"I’m hungry," Rosa says, taking a plastic fork out of her purse. She takes a bite. She chews slowly, maintaining eye contact. "And until you show me a venue that has a working AC and a menu that includes carbohydrates, I am going to eat my chicken. Right here. In front of the orchids."
"This is desecration!" Mother gasps.
"This is leverage," Rosa corrects her. She holds out the fork toward Mother. "Want a bite? It’s better than foam."
Mother stares at the fork. She stares at Rosa. She stares at the sweating, miserable grooms.
She looks at me.
I don't pull out the papers. I don't need to. I just look at her.
"Mother," I say calmly. "The humidity is causing your mascara to run. You are losing structural integrity."
Mother’s hand flies to her face. She looks at her reflection in the koi pond. She gasps.
"My face," she whispers. "I’m... melting."
"The swamp wins," Jax whispers victoriously.
"Fine!" Mother screeches, turning on her heel. "Fine! We leave! But if we go to a banquet hall, I am wearing a veil! A black one!"
She marches toward the exit, her heels clicking furiously.
Rosa puts the lid back on her Tupperware. She winks at me.
"She has a weak spot," Rosa whispers. "Vanity. Always go for the vanity. Now I know for next time.”
“I’m almost afraid to see what will happen if there is a next time, you’re a menace,” I say.
"I’m a mother," Rosa shrugs. "Same thing. Now, let’s go find a place that serves waffles. I’m starving."
We follow her out of the jungle. As we step into the cool New York air, Jax grabs my hand.
"I love that woman," Jax says. "Can I ask her to adopt me?”
"Preston has her son wrapped around his finger,” I remind him. "So she’s practically family already. Package deal."
"Best merger ever," Jax grins.
We get back in the limo. Mother is furiously fixing her makeup in the compact mirror.
"Next stop," Mother snaps. "The Plaza. And if anyone mentions humidity, I will buy the weather channel and cancel summer."
"The Plaza has AC," Preston notes, checking his phone. "And excellent tea service. And significantly fewer insects."
"Then we go to the Plaza," I agree.
The war isn't over. But we just won the Battle of the Swamp.
The front door of the apartment hasn't even fully latched before the silence of the apartment begins to scream.
To anyone else, the suite is a masterpiece of minimalist luxury. To me, it is a sensory minefield. The hum of the climate control is a jagged blade. The scent of Mother’s expensive, floral perfume—clinging to my wool coat—is a suffocating shroud. My skin feels three sizes too small for my frame, the "Ice King" armour currently vibrating at a frequency that threatens to shatter my internal organs.
"Max?" Jax’s voice is soft, cautious. He’s standing by the marble console, watching me with the predatory stillness of a man who knows exactly how to read a trauma patient before they crash.
I don't look at him. I can't. If I look at him, the data will overflow. Instead, I rip off my tie. It feels like a noose. My hands are shaking—not with fear, but with a kinetic energy that has nowhere to go. The audit. The NDAs. The thirty years of "calibration" I’ve just realized were a lie.
"I need a reset after today, it was too much,” I say, my voice sounding like gravel being crushed.
