Chapter 13
Alistair's Secret Revealed
Jax
If the Cathedral was a fortress, The Plaza is a palace of excess.
The chandeliers are dripping with crystal.
The centrepieces are towering structures of white orchids that probably cost more than the annual budget of the hospital's sterile supply department.
The band is playing a jazz standard that is smooth, expensive, and perfectly calibrated to the ambient noise level of three hundred wealthy New Yorkers eating lobster thermidor.
And in the centre of it all stands The Cake.
It is not the gray, Earl Grey-infused monstrosity Catherine wanted. It is a five-tier, chocolate ganache masterpiece. It is dark, rich, and unapologetically decadent.
"It is structurally sound," Max observes, holding the silver knife. "The density of the ganache provides a stable foundation for the upper tiers."
"Just cut the cake, Ice King," I whisper, my hand over his.
We slice into it. The chocolate gives way. We feed each other. It's messy. I get a smear of frosting on Max's nose. He doesn't wipe it off. He licks it off my thumb, right there in front of the Senators, the Board, and Aunt Meredith.
The crowd cheers.
"Victory tastes like cocoa," Max murmurs against my ear.
We take our seats at the head table. The room is buzzing with that specific, high-frequency energy of a wedding that has gone surprisingly right.
The band transitions into something warmer. The lobster thermidor is making its rounds. Preston is refilling his champagne with the quiet efficiency of a man who has earned it. Luke is already talking to someone's grandmother, his tie loose, his smile at full wattage.
And then the ballroom doors open.
Not with the grandeur of a late guest. With the cheerful, unself-conscious violence of someone who has never once waited to be invited anywhere.
A woman in leopard print strides in. She is wearing a plastic tiara that says Bride Squad — still crooked, now additionally secured with what appears to be a Plaza Hotel hair grip.
A Ritz-Carlton key card is dangling from her wrist like a charm bracelet.
She has a bottle of Dom Pérignon in each hand and is flanked by three women in varying states of sequin.
One of them is still holding a neck pillow.
Preston turns slowly in his chair. He looks at the leopard print. He looks at the Ritz key card. He looks at the tiara.
Recognition crosses his face like a sunrise.
"Oh," Preston says softly, with the reverence of a naturalist watching a rare species return to its habitat. "It's the bachelorette party."
Luke follows his eyeline. "The what?"
"From the airport," Preston says, setting down his champagne.
"Mother diverted their flight to Vegas. They were on their way to see Thunder From Down Under.
Mother bought them the Ritz instead to neutralise the situation.
" He pauses, watching Donna scan the ballroom with the focused intensity of a woman who knows exactly how to find a free bar. "Apparently that wasn't the end of it."
Donna spots me across the room. She points. She grins.
"HEY! IT'S THE DOCTOR!" She weaves through the tables with zero regard for the centrepieces. "We're still at the Ritz! Nobody ever checked us out! It's been four weeks! Housekeeping just keeps coming! Tina learned to use the bidet!"
"I have changed as a person," Tina confirms from the doorway.
I stare at her. "How are you still there?"
"Nobody told us to leave," Donna says, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world. "The lady — the one in the pantsuit — she said the reservation was open-ended. So we stayed. We figured she'd call." She pauses. "She didn't call."
"She had a wedding to organise," Max says.
"Fair," Donna decides. She looks around the ballroom — the orchids, the chandeliers, the jazz quartet.
She nods slowly, deeply impressed. "Okay.
This is nicer than the Thunder from Down Under venue.
" She pulls out a chair at the nearest table and sits down with the confidence of someone who has never once doubted her right to be in a room.
She puts her feet on the chair in front of her.
"We're staying for dinner. You got a beef option? Tina can't do shellfish."
"I'll flag a waiter," Luke says immediately, already half-standing.
"Luke," Preston says.
"She deserves a beef option, Preston."
Preston considers this for exactly one second. He flags the waiter himself.
"Incredible," Preston murmurs, watching Donna cheerfully commandeer a bread basket from the neighbouring table. "She turned a flight diversion into a four-week luxury holiday and a wedding invitation. Mother tried to buy her silence and accidentally funded her entire autumn."
"To be fair," I say, "Catherine didn't set a checkout date."
"Of course she didn't," Preston says. "End dates imply a budget. Yorks have never had a budget. They have consequences they discover later."
He raises his glass toward Donna, who raises one of her Dom Pérignon bottles back without missing a beat.
