Chapter 1
The Spreadsheet Proposal
Max
Ihave prepared a folder.
It is colour-coded. It is laminated. It is titled Project Merger: A Minimal Viable Product.
Inside, I have outlined a perfectly efficient wedding strategy: A 10:00 appointment at City Hall, followed by a light brunch at a diner that serves adequate waffles, concluding with a return to work by 14:00. Total estimated cost: $150. Total estimated stress: Zero.
I place the folder on the mahogany table. I fold my hands on top of it.
"We want something small," I announce.
Next to me, Jax leans back in his chair, picking at a dinner roll with the same focus he uses to debride a wound. He looks dangerously relaxed for a man sitting in the blast radius.
"Microscopic," Jax agrees, popping a piece of bread into his mouth. "City Hall. Sign the papers. High-five the judge. I’m wearing jeans. The good ones. No blood stains."
Across the table, my mother stops blinking. She stares at us. Itis the same look she gave the architect who told her she couldn't install a helipad on the greenhouse.
"Jeans," Catherine repeats. The word sounds like a slur.
"They’re designer, Catherine," Jax says, pointing a butter knife at her. "I paid sixty dollars for them. That’s high fashion in Queens."
My father, Alistair, clears his throat. The sound echoes like a gavel. He signals the butler to pour more prosecco. A lot more prosecco.
"Maxwell," Father says, his voice dangerously calm. "You are the Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery at St. Jude’s. You are the heir to the York Foundation. You cannot get married in denim at a government building between a parking ticket dispute and a notary public."
"It’s efficient, Father," I argue, tapping the folder. "It’s a contract. We don't need a spectacle. We need a tax break."
"It is not a spectacle!" Mother snaps, slamming her hand down on the table. "It is a statement! It is a dynastic alliance! The press release alone requires a six-month lead time!"
She reaches under the table. She pulls out a binder.
It is not a sensible folder like mine. It is a three-inch thick, leather-bound tome embossed with the family crest in gold leaf. She drops it on the table. It lands with a heavy thud that rattles the crystal stemware.
"Mother," I whisper, eyeing the binder with genuine terror. "What is that?"
"Is that the casualty log for a mass event?" Jax asks, leaning forward to inspect it. "Because that binder is thick enough to blunt trauma."
"This," Mother says, flipping it open to reveal architectural blueprints, fabric swatches, and a satellite photo of a small European country, "is the Plan. I have taken the liberty of putting a hold on the Cathedral."
"St. Patrick’s?" Jax asks.
"Notre Dame," she corrects.
I choke on my water. "In Paris? Mother, it had a fire!"
"I know," she says breezily. "I’ve offered to pay for the roof if they let us use the nave in June."
"I don't speak French, Catherine," Jax interjects. "I know how to order a beer and say 'hello'. That is not a good vibe for a wedding."
"It’s tight," Father admits, examining a blueprint for what looks like a structural reinforcement of a dance floor. "But if we fly the guests in on the private fleet, we can manage the logistics. I’ve already spoken to the Vatican about the choir."
"The Vatican?" Jax’s voice rises an octave. "Alistair, look at me. I’m a lapsed Catholic. Very lapsed. If I walk into a cathedral, the holy water is going to boil. It’s a safety hazard."
"The Pope is very flexible for the right donation," Father dismisses, waving a hand. "Now, about the carriage…"
