Chapter 14
Miguel
Jax
"Clear the area!" I shout, sliding across the polished floor on my knees like a rock star, but with more medical intent.
I reach Alistair. He is sprawled face-down in a bed of crushed orchids. He is clammy, pale, and shaking like a leaf.
"He’s hypoglycemic!" I yell. "I need glucose! Now!"
"Sugar!" Preston screams at a waiter. "Bring sugar! Or a soda! Or a very sweet grape!"
"Use the cake!" Luke yells, grabbing a handful of the five-tier chocolate masterpiece. He sprints over and drops a fistful of ganache into my hand.
"Sorry, Alistair," I mutter, turning him over. I smear the frosting onto his gums. "This is going to be messy."
"Miguel..." Alistair moans, his eyes fluttering. He licks his lips. "Chocolate? Is that you, Miguel?"
"It’s Jax," I say, checking his pulse. "Stay with me, Alistair. Eat the frosting."
Miguel drops to his knees beside me. Up close, he smells like coconut oil and expensive rum. He is young—barely thirty—and beautiful in a way that hurts to look at.
"Don't die, Papi!" Miguel cries, fanning Alistair with the ostrich feathers. "We have tickets to Ibiza! I bought the speedo!"
"I’m... okay," Alistair wheezes, the sugar hitting his bloodstream. He blinks, his colour returning from 'corpse gray' to 'mildly flushed'. He struggles to a sitting position, chocolate smeared across his cheek.
The room is silent. The band has stopped playing. Three hundred guests are holding their breath.
Catherine York is standing ten feet away. She has recovered from her faint, helped up by Aunt Meredith, who is still livestreaming. Catherine looks at her husband. She looks at Miguel. She looks at the chocolate on Alistair’s face.
"Alistair," Catherine says. Her voice is calm. Terrifyingly calm.
Alistair looks at her. He takes a deep breath, grabbing Miguel’s hand for support.
"Catherine," Alistair says, his voice steady now. "I meant what I said. Before the crash. I don't love you. I respect you. I fear you. But I don't love you."
He looks at Miguel, and his face softens into something gooey and adorable.
"I love the chaos," Alistair admits. "I love the colour. I want to live in Costa Rica and wear linen pants that are entirely too tight. I want a divorce, Catherine. I want to be free."
Max and Preston step forward, flanking their mother like bodyguards.
"Father," Max says. “This is a conversation for a lawyer, not a ballroom."
"No," Catherine interrupts.
She reaches into her beaded clutch.
"I have been carrying this," Catherine announces, "since 2006."
She pulls out a folded document. It is thick. It is legal. It is yellowed slightly at the edges.
"What is that?" Preston asks, squinting.
"A Separation Agreement," Catherine says, unfolding it.
"Equitable distribution. Fifty-fifty split of all assets, including the Hamptons estate, the art collection, and the pure-bred greyhounds. I had legal draw it up twenty years ago. I’ve carried it to every gala, every board meeting, and every family dinner, waiting for the moment you finally grew a spine. "
She pulls a Montblanc pen from her purse and clicks it.
"I have been just as miserable as you, Alistair," Catherine says, her voice trembling slightly. "I was tired of the gray too. I just didn't have a Miguel. Sign it."
She slams the paper down on the edge of the stage.
Alistair stares at it. He stares at her.
"You... you prepared?" Alistair gasps.
"I am a York," Catherine says. "I am always prepared. Sign the paper, Alistair. Give me my life back."
Alistair scrambles up. He grabs the pen. He signs the document with a flourish that nearly tears the paper.
"Done!" Alistair shouts, throwing the pen into the crowd. "I’m free! Miguel! I’m free!"
"Oh, Papi!" Miguel squeals, jumping into Alistair’s arms. Alistair catches him, spins him around, and kisses him passionately.
Suddenly, Uncle Frederick steps out of the crowd.
He walks up to Catherine, who is holding the signed divorce papers like a winning lottery ticket. Frederick has been divorced for five years, and the rumor in the family was that he never remarried because he was waiting for Catherine to become available.
"So," Frederick says, a shark-like grin spreading across his face. "Finally single?"
Catherine looks at her brother-in-law. She looks at his tailored suit and the predatory glint in his eye.
"Technically," Catherine says.
"Good," Frederick says. "I’ve been waiting for Alistair to implode for decades. You have a ruthless streak, Catherine. I like it. I have an island. Private. No extradition treaty. And excellent Wi-Fi."
He holds out an arm.
"Come with me," Frederick proposes. "We can drink scotch and judge poor people."
Catherine looks at Alistair, who is currently letting Miguel adjust his bowtie. She looks at Frederick.
"I do need a vacation," Catherine decides. "And frankly, Frederick, you were always the brother I actually wanted."
"Excellent," Frederick grins. "The jet is fueled."
Catherine takes his arm. She looks at Max and Preston.
