blackmail implies we want money. We don't want money. We want autonomy."
He walks to the window and looks out at the city.
"She weaponizes shame, Max. That’s her superpower. But this?" He gestures to the screen. "This proves the shame wasn't yours. It was hers. She was ashamed of having a neurodivergent son. She was so ashamed she paid to hide it."
He turns back to me.
"We take this on the tour," Preston says. "We keep it in the pocket. And if she tries to push you—if she tries to make you feel like you’re failing because the music is too loud or the lights are too bright—we remind her that the warranty on her 'Standard of Care' expired in 1999."
I hit Print. The laser printer in the corner hums to life. It is a satisfying sound.
"And Alistair?" I ask, glancing at the "M. Santos" file.
"We keep digging," Preston says. "If Father is funding a secret life in Costa Rica, maybe he’d like a one-way ticket there sooner than he thinks. If we can get him to vote with us, we override her veto."
The printer spits out the pages. I collect them. They are warm.
"Thank you," I say to Preston.
"Don't thank me," Preston says, checking his watch. "It’s 04:00. We have four hours until the venue tour. I suggest we attempt to achieve REM sleep. You need to be sharp. Rosa Ortiz is expecting a soldier, not a zombie. And please, spare me any further details about Jax’s stamina."
"Noted," I say.
Preston walks to the doorway. He pauses.
"Max?"
"Yes?"
"For the record," Preston says, looking at the floor, then back at me. "I prefer the 'Spectacularly Autistic' version of you. The 'Standard York' was boring as hell."
I smile. It is a real smile.
"Go to sleep, Preston."
"Goodnight, brother."
He walks down the hall. I turn off the laptop. The data has been analyzed. The variables have been isolated.
I am not broken. I am simply a system that was forced to run on the wrong operating system for thirty years.
I pick up the stack of papers.
Project Merger just entered the Due Diligence phase. And Catherine York is about to fail the audit.