"Preston wins every staring contest," Max says. "He practised on me from the moment he opened his eyes as a baby. It is deeply unpleasant."
"The mother comment was cold," I say. "Even for a York."
"He found the load-bearing wall," Max says simply. "He always does."
"I’m kinda turned on," I admit. "That was impressive."
"Focus on your deltoids," Max says, though I see the corner of his mouth twitch. "Enzo is coming back with pins soon. And he looks vengeful."
Twenty minutes later, we are standing on the sidewalk of the Upper East Side. We are measured, pinned, and I am fairly certain I have permanent nerve damage in my left shoulder.
Enzo stands in the doorway of the atelier, watching us leave. He catches Preston’s eye. He nods, a sharp, respectful dip of the chin.
"Call me," Enzo mouths to Preston. "We could destroy people together."
Preston offers a thin, terrifying smile and a single nod back. "Potential asset," Preston murmurs to himself. "Narcissistic, but useful."
"You guys are scary," Luke says, holding Preston’s hand like it's a lifeline. "Like, really scary. Is he going to stalk us?"
"No," Preston says, kissing Luke's temple. "He’s going to make you the best suit of your life. Fear is an excellent motivator for craftsmanship."
I wrap an arm around Max’s shoulders, pulling him into me. He feels solid. Real. Not a flute, not a reed of anxiety. Just Max.
"Well," I say, exhaling a breath I feel like I've been holding since we walked in. "We survived the fitting. The suits are happening. No one died. I call that a win."
"The probability of survival was always high," Max says, checking his watch. "However, the schedule is tight. We are currently twelve minutes behind."
"Behind for what?" I ask, dread creeping back in. "Max. Tell me we’re done. Tell me I can go eat a burger."
Max looks up from his phone. He gives me a look that is equal parts sympathy and warning.
"Not a burger," Max says. "Cake."
"Cake?" I perk up. "I like cake. Cake is good. Are we going to a bakery?"
"We are going toTheBakery," Max corrects me. "Mother has scheduled a tasting with Pierre. He is a sugar artist. He does not believe in flour."
"How do you have cake without flour?" Luke asks, confused.
"Almond dust and despair," Preston supplies helpfully. "Pierre once made a wedding cake entirely out of spun sugar and gold leaf. It cost forty thousand dollars and shattered when the bride tried to cut it."
"Mother has strong opinions on buttercream," Max warns me. "She believes it is 'pedestrian'. She wants a fondant sculpture that represents the merging of our dynasties."
"I just want chocolate," I say, my soul withering slightly. "Isthat too much to ask? Just a chocolate cake that tastes like chocolate and not...ambition?"
“In our current reality?” Max says. "Yes. But Rosa is meeting us there."
"Oh, thank God," I breathe. "The Warlord."
"She is bringing her own fork," Max adds.
"Let’s go," I say, opening the limo door. "If I have to eat structural foam, I’m going to need backup."
Max smiles, that rare, real smile that makes the whole nightmare worth it.
"Prepare your insulin levels, Jax" Max says. "We’re going in."
Chapter 7
