"Then perhaps," Alistair says, his voice dangerously low, "I am tired of being a York."
He stands up. The linen suit rustles. He adjusts his Panama hat.
"I am voting for the chocolate," Alistair announces. "Because it has heat. And God knows this family could use some heat. Maxwell. Jackson. Eat the chocolate. Do not let her starve you. Do not let her turn your wedding into a museum exhibit."
He looks at me.
"Live a little, son. Find your Helmut. Or your Jax. Just... don't be boring."
He turns to Mother.
"I am going to the club, Catherine. Do not wait up. I suspect you won't anyway. I have a call scheduled with... an associate."
He walks out. The door chimes. The silence he leaves behind is heavier than the concrete cake.
Mother stares at the door. Her jaw is set so tight I can see the muscle jumping. She picks up her fork. She stabs the Ethereal sphere.
"He is impossible," she whispers. "He has gone native."
"He seemed happy," Jax says, bravely taking a bite of the chocolate cake. "And... oh my god. Max. Try this. It’s better than sex. Well, almost."
I look at Mother. She looks defeated. For a brief second, the "General" is gone, replaced by a woman who realizes her husband prefers parrots—and possibly Helmut—to her company.
Rosa Ortiz reaches across the table. She picks up the chocolate sample. She takes a bite.
"Catherine," Rosa says.
Mother looks up, startled.
"The parrot man is right," Rosa says, chewing thoughtfully. "The white stuff tastes like hairspray. The chocolate tastes like a celebration. Let them have the chocolate."
Mother looks at the chocolate cake. She looks at the "Monolith." She looks at the empty chair where Alistair was sitting.
"Fine," she says, her voice brittle. "Dark chocolate. But the frosting must be white. I will not have a brown wedding cake. It must look like marble on the outside."
"Done," Pierre says, scribbling furiously. "Chocolate interior. Marble exterior. A compromise."
"It’s a metaphor," Preston murmurs to me. "Cold and hard on the outside, a mess of dark feelings on the inside. It’s the perfect York cake."
"We’ll take it," I say.
Mother stands up. She adjusts her white blazer. She puts her sunglasses back on, even though we are inside.
"I have a headache," she announces. "Rosa, ensure they sign the contract. I need to... I need to call my lawyer."
She walks out, not following Alistair, but taking the opposite direction.
"Well," Jax says, scraping the last of the ganache off the plate. "That was incredibly awkward. Is it always like this?"
"No," I say, watching the door close. "It used to be quieter. The entropy is increasing."
"Your dad is cool though," Jax says. "I have questions about Helmut. Specifically about what 'structural tension' means in a Berlin basement in 1982. I've treated enough injuries to have a working theory."
"We all have questions about Helmut, and Hans, and Felix, and Fritz, and a plethora of other names he has mentioned in multiple questionable circumstances," Preston says, tapping his notebook. "But let's leave that particular box closed for now. The 'M. Santos' file is pressing enough."
"Can we focus on the cake?" Luke asks, reaching for a second slice. "Because I think I just saw God in this ganache."
"Eat up, buttercup," Rosa says, patting Luke's hand. "We have a wedding to plan. And I have a feeling we’re going to need all the sugar we can get."