"I like her," Preston says. "She's the only person at this wedding who got exactly what she wanted."
The speeches begin.
Preston York takes the microphone first.
He stands at the podium, looking immaculate in his tuxedo. He is twenty-four, thirteen years younger than Max, and he wears his role as the "Spare" like a suit of armour made of silk and sarcasm. He adjusts the mic stand with a manicured hand, waiting for absolute silence. He gets it.
"Good evening," Preston says. His voice is cool, dry, and sharp as a scalpel. "For those of you who are currently betting on how long this marriage will last, the over/under is 'Forever,' so you might as well cash out now."
Laughter ripples through the room.
"I have spent my entire life observing the phenomenon that is Maxwell York," Preston continues.
"When I was ten, Max went to medical school.
I honestly thought he was a cyborg sent from the future to organize our pantry and depress the curve for everyone else.
He was efficient. He was brilliant. He was. .. monochromatic."
Preston pauses, sipping his champagne.
"I assumed he would eventually marry a calculator. Or perhaps a very organized spreadsheet."
He looks at me.
"And then came Jax. The Trauma Cowboy. A man whose idea of a good time is triaging a pile-up on the I-95. On the surface, this merger makes zero sense. Max is structure; Jax is a bull in a china shop who then performs emergency surgery on the china."
Preston smirks.
"But I have watched Jax do the impossible. He didn't just fit into Max’s world; he broke the algorithm. He taught the cyborg how to feel. And frankly, watching my brother actually smile—not the PR smile, but the real one—is the most terrifying and wonderful thing I’ve ever seen."
Preston raises his glass.
"To Max: You’re welcome for the endless moral support and parental interference runs I have provided over the years. And to Jax: Good luck. You married a York. The therapy bills are in the mail. Don’t forget you chose this.”
Max raises his glass, his eyes shining. "I love you too, you brat."
Preston sits down to thunderous applause.
Luke Silva grabs the mic next.
He is the opposite of Preston. He is grinning, his tie is already loose, and he is radiating chaotic, golden retriever energy.
"Hi everyone!" Luke beams. "I’m Luke! I’m on the Groom’s side! Well, Jax’s side. Because Max scares me a little bit."
"Objection," Max murmurs.
"I was there for the stag night," Luke announces. "I won't give details, because there are lawyers present. But let’s just say it involved a Porsche, a very expensive pizza, and a medical emergency."
He turns to the crowd, gesturing wildly.
"I watched Jax save a guy’s leg on the side of the road using my Gucci belt as a tourniquet," Luke says, pointing at himself. "A belt which I am still waiting to be reimbursed for, by the way. It was limited edition."
The crowd laughs.
"But seriously," Luke says, looking at me. "Jax, you’re an incredible surgeon. You’re a badass. And watching you find someone who looks at you the way Max does... it’s awesome. Truly."
Luke turns to Preston, who is sipping champagne and pretending to be bored.
"And," Luke adds, a mischievous glint in his eye, "I am really looking forward to officially calling you 'Brother' one day. You know. When we finally tie the knot."
The room gasps. Preston chokes on his champagne. A violent, tomato-red blush spreads from his collar up to his hairline.
"Luke!" Preston hisses, visibly flustered for the first time in his life. "Sit down!"
"Just putting it out there!" Luke winks, raising his glass. "To the grooms! And to future weddings!"
He sits down, patting Preston on the back. Preston buries his face in his hands, shaking his head.
Then, the room goes quiet.
Catherine York stands up.
She has changed. The white wedding gown is gone. In its place, she is wearing a tasteful, modest navy gown. She looks smaller. Softer. She walks to the podium not with a march, but with a hesitant glide.
She grips the microphone. Her hands are shaking slightly.
"I..." she starts. She clears her throat. "I had a speech prepared. It was about legacy. It was about duty. It was written by my publicist."
She takes a piece of paper out of her clutch and tears it in half.
"But I don't think that’s appropriate today," Catherine says.
She looks at Max.
"Maxwell," she says. Her voice is steady, but fragile. "You look happy. That is... that is a variable I did not prioritize enough. I spent so much time trying to make you safe, I forgot to make you happy."
She turns to me. She looks me right in the eye.
"And... Jax," she says.
The name hangs in the air. She didn't say Jackson. She didn't say 'Jennifer'. She used my name.
"Thank you, Jax," she says softly. "Thank you for protecting him. Even from me. Especially from me. You saw the man when I only saw the blueprint. And for that... I am grateful."