"Boys," she says. "I am going to the island. Do not call me unless the Foundation is on fire. And even then... let it burn."
And just like that, Catherine York walks out of her son’s wedding on the arm of her brother-in-law, looking happier than I have ever seen her.
The room is still reeling. Alistair is sitting on the edge of the stage, eating cake, with Miguel doting on him.
"So," Preston says, approaching the happy couple with the wariness of someone approaching a biological weapon. "This is... Miguel."
"Hola!" Miguel beams, waving the feather fan. "You must be the sons! The Ice King and The Spare! Alistair talks about you all the time! He says you are stiff, but he loves you!"
"Charmed," Preston says dryly. He looks at Alistair. "Father. A question. The audit."
"Yes?" Alistair asks, mouth full of cake.
"The diverted funds," Preston presses. "The monthly transfers to Costa Rica. We assumed you were embezzling. Or being blackmailed."
"Oh, no!" Miguel laughs. "That was for the renovations! We are building a sanctuary for retired parrots! It is very expensive to import organic birdseed!"
"You were funding a parrot sanctuary?" Max asks, blinking.
"And the villa!" Alistair adds. "Miguel found us a lovely spot in Papagayo. We met in St. Barths ten years ago. I was wearing Speedos. He was wearing sequins. It was kismet."
Aunt Meredith stomps forward. She is holding her phone, still recording.
"This is disgusting!" Meredith shrieks. "Alistair, look at him! He is a child! He is barely thirty! He is a gold digger! He is siphoning the York fortune to buy... birdseed!"
She points a manicured finger at Miguel.
"How much is he paying you?" Meredith sneers. "You rent boy! You gigolo! You are picking the carcass of this family clean!"
Miguel stops fanning. He hands the fan to Alistair. He stands up. He is taller than Meredith. He smooths his sequined blazer.
"Excuse me, Cacatúa," Miguel says with a dazzling smile.
"What did you call me?" Meredith demands.
"It is a term of endearment," Miguel lies smoothly. "It means 'Beautiful Songbird'. But I do not need Alistair’s money."
"Ha!" Meredith scoffs. "Look at your pants! You look like a disco ball!"
"These are Versace," Miguel corrects. "Custom. Do you know what an aglet is, Cacatúa?"
"A what?"
"An aglet," Miguel repeats. "The plastic tip at the end of a shoelace. My grandfather invented the manufacturing process for the modern aglet in 1948. He held the global patent for fifty years."
The room goes silent.
"Every time you tie your shoes," Miguel says, stepping closer, "my family gets a royalty. Every sneaker. Every boot. Every dress shoe in the world."
He looks at Preston.
"My personal net worth is approximately fourteen billion dollars," Miguel says casually. "I could buy the York Foundation, burn it down, and rebuild it as a disco, and I wouldn't even notice the dip in my checking account."
Preston’s jaw drops. Max’s glasses actually slide down his nose.
"Fourteen billion?" Preston whispers. "Max. The Aglet Prince is richer than us. By a factor of three."
“Interesting,” Max murmurs, looking at his father with new eyes, "Dad just dated up a wealth class. Significantly."
"He’s practically a trophy husband," I realize, laughing. "Alistair York is a trophy husband."
Miguel turns back to Alistair, his face melting back into pure adoration.
"I do not want his money," Miguel coos, pinching Alistair’s cheek. "I want him."
"Why?" Preston asks, genuinely baffled. "Look at him. He is covered in chocolate. He is wearing a magenta cummerbund. He is a walking mid-life crisis."
Miguel looks at Alistair like he is the sun, the moon, and the stars.
"Because he is funny!" Miguel declares. "He makes me laugh! And look at him! He is so... squeezable! He is the sexiest man on earth! He is a Tiger!"
"A raw, sexual Tiger!" Alistair agrees, roaring softly.
"Okay, I’m done," Preston turns around. "I’m going to the bar. Come on Luke.”
Alistair stands up. He wipes the chocolate off his face. He looks at Miguel.
"Miguel," Alistair says, getting down on one knee. "You have fourteen billion dollars. I have a sugar addiction and a karaoke machine. Will you marry me?"
"Yes!" Miguel screams. "Yes, Papi! Right now!"
"Right now!" Alistair agrees. He looks around wildly. "Where is the Archbishop? O’Malley! Get out here! We need a sacrament!"
At the bar, Preston and Luke are watching the chaos unfold.
"Your dad is proposing to the Aglet King," Luke observes, sipping his drink. "This family is amazing."
Preston shakes his head. "It is a circus. A lucrative circus, apparently."
He looks at Luke. He looks at the way Luke is grinning, the way his tie is crooked, the way he fits into this madness like he was born for it.
"Luke," Preston says softly.
"Yeah?"
"Do you remember the lobby?" Preston asks. "Six months ago?"
Luke laughs. "You mean the Jelly Incident? The day we rescued Mr. Bromley from that antique railing?